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Retirement wasn’t something that crossed Simon Riley’s mind often. In fact, he always pictured himself dying in action. Captured and tortured, left for dead. Shot by a sniper (which was unlikely). A stab wound right to the kidney or an artery where he’d bleed out and die.
So in other words, retirement was just not in the cards for him.
And with that in mind, it was all fine and dandy with him until a certain reckless, annoying, and arguably good looking Scot named Johnny MacTavish entered his life and planted the idea in his brain.
Of course, that last part he would never say out loud.
But having met and worked alongside MacTavish, retirement didn’t seem like a terrible idea. Now, he was beginning to wonder what retirement would look like for him. Where he would go. What he would do. He had no family. And there was no one else in his life he considered to be his friends either. Allies, sure. Price, Gaz, Alejandro, hell, even Rudy. But they were colleagues and brothers in arms.
But Soap? Well, Johnny had somehow wormed his way into his usually quiet and lone wolf lifestyle and made a permanent spot there. And now it festered there like an infection, only he wasn’t sick. At least, he didn’t think he was sick. After Las Almas, Hassan, Graves and Shepherd, things were getting dicey. And with Makarov on the scene, it was time to make some changes.
And it started on a random Thursday morning at HQ with him striding into Price’s office with an announcement.
“I need to update my emergency contact.”
Price had glanced up from his laptop, seemingly unfazed. His mustache twitched a moment, the gears seemingly starting to turn in his head. He made a curious hum and leaned back in his chair. He plucked up one of his many cigars and lit it before taking a slow puff.
“Alright,” Price drawled. “I’ll get the form sent to you. Have them done by tomorrow.”
Ghost’s brow arched. Wait, that was it? No questions. No interrogation. Nothing? He expected Price to at least ask him who now held the honor of being a dead man’s emergency contact. But no words were spoken.
Something didn’t sit right with him.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?” he said.
Price shrugged. “Is it my business?”
“No.”
“Then just let me send the form and be done with it.”
That night, an email from Price appeared in his inbox. There was no subject line but when Ghost opened the attachment, it was his file.
Most of it was blacked-out, including his medical information. And as he sifted through the pages and pages of redacted information, he finally landed on the page he’d been searching for. The top of the page read simply in big black letters, EMERGENCY CONTACT. There was a tiny paragraph underneath that detailed the purpose of an emergency contact and Ghost didn’t bother reading it. It had been left blank on purpose.
Ghost clicked on the EDIT INFORMATION and then paused. He leaned back, eyes immediately looking up at the ceiling. What was he doing? This was stupid. Ridiculous. There was no reason for him to change something that had already been working for him. Groaning, he returned his attention back to the mocking form on his screen.
Sighing, he fished his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his already very few contacts and clicked on Soap’s contact information. He eyed the number, the cogs clicking and ticking in his head. He gritted his teeth before slipping his phone back into his pocket.
The next morning, Price woke up with a new message from Ghost in his inbox. Eyes still heavy with sleep and lack of caffeine, he opened it and found the completed (and updated) emergency contact form.
EMERGENCY CONTACT:
NAME: John “Soap” MacTavish
RELATIONSHIP: COLLEAGUE
Price smirked over his cuppa and submitted it to Simon’s file.
Over the next few weeks, he never told Johnny about the change to his file. He had plenty of opportunities to tell Johnny, but never said a word. He didn’t feel it was necessary. It was unlikely that medics would have to call that number anyway.
He spoke too soon on that last part.
There was another lead on Makarov which had Price chomping at the bit. Laswell provided them with information regarding some reports of Konni soldiers in the area passing through a village in Moldova. There had never been any reports on Makarov having any association with Moldova before, but the images Laswell had sent changed their minds very quickly. The familiar emblem of Konni on the shoulder patch of one of the men spotted made Ghost’s blood boil.
Laswell’s intel led them to locating an old warehouse where said soldiers were making their temporary quarters. There were at least 12 to 14 soldiers, most of which were not of high rank. Foot soldiers, likely. But it was the first solid lead they had regarding Makarov in a while and they were itching to find out where he was hiding and what he was planning.
“Soap and myself will take overwatch. Gaz, Ghost, you two will search the warehouse. Take out any guards and keep it quiet. See what you can find about Makarov and Konni,” Price said during their debrief at 0900. “Any questions?”
Like always, there were none.
“Good. Stay sharp. Now, let’s move, we’re burning daylight,” their captain said.
And with that, they were off and hunting.
