Chapter Text
They don’t mean to get captured, not that anyone ever does, and really it’s not even their fault. The fault falls squarely on the shoulders of the green recruit that got saddled on this mission with them. Too wet behind the ears and full of bravado to listen to Ghost’s simple instruction to “stay here and be quiet.” Instead he had tried to bound forward all by himself, stepped on a fucking landmine and in lieu of doing the right thing and just dying- the little shit lived long enough to scream for help and give away their position.
But it’s easy to blame a dead man, poor kid didn’t take long to bleed out, but by the time he did, himself and Soap were already compromised and surrounded.
If it had just been Ghost he might have been able to slip away, blend in with the dark corners and fall back into a better position, but after Las Almas he had made a promise to himself to never leave a member of the team behind to save himself. The guilt from that night was too high, the idea that someone- Soap- might have bled out in that shitty little town all because Ghost didn’t take two minutes to circle around before fucking off, it rubs him wrong.
He’s not a solo operator anymore, he’s their Lieutenant, their lives are his responsibility and he cannot forget that. Sometimes at night, Roba gives him a break just long enough for Ghost to see Soap, dead and lifeless on wet cobblestone streets, his own knife resting in limp fingers. He won’t let that nightmare come true, not if he can help it.
Soap has always been too good, too fucking golden, for this job. For this life. Everytime Ghost sees him he’s got a smile on his face, warming Ghost from the inside out with just a look or a light touch. The Sergeant has been igniting feelings inside of him from the moment they met. Hope, longing, desire. Friendship. Ghost cares about him, too much. He’s attached, he knows that much, and attachments get people killed.
Or tied up in a dingy basement with damp concrete walls and a musty smell that makes his eyes water. Either or.
Not much has been said to him or Soap, who’s tied to a chair only a few feet in front of him, cheek already starting to bruise from where their captors got tired of his motor mouth. They’ve been in this shithole room for maybe ten minutes, just long enough to be tied down, roughed up, and shouted at. While they were being drug inside, unblindfolded, Ghost got a good look at the facility, even got eyes on the room where the Russians are keeping their plans. All he needs to do is get him and Soap out of this room, up the stairs, down two hallways, and they’ll be golden.
He pulls at his restraints for what feels like the hundredth time as Soap does the same thing. While they made the rookie mistake of not covering their eyes as they were captured, they didn’t take it easy on the restraints. Someone paid attention in Boy Scouts, it seems. The ropes around his ankles are tight, nearly to the point of cutting off blood flow, and his arms are bound in three places. Right under his shoulders, at the elbow, and at the wrist. Soap is tied up the exact same way, eyes squinted in frustration as he attempts to work his way free.
“How much time do you think we have before they come back?” Ghost grunts, not really an answer, twisting his waist trying to get some form of leverage. “If we can get out’a these I’m thinking I’ll distract ‘em and you do yer thing while they ain’t looking.” Another grunt, it’s not a bad plan but Ghost has twisted himself to the point of pain with no progress at all. If he can’t get out, they’re both fucked.
Soap is opening his mouth to talk again, when footsteps sound from outside the door. Both of them go still, eyes narrowing at the noise.
Two men file in through the door, one dressed in an officer’s uniform, the name Mikhailov embellished onto his chest, Russian in origin. The other is in black camouflage fatigues. The officer stands in between them while the other slides up behind Ghost. A hand lands on his shoulder and he forces his body loose, won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him tense.
The hand slides to slip under the back of his mask, fingers squeezing around his neck in the imitation of a scruffing. Another hand appears, brandishing a knife, blade sharp and clean. “Where would you like me to start?” The man behind him asks, dragging the dull edge of the blade against the fabric of his balaclava.
The man in front of Ghost shakes his head and the hands leave, knife twisting around to just barely slice through the cotton of his mask leaving Ghost’s cheek feeling cold. With both men now in front of him, Ghost glares, waiting for the next move.
“There’s no point in cutting him up,” Mikhailov says. “He’s The Ghost, been tortured in more ways than we can even begin to imagine.” The man steps right in front of him, eyes almost amused. “No, anything we did would be child’s play, but this one.” He turns to Soap. “This one we can break. It’s just an added bonus to watch The Ghost fall so far, having to sit and watch as we hurt one of his own.”