Infiltrating the warehouse was easy enough, Gaz went to the east and Ghost to the west. He encountered a few Konni wandering around the first floor and they went down easy. He sank his blade into the throat of another Konni, listening to the familiar ‘death gurgle’ before they sank in his arms. He laid them on the ground and continued on towards the second floor. His current body count was at 4, but he still had two more floors to get through the warehouse.
“Oi, Lt. Got a joke for ye.”
Ghost suppressed the sigh that threatened to escape. He knew that he shouldn’t indulge in Soap’s banter. Maybe if it was just the two of them, but they were not. Price and Gaz were on the same channel. They were on a mission. This was important. He clenched his jaw and after a beat, he relented.
“I’m listening,” he murmured, pressing his back against the door of another room.
“Why don’t dinosaurs talk?”
“Enlighten me.”
“They’re dead.”
Ghost wanted to slam his head into the door and groan so loudly it would’ve likely blown their cover. He was fucking grateful his balaclava hid the smirk that spread across his lips as he shook his head. He would never admit it to Johnny’s face but that bastard somehow always made him laugh. Even when the situation was dire and hopeless, the Scot would throw in a joke that would make him second-guess everything.
“That was terrible, bruv, even for you,” Gaz echoed through comms, his own snicker making an appearance.
“Keep the chatter to a minimum, boys. We have a job to do. That especially goes for you, Sergeant MacTavish.”
“Aye, sir. Jus’ wanted to lighten the mood.”
Ghost jimmied the lock on the door and carefully pushed it open. He was met with silence. His hackles rose in response. Something was wrong.
In less than a second, Ghost’s world erupted in an explosion of hot white fire. His vision whited out as his body caught the wrong end of the explosion, sending him flying backwards and hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He felt something sharp pierce his stomach. He let out a cry of pain.
“FUCK!”
Gritting his teeth, Simon fumbled for his pistol, his hands slipping to free it from his waist. With a pained groan, he lifted it and fired. He heard two distinct thumps. Bodies. Dead ones now. He pulled the trigger until the clip was empty. He shoved the now empty pistol into his waistband and reached for another one of his knives. He heard Price’s voice in his ear, calling out his name. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to gain it back but his lungs burned with each breath. He swallowed hard.
“Ghost? Ghost, how copy? Simon! Simon, you broken?”
Simon’s eyes, stinging from the harshness of the smoke and fire around him, flicked down to the source of his pain. He almost wanted to throw up when he noticed the unmistakable sight of a piece of metal sticking out of his stomach. Great, just fucking great. He could feel the burn of bile threatening to claw up his throat. He hissed as he swallowed again, his stomach turning. He pressed his hand down onto the profusely bleeding wound and swallowed the scream. He pushed on, stumbling around a corner and out of the smoke.
“Anyone have eyes on Ghost?”
“Negative, boss. Taking fire on the 3rd floor. Northeast corner.”
“Soap, support fire on Gaz’s location. Give him a window to get to Ghost—”
Several more gunshots rang out. Ghost almost snorted when he heard Johnny curse and mutter, “Bleedin’ bastards rigged the place—”
Ghost coughed and shakily lifted one hand, slick and wet with blood. His blood. He pressed down on his radio. “Door was rigged with, hng— ” He swallowed hard, trying to keep his breathing steady. He coughed, the pressure in his lungs heavy like a stone. “Two KIA. Heading east to you Gaz.”
“Negative, maintain your position, Simon,” Price ordered. “Gaz will head to you. Soap, pick them off! Make some room for Gaz.”
“Heh, already on it sir!”
Ghost could almost hear the smugness in Johnny’s smile. He leaned heavily against a wall, chest burning and throat constricting. He heard more gunshots and boots heading in his direction. He held his knife in his hand, pressing his lips into a thin line. And just as the sounds of boots came around the corner he spun and nearly took out Gaz’s eye.
“Fucking hells, Ghost!”
Gaz was able to disarm him but not before he slammed his forearm into the Brit’s throat and pinned him to the wall. Gaz choked out a strained noise, his own hand reaching up to pry Ghost’s massive forearm off him. Realizing his mistake, Ghost dropped his forearm and stepped back—and felt his world begin to spin. Everything was shifting and moving like he was in a moving car. Colors blurred together and he was getting sick at the motion. He blinked oddly at Gaz. He watched Gaz’s mouth open and move but he didn’t hear him. His ears were ringing and everything was just so fucking loud—
“Price, gonna need a med evac! Ghost’s injured. Got some shrapnel in ‘im—shit, stay with us, Ghost. I’ve got ya, I’ve got ya—”
Ghost stumbled forward, head dropping onto Gaz’s shoulder. He felt an arm around his middle, steadying him. And as his world spun into inky black, he heard Johnny’s voice calling out to him in his ear—
“Ghost! Simon, SIMON!”
And he knew nothing more.
How the hell it all went to shite confused the hell out of Soap. He was sure that they were good. But they underestimated the Konni soldiers. They were smart and it pissed him the hell off. He wanted to go back to that warehouse and blow it to hell for what happened to Simon. He wanted to make them all pay for making him sit in a private lobby of a hospital where he had yet to know anything about Simon or his condition.
And his patience was beginning to wear thin.
By hour 5 he was starting to worry if the lack of communication was a sign that something had happened to Simon. But Price assured him that no news was good news. He wanted to scoff at that. His mam would’ve said the same thing.
“He’ll be alright, son,” Price said. “He’ll pull through.”
Soap’s foot tapped on the tile floor of the hospital. He braced his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together with his mouth hiding behind his fingers. He chewed on the inside of his cheek.
“Anno, anno,” he mumbled. He has to. He has to.
Minutes ticked by. Names were called over the intercom, more nurses and doctors passed them, not so much as to say a word to them. They were in their own world, just as they were. Three soldiers waiting for news of one of their own.
Sighing, Price retrieved one of his cigars and rolled it between his fingers, fully aware that he couldn’t light it in a hospital. Not without consequences. Gaz was leaning back in a chair next to Soap, head tilted back, eyes half-lidded. He was on the verge of falling asleep, his head bobbing occasionally.
Soap’s boot tapped on the floor again.
After Ghost— Simon —went down, they were all in a rush to get to the nearest hospital which with their luck was a decent distance away. Exfil was right on time but with no medic on standby, they had to make do with the supplies they had. Which meant Soap stuck his hands in Ghost’s stomach, trying to keep his innards from falling out while Price and Gaz worked to try and stop the bleeding. The whole time Simon’s face was twisted in pain, pale as a sheet, and whisky eyes half-lidded, heavy from blood loss and exhaustion.
Soap tried to keep him talking, urging him to stay awake and to keep his eyes open. But by the time they arrived at the hospital, Simon’d lost a significant amount of blood and he was drifting.
His eyes flicked down to his hands. He still had Simon’s blood caked under his nails. On hour 2, Price forced him to go to the bathroom and try to clean the blood off. Reluctantly, he scrubbed tirelessly in the bathroom earlier but the blood just wouldn’t go away. He braced his hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders bunched together. He glanced up in the mirror, taking in his reflection and forcing himself not to crumble. Especially not in the bathroom of a hospital.
Hour 6 was fastly approaching and there was still no word.
“I’m looking for a Sergeant MacTavish?”
Soap’s eyes snapped up to who he believed was the surgeon, judging by their bloodstained scrubs and tired expression on their face. “Aye, that’s me.” He stood up, wiping his already sweating palms on his cargos.
“Lieutenant Riley’s records have you listed as his emergency contact,” they said. “If you have a moment, I would like to discuss with you his treatment.”
Emergency contact? Him? Soap swallowed hard. No, no—couldn’t be. Had to be wrong. Soap opened his mouth, tempted to protest, to question, but his thoughts went back to Ghost. Pale, blood saturating his gear, and gasping for breath. Dying . Soap sucked in a harsh breath, licking his lips. He was practically buzzing under his skin, itching for answers as the surgeon nodded, offering a faint, comforting smile. Their eyes flicked over to Gaz and Price who were now standing vigilant behind him. He could practically feel their presence looming.
“If you’d prefer, we could speak somewhere more private…”
“No, no, it's fine. Whatever ye need to tell me, ye can say in front of them,” Soap cut in. He felt Gaz’s hand land on his shoulder, grounding him, steadying him. He almost sank with relief. “They’re—they're his family too.”
The surgeon nodded, as if accepting his response. “Very well. Lieutenant Riley’s injuries were quite severe and he sustained significant injuries to his spleen and liver. There was massive internal damage we had to repair but we managed to control the bleeding and complete the surgery without incident…”
The rest of the conversation was a bunch of medical jargon that Soap didn’t have half the heart to listen to. He caught snippets of the surgeon’s explanation, nodding at the end of every sentence just to appear like he was listening. However, all the while, he was asking the same question over and over again.
When can I see ‘im? When can I go back? I need to see ‘im. I need to know he’s okay. I need to know he’s goin’ to make it.
“We have him upstairs in recovery. You are all welcome to go visit, but I recommend one at a time.”
“Thank you.”
“If you need anything else, have one of the nurses page me.”