There’s amusement in the Russian’s eyes and Ghost is imagining the man’s guts in his hands, blood on the floor. “He can sit there, pathetic and helpless, while we bleed this one,” a hand snaps into Soap’s mohawk, tipping his head backwards. “Like a pig.” The officer leans in, bringing his face close to Soap’s. “Will you squeal for me, piggy?”
Soap spits in the man’s face, earning himself a rougher tug to the hair and a hand slapping across his cheek. “Away ‘n beil yer heid, ye right cunt.” Ghost wants to tell Soap to stop fighting, that giving them a reaction will only encourage more torment, but he can’t.
“You can do whatever you want to him,” Ghost offers, voice steady, almost apathetic. “But he doesn’t know anything.” Two sets of eyes turn to him, not Soap’s- whose head is still tipped back towards the ceiling. “You think we’re dumb enough to tell the enlisted anything? That’s just bad compartmentalization.”
He wants the attention back on himself, because the man is right: Ghost can handle torture. Torture is easy, it’s been done to him so many times he can turn his brain off and it’s like it’s not even happening. One blink and he can separate his mind from anything that’s happening to his body. The pain will come to him in the form of nightmares, but by then he’s free of the torment and able to face the horrors in the safety of his own mind.
But Soap? Aside from mock interrogations the man has never been in this situation, and while their training is thorough and intense, it’s nowhere near the level of actual torture. Soap might be able to handle it, that doesn’t mean Ghost doesn’t want to see it either way. He hopes Soap is strong enough to take it, but Ghost isn’t sure he’s strong enough to watch.
Soap is his and this filthy man has already laid far too many hands on the Sergeant for Ghost’s liking.
The officer releases Soap’s hair and steps back towards Ghost. In one quick motion he slips his hand under the front of Ghost’s balaclava. “Let us see who the man behind the mask really is.” Mikhailov teases before pulling the soft cotton and hardshell skull up and off of Ghost’s head. They both get tossed carelessly onto the floor, and Soap immediately darts his eyes away, focusing on some spot off to Ghost’s side. Being respectful, even in a circumstance as out of his hands as this one.
“So you are just a man,” the officer starts, leaning down to come face to face with Ghost. One hand comes up to brush over his face, thumb tracing over one side of the Glasgow smile cut into his cheeks. It’s almost gentle, soft. A sharp contrast to the rough way the man had treated Soap. “See, Petrov- what more can we do to a man who has been through such violations? No.” He stands, taking the touch away. “Better to focus on the one who will feel the pain as something new, and not a comfort.”
Ghost almost frowns, forgetting already that all his reactions are now plainly visible. How does this man know that Ghost finds a sick sort of peace in pain and hurt, easier by miles than gentleness and love? How many men like Ghost has Mikhailov had in this very chair for him to read him so easily?
Almost as if reading his thoughts, Mikhailov turns a knowing look his way. “I think it will be more effective to have him watch someone he cares about hurt.”
Soap’s eyes sharpen, face contorting into amusement as he snorts. “Care? Ghost? Yer out yer mind.” Blue eyes meet his and for once Ghost can’t read the emotion in them, has no idea if Soap means the words he’s speaking. “Ghost doesn’t feel a thing, hurt me if ye want bit I ain't telling ye anythin' 'n' neither will he.”
Petrov smirks, stepping forward with the same blade from earlier, the one Ghost can still feel on his cheek. He turns to Mikhailov, waiting patiently, like a good dog. A small nod and the knife moves, slicing along the soft skin of Soap’s cheekbone, not deep enough to scar, but deep enough to bleed. Soap doesn’t move, unflinching, holding eye contact with Ghost even as the cut begins to well up, red blood leaking down his cheek in a steady line.
Unable to help himself, Ghost watches it fall, slipping over Soap’s jaw and down his throat before pooling at the top of his shirt, darkening the green colored collar.
“We want to know who sent you, how they found out about us, and what your mission here was. We want to know about any backup that may be waiting to finish your job or rescue you.” Mikhailov states as Petrov drags the knife across Soap’s skin again. He draws it parallel and just above the first, a little deeper, but still barely anything at all. Mikhailov walks over to the table that has their gear, grasping Soap’s nametape where it’s sewn onto his tac-vest before dropping it back down. “Tell us these things, MacTavish, and your death will be as painless as we can make it.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Quick as a flash, the knife shifts, dragging a harsh and deep cut right across Soap’s chest, splitting open his shirt and leaving a bloody mess. Soap barely flinches, eyes narrowing in anger. “Gonna have to do better than that, laddie.”