With that, the surgeon left and Soap was still processing their first conversation. Emergency contact. Ghost had named him as his emergency contact. But why? Why would he do that? He had his mam listed as his primary emergency contact, then it was his two sisters as secondaries. His eyes flicked over to Price who was running a hand over his beard and shaking his head.
“Did ye know about that?”
Price arched a brow. “Know what?”
Soap ran his tongue over the back of his teeth. “Tha’ he named me his emergency contact.”
There was a pregnant pause. Price sighed and nodded, answering Soap’s question.
“I did.”
“An’ ye dinnae think to tell me?”
“No.”
Soap’s jaw clenched. “Couldn’t, or wouldn't?”
Price’s brows bunched together in a frown. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing harshly. He shook his head again, muttering, “Legally, I couldn’t tell you anything. I just assumed Simon would’ve told you—”
Soap made a displeased sound, eyes flashing angrily. “Aye, well he clearly didnae tell me anythin’! Fucking bawbag—” He turned towards him and took a bold step, clearly angry and frustrated.
But before anything else could be done, Gaz was quick to step up and get in between Price and Soap. His hand went up to press against Soap’s chest, pushing him back a step. “Oi, bruv, don’t do something you’ll regret, alright? We've already got Ghost in here. Think we need you too?”
Soap looked down at the hand on his chest and shoved Gaz aside. He hated to admit it but Gaz was right. Tch, of course he was fucking right. “I need a smoke.” He brushed past his friend and bumped his shoulder into Price’s. Gaz’s shoulders sagged as he started to walk away Soap, but Price was right there to stop him.
“Let him cool off,” Price said, his thumb pressing against the back of Gaz’s neck. “He just needs time. C’mon, let’s go check on Ghost.”
Yeah, Gaz thought dimly. Time.
When Ghost finally came to, he was in bed. Not his own. No, a hospital bed, to be precise. His eyes flicked over to the wall where he noticed the faint scribblings of what he assumed was a language he couldn’t read. His head spun. He squinted harder only to hear movement to his right. He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t alone. His senses went on high alert as a warm palm wrapped around his wrist, calloused and worn.
“Hey, hey—Ghost, Simon, it’s me. It’s Soap,” the familiar accent reached his ears.
“J’nny?”
His eyes were slow to adjust to the light. He squeezed them shut briefly before turning his head towards the right and landing on Soap who was dressed in civies. A worn pair of jeans that stretched across his thighs, boots, and a hoodie. And from the looks of it, it appeared he hadn’t slept in a while either. There were visible bags under those usually bright blue eyes that Simon found himself aching to get lost in.
“Aye, it’s me. Welcome back, Lt.,” Johnny said, squeezing his wrist. The hand retracted and a part of him wanted to pull that hand back.
Simon blinked a few times before panic settled in. He reached with his free hand to touch his face and found his fingers brushing against familiar fabric. His balaclava. Or at least a new one. He almost wept with relief. He lowered his hand and swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He licked his lips.
“Did you—”
“Ye had a spare one in yer bag,” Soap finished for him. “Thought ye’d feel better with it on.”
Ghost nodded, mumbling his thanks. He licked his dry lips, wetting them. His eyes raked over the room and found it void of two other individuals. His brows furrowed under the fabric obscuring his face. “Price and Gaz—”
“Ye listed me as yer emergency contact,” Soap interrupted.
Ghost was taken back. He blinked a few times. “What?”
“Ye put me as yer emergency contact. An’ I wanna know why.”
Ah fuck. Ghost’s jaw audibly clicked shut. He averted his eyes away from the piercing blue ones belonging to his Sergeant. He felt like a fucking kid avoiding their first crush. But he was not a child. He was a soldier. A damn good one. A trained sniper. Deadly with a gun, and even more so with a blade.
And now he needed to give Soap an excuse to get off his back. Ghost sighed, tilting his head to the side. He wetted his lips again. Think of something fast, he said to himself. “Needed an update,” he lied smoothly. “Price needed to have someone on record.”
“Ye didnae ‘ave anyone?”
Simon’s face twisted into a deadpan expression. He rolled his eyes and muttered, “I’m legally dead, Johnny. Who else was I supposed to put down?”
“I didnae ken!” Soap snapped. There was a faint color that appeared high on his cheeks, either out of embarrassment or frustration. “Jus’ someone who ain’t me!”
“Like who, Soap?”
“Why not Price?” Soap countered. “He’s known ye longer than me—”
“You really want to have this argument? Right now? In a fuckin’ hospital?”