Petrov’s eyes flash, mouth parting in a smile. The knife doesn't move, but the man’s eyes dart to Mikhailov. “Sir?”
The officer steps forward, meeting and holding Ghost’s eye. “Break him, Petrov, but I want him alive and able to speak.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Ghost keeps the eye contact, refusing to look as Petrov begins to carve into Soap, knife moving fast and effective, leaving behind bleeding red lines across Soap’s torso and stomach, atop his shoulders and arms. Each slash is met by a tiny inhale of pained breath, but nothing else. Soap stays strong and steady, exactly how Ghost trained him.
It repeats, over and over, until Soap’s shirt is in tatters, fabric soaked in blood. Petrov steps back, admiring his work, and Ghost watches from the corner of his eye. “Paints a pretty picture, doesn’t he?” At that, Ghost can’t help but snap to look, jaw tightening not only at the abuse he is now looking at directly, but the almost reverent way the man wit the knife speaks about Soap.
“You have always been an artist, Petrov.” Mikhailov comments, stepping around the man to get a good look at Soap. Once more he slides his hands into Soap’s hair and tips his head back. “This can stop at anytime, Ghost. Just tell us what we want to know.”
Ghost’s gaze flicks down to meet Soap’s eyes, he sees the defiance there and shakes his head. “My Sergeant is right, I won’t tell you anything.”
The Russian shrugs, releases his hold and then steps back to lean up against the wall. “Then your Sergeant is in for a long night.”
Once more, Petrov steps forward and begins to cut and carve, occasionally twisting the knife so the tip of it enters first, digging the sharp point into previously unmarred skin. Soap sits through it, jaw clenching on occasion, but otherwise not reacting. Then Petrov changes his tactics, rotating the knife and bashing the blunt handle of it against Soap’s face.
Soap’s skull jerks to the side as he curses loudly, snapping his head back to glare at his assaulter, nose already pouring blood. It sits at an odd angle, likely broken. The man hits him again, this time catching Soap in the cheek, and a purple bruise blossoms overtop of the two cuts already there.
The abuse continues, hits to Soap’s face and ribs, blunt handle leaving awful colors of purples and blues, some nearly black. Each hit is met with a puff of air, harshly released from Soap’s lungs, little noises of pain squeezing out in between. The whole time Mikhailov just watches, eyebrows lifting in amusement every once in a while, like he’s enjoying it.
Ghost seethes silently, keeping a mental tally of every hit, every cut, every moment of pain. He files it away for later, ready to reflect the damage back on the Russians, ensuring that when he gets his hands on the men, that his retaliation will be worse. He has to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out when Soap finally makes a true pained noise. Mikhailov is watching him closely, testing Ghost’s reaction to Soap’s pain, so he keeps his face and his eyes carefully neutral. He doesn’t want them to see how much this hurts him, how badly he would rather those blows come down on himself instead of Soap.
Johnny deserves better than this, but Ghost can’t give him that. All he has are the promises in his own head that he will do everything in his power to get him out of there.
The next blow to Soap’s ribs echos out a snap, the cracking of a rib, and Soap gasps loudly, eyes going wide as he fights against the pain.
“There you go,” Petrov coos, one hand lifting to tilt Soap’s face so he can meet his eye. “Keep making those pretty sounds and I might not stop even after we’re done.” Soap glares even as he begins to struggle for breath, but doesn’t say a word. The Russian tightens his grip, bringing the tip of the knife to rest against the corner of Soap’s lip. The barest hint of panic flashes, gone before it can settle, but Ghost saw it, feels it himself.
“You look up to The Ghost, yes? Want to be like him?” No response and Petrov grins, pushes the knife past Soap’s lips by a centimeter, ready to cut. “Could give you matching scars.” Soap’s gaze snaps over to his before darting back to the Russian’s. The man pulls back, taking the knife with him. “Not yet,” he muses, instead dragging the sharp edge over Soap’s jaw, following it back to his ear. “Want to leave your face pretty a little longer.”
More cuts, more blows, more pained breathes from Soap as the abuse shifts his ribs. Ghost isn’t sure how much time passes before Petrov slips the knife into a holster at his hip and kneels down to grip Soap’s jaw in a bloody hand, smearing red fingerprints over his skin.
“Come now MacTavish, this can all be over. Just tell Colonel Mikhailov what he wants to know.” Once more, Soap spits, this time it comes out pink with blood. Petrov reaches up with one hand, tightening around Soap’s throat, pushing hard into his neck. “That was not very smart, Sergeant. I might be required to leave you with your tongue, but you do not need your eyes to speak.” Soap doesn’t waver, face set in defiance even as it starts to turn red from lack of oxygen. Ghost knows from experience that his ribs are burning something fierce right now, pain of not being able to breathe compounding with the fractures.
Petrov releases him just as Soap starts to turn purple, and Ghost forces down a wince when Soap’s next breath comes in rattled and painful, desperate gasps of air being traded for whimpering pains of barely there inhales.
“Your Sergeant does not have to suffer, Ghost.” Mikhailov comments, gesturing vaguely in Soap’s direction. “A few little sentences and this will be over.”
“You canne tell them anything,” Soap wheezes. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, barely even feel it.”
It’s a lie, everyone in the room can see how much Soap is struggling, but Ghost admires his dedication, his determination to fight through this in order to keep their secrets safe. He sees the way Soap is starting to flag, blood loss combined with the pain and adrenaline that’s spiking and then falling. He looks bad, skin starting to pale making the bruises and blood stand out even more.
Ghost can’t take away his pain, and he can’t prevent anymore. Because Soap is right, Ghost can’t tell them anything, won’t. He gets them out of here or he’ll watch them tear Soap apart piece by piece until his body finally gives- or his mind breaks.
“I’m not asking for much,” the Russian starts up again. “I’m not asking about your precious task force or it’s members. I don’t particularly care about any of you. I just want to know how you found out about us and if there’s any other pesky Soldiers hiding out in the woods for us.”
Silence as the man waits for either of his prisoners to say something, anything. When neither of them speak, he sighs. “Petrov, be more convincing.”
A feral grin and Petrov trades the knife for a pair of pliers. One at a time, Soap loses his fingernails, tears finally spilling over and running down his cheeks. Ghost follows their path, the liquid clearing little rivers through the blood on his face, following the same trail down Soap’s neck and to his tattered shirt. Ghost wants to scream, to gnash his tear and lay down threats and insults, instead he stays silent. Soap is clenching his jaw so hard Ghost knows he has to be cracking teeth.
Next, the Russian strips Soap out of his boots. Ghost is certain his toenails are next, but instead the fucker steps behind Ghost and gathers a blowtorch from a table he can’t see. Soap’s eyes go wide when he spots it, feet curling instinctively away from the device as Petrov kneels, placing it near him.
“You cry so sweetly, let’s see how you scream.”
Ghost makes himself watch as the butane kicks on and Soap’s entire being shudders before his mouth drops open. The scream that tears out of Soap as the blue flame meets the side of his foot makes Ghost want to throw up. It’s terrible, gut-wrenching and loud in the small room. Ghost is close enough that he can feel the heat as it drifts off the torch, knows just how hot that flame has to feet on tender skin. The scent of burnt flesh rises in the air as Soap continues to scream, eyes closed. The sickly sweetness of it has Ghost’s stomach rolling, mouth watering as he forces himself to not throw up.
Finally, Petrov stops and Soap gasps out a huff of temporary relief, shoulders shaking. Ghost sees nothing but pain written in his face and his eyes. They’re foggy with it, normally clear blue tinted like they’re hidden behind clouds. He chances a glance down and sees the ruined side of Soap’s foot, blackened and bloody. The only comfort is that it wasn’t the bottom, Ghost knows if he can get Soap to medical, that the man will still be able to walk.
“Tell me what I want to know.” Ghost tips his head up, shoulders aching with the position they’ve been forced into. He swallows that pain, a little discomfort is nothing compared to what Soap is going through.
“Don’t,” Soap gasps, voice weak but words firm. With what little strength he has, Soap lifts his head and holds Ghost’s gaze.“Don’t give ‘em a feckin’ thing.”
Petrov holds up the blowtorch in a mock of a toast towards Mikhailov who nods only once. The man then twists on his knees and starts the process on Soap’s other foot.
Halfway through a scream, Soap cuts off, going limp. His body finally giving out from the torment and sending him into unconsciousness. Petrov stops right away, setting the unlit torch on the ground and standing to his feet. “Held out longer than I would have thought.”
The man reaches out with his blood covered hand and grips Soap’s cheek, tilting his unconscious face up. Ghost bites his own tongue, tasting blood, to keep from saying any of the things ripping through his mind.