Simon found himself seething, anger bristling. Even the monitor hooked to his heart and blood pressure made a series of high pitched beeps. He breathed harshly through his nose, shaking his head. He forced himself to calm down despite the strong desire to scream and shout at Soap. He wanted to hit something, but what was even the point. He shifted in the bed, flinching as his movement tugged at his freshly stitched up and stapled stomach. His head hit the very flat pillow with an angry grunt.
“I’ll have Price change it. Satisfied?” he grunted, already done with the conversation.
Soap muttered something clearly not in English, prompting him to respond out of habit: “English, MacTavish.”
“Ye—ye coulda told me,” Soap murmured. There was a sense of sadness in his tone. Simon felt his heart sink. “Ye coulda told me tha’ ye changed it. We coulda talked abou’ it—”
“And what good would that have done for me, ey?” Ghost averted his eyes. “Just—forget it. I'll have Price change it and that'll be it. Sorry I dragged you into this.”
He didn’t want to have this conversation, not in a hospital. Not like this. Not when he was weak and out of his control. He wanted to be back at base. He wanted to be… well, not here. He shuddered a breath and then glanced over at Soap who looked like a kicked puppy, blue eyes staring at him with brows pinched together. Ghost wanted to lean forward and smooth out the wrinkles. Soap was too young to have wrinkles. His fingers twitched, nails catching onto the scratchy material of the blanket over his legs.
“Simon—”
“Would you have said yes?” he asked out loud.
The moment the words left his mouth, Simon knew it was too late to try to take them back. They were already out there and in the open, and judging by Soap’s now bewildered expression, they had settled in his brain too.
Ghost licked his lips again. Fuck, why was this so damn hard? He cleared his throat and mumbled again, “If I’d asked you, would you’ve said yes?”
Silence fell between them.
Shoulders visibly tensed and cheeks tainted red, Johnny wiped his hands on the tops of his thighs and stood up. He began muttering in his mother tongue, carding both hands through his hair and tugging at the ends of his mohawk.
“ Feckin’ hells bells—shitebuggerfeckin’, gah—”
Well, there was his answer. Simon averted his eyes again, turning his head away. This was a mistake. All of it. He was such a goddamn idiot. To think that Soap would just agree to staying on as his emergency contact. He wouldn’t blame him if he just stood up and told him to fuck right off. Maybe he deserved it—
He swallowed again and went to open his mouth to tell Soap to go back to Price and Gaz and get some sleep when there was a rush of movement. The bed creaked under the sudden new weight of Johnny’s knee pressing down, brushing against his blanketed thigh. Fingers curled around the edge of his balaclava but didn’t move it up. Johnny was right there. In his space. Their faces now centimeters apart. So close he could smell remnants of Johnny’s spearmint gum. Simon’s eyes nearly bugged out of his skull as those fingers he’d seen twirl and flip knives and clean his rifle brushed oh so softly against his jaw.
To his left, the machine monitoring his heart emitted a distressed series of beeps. He keened at the touch, a strangled whine escaping past his lips. Fuck was he that starved for touch? He felt his cheeks heat as Johnny cocked his head to the side, blue eyes sparkling with mirth. Oh that was a dangerous look—but God it was arguably the most beautiful thing he’d seen in a long time.
“Johnny,” he mumbled, his tone on the teetering edge of warning. What the hell are you doing?
“Ye coulda asked me a hundred times and I’d say yes every bloody time, Simon,” Soap said. His lips drew back into a playful smirk. “I like ye. Probably more than I should, but I cannae lie to myself anymore. I like ye, Simon Riley. Now, if ye dinnae min’, I’d like to kiss ye, alrigh?”
Simon didn’t give himself much time to consider his options. He’d thought about kissing Johnny for a while and now he was being presented with the opportunity to do so. And he wasn’t going to sit around and waste it.
“Took you long enough,” he grunted.
“Sorry, been told I can be a bit dense,” Johnny chuckled.
Simon snorted, shaking his head. He couldn’t argue with that, could he. His fingers closed around Johnny’s and lifted the balaclava just above his nose and leaned forward, slotting their mouths together in their first (and hopefully not their last) kiss.
A few weeks after Simon was discharged and returned to HQ, Price was sitting in his office, filing another report when his laptop pinged. His already tired eyes glanced up to find a new email sitting in his inbox.
From Ghost.
There was no subject line (as was normal) but there was an attachment. EMERGENCY CONTACT in familiar black, bold letters. Curious, he clicked the file and when he skimmed over the form he found himself shaking his head, chuckling to himself.
EMERGENCY CONTACT:
NAME: John “Soap” MacTavish
RELATIONSHIP: PARTNER
Price promptly deleted the email and fished out his phone. He sent a single text to Gaz with only one line: I owe you a drink.
And that was the end of that.