Don’t fucking touch him, is at the top of the list. Followed by I’m going to feed you your own spine.
“Come, Petrov. He will be out for a few hours I’m sure.” Mikhailov steps forward, dragging another soft and gentle touch down Ghost’s cheek. “When we return, we will try again.” Ghost resists the urge to snap out and bite, just barely, and then the two exit the room, leaving him alone with Soap.
For the next ten minutes, he fights his restraints while also talking to Soap, trying to rouse the man from unconsciousness. He’s hitting dangerous levels of desperation in his voice when Soap twitches, face scrunching just a little.
“Soap?” Another little jerk, the Scot’s shoulders twisting the smallest amount. Then, Soap’s head lolls to the side as he wakes.
“Soap? Soap look at me.” No response aside from a pained groan, blue eyes clouded as Soap blinks rapidly. “Johnny, I need you to look at me.” Slowly, so fucking slowly, Soap lifts his head. “I’m going to get you out of here, okay? I just need you to hold out a little longer, can you do that?”
“Mmm- aye,” a wince, a grunt of pain. “Can do that.”
“Good, Johnny. You’re doing so good,” Ghost is searching for something, anything to say to help in whatever way he can. “You know, if it wasn’t obvious, you’re better than me now.”
That earns him the barest hint of a smile, washed away quickly by another flinch of pain- but it was there. Even if it was for only a second, Ghost gave Soap something good, something to hold onto in this moment.
“Can ye get out?” There’s an almost pleading tone to Soap’s question and it breaks Ghost’s heart.
He shakes his head. “Been trying, but these restraints are good. But don’t worry, Johnny. I’m going to get you out of here.”
Soap offers a still-weak smile. There’s blood on his teeth. “I belive in you, Lt. Got me out of Las Almas, you’ll get me out of another shithole.” A groan as Soap tries to roll his shoulders. “How long do we have?”
“They said a few hours, but that could have been a lie.” A soft hum and Soap’s head drops again, controlled and slow, but he’s too tired and wear to keep it raised.
Ghost wants to offer reassurance, that help is on the way, but he can’t. They came on this mission alone, there is no backup hiding in the woods, no one is coming to save them. When they miss check-in, Laswell and Price will investigate, but that’s hours away. Soap might not live that long. “Your ribs, they broken?”
Soap shakes his head. “Just cracked I think. I taste blood but I don’t think a lung is punctured, just from the hits to my face.”
Ghost closes his eyes and then releases a controlled breath before opening them again. “Johnny, I’m sorry,” for letting them get caught, for sitting there in silence as Soap is cut and bruised and burnt. For being useless.
“Don’t be,” Soap responds. “I can take it. No matter what they do to me, you don’t tell them a fucking thing.”
“Johnny-”
“I mean it, Simon.” Once more Soap manages to make eye contact. The haziness is gone, replaced by sharp intent. “Promise me that you won’t.”
“I promise.” He whispers. It’s a promise he wants to break more than anything else in the world, but he won’t. Even though they’ve started pulling out the big guns and whatever comes next will only be worse, he won’t. “Try and rest, you’re going to need your strength.”
Soap hums again, eyes closing and head tipping down. He’s out in a few minutes and Ghost spends the rest of his time plotting and planning, searching for something to get them out and fighting his restraints until his entire body burns and aches with the effort.
As promised, Mikhailov and Petrov return right around when Ghost’s internal clock tells him it’s been an hour. Behind them are two nameless Soldiers, carrying between them a large basin. Ghost watches as they drag it over to a wall, setting it under a faucet embedded into the concrete. Ghost’s gut twists, something like fear curling as one of the men kicks on the flow of water. As the basin fills, the other new face switches out Soap’s restraints, trading the rope around his arms for metal cuffs attached to heavy chains. Identical restraints go around Soap’s ankles.
Soap wakes as they click into place, groggily adjusting to the new position of his wrists bound in front of him instead of behind. There’s a tiny bit of relief, Ghost reads, as Soap’s back and shoulders stop complaining about the forced position. Then his eyes flick to where the basin is filling with water and his lips tighten into a thin line.
They share a look, of something, what exactly Ghost isn’t sure but he knows it isn’t good. There’s no speaking as the two grunts finish filling the basin and then leave. The door shuts behind them and then Mikhailov moves to stand in front of Ghost. “Tell me what I want to know.”
Silence, Ghost isn’t telling him shit.
Mikhailov shrugs. “Fine. Petrov, he’s yours again.” The officer steps back to his spot along the wall, content to watch.
Petrov moves forward, grabbing Soap by the arm and hauling him off the chair. His Sergeant yelps in pain as his abused feet struggle to support him. Soap hits a knee, collapsing, and Petrov drags him across the floor. Ghost sees red for a moment, eyes narrowing as the Russian forces Soap right over to the edge of the basin, pressing Soap’s waist against it. Before Soap can do anything but gasp in pain as the metal sides press into his cracked ribs, Petrov’s hand slides into his mohawk and shove him face first down into the water.
Soap fights, head thrashing erratically, restrained wrists pushing against the lip of the basin. He fights so hard Petriv has to bring his free hand down to press between Soap’s shoulder blades, keeping him pinned. Ghost counts the seconds. Ten turns into twenty and Soap’s whole body revolts against the hold shaking and spilling water onto the floor. His counter hits fortytwo when Petrov pulls him out of the water.
The deep gasping breaths get cut off as Soap chokes on the pain of his ribs and lungs. He’s barely steady before the Russian is dunking him again, holding Soap down as he fights. The process repeats over and over until Soap’s body goes limp. Ghost’s heart lurches as he’s pulled out of the water, face slack. Petrov slams his hand into Soap’s chest and then drops him to the floor as Soap begins to cough and gasp, bound hands coming up to wrap around his torso.
“I don’t think your Sergeant can take much more, Ghost. Are you ready to talk now?” Mikhailov’s voice rings out amidst the horrible way Soap is struggling to breathe, curling into the fetal position as water leaks out of his mouth mixing with spit and blood in a pool on the ground. Ghost says nothing. “Are you really going to let this continue when you could stop it with one little sentence?”
Ghost shifts his gaze off of Soap’s broken body and sends a look that, if weaponized, could level an entire city. Mikhailov barely blinks.
Soap is making these terrible and horrible wheezing sounds, body shaking as what Ghost is sure is nearly freezing cold water stars to evaporate off of his skin. Ghost wants nothing more than to put an end to this, to stop the pain that’s being inflicted on someone else because of him. It’s his fault there here in the first place, caught and bound. It’s his fault that Soap is being tortured instead of him. It’s his fault that it’s still happening. There’s a second where he almost does it, almost speaks the words that will ge this to stop. But Soap meets his eyes, head shaking just barely, and Ghost clenches his jaw. He clicks his throat, swallowing the wave of emotion and confessions that threaten to pour out.
Mikhailov sighs. “Get him back in the chair, we have other matters to attend to.”
Petrov complies, peeling an uncooperative Soap off the wet floor and guiding him back into his chair. He doesn’t get put back in the original chains, instead the new ones get looped around the chair, leaving Soap’s feet free but keeping him pinned to the seat. Then, with zero warning, Petrov snaps out with his knife, burying it in Soap’s thigh.
Ghost jerks against his restraints, shoulders burning with it as Soap’s head snaps back, teeth gritted. The Russian rips the blade out of Soap’s leg, wiping the blood on his pants and sliding it back into it’s holster. “You had your fun,” Mikhailov sounds bored the bastard. “Now put him down for a few.”
Petrov turns cruel eyes to Ghost and steps forward, producing a syringe from a pouch on his hip. “Time for the Ghost to go to sleep.” The needle pierces the soft skin of his exposed neck and Ghost narrows his eyes as the cool liquid forces him to suppress a shudder. Within seconds Ghost feels himself flagging, whatever was in the syringe combined with the exhaustion of the mission and being held in such an uncomfortable position for so long.
He fights it, trying to stay awake so he can get them out of this place, but it’s useless. For all his strengths, Ghost can’t fight science, biology, because as much as he pretends to be anything but, he’s still only human. His head starts to loll forward, dropping as he rapidly blink his eyes attempting to stay conscious. Mikhailov and Petrov are already leaving the room and Soap- fuck Soap’s eyes are clouded and hazy, leg bleeding and skin continuing to pale with all the blood loss.
“Ghost…”
Soap’s voice is destroyed, broken. He sounds sad. Ghost’s mouth isn’t cooperating, he can’t get his lips to part or his voice to work. Blackness is creeping into the sides of his vision. He tries to put something encouraging on his face, something to reassure his Sergeant that everything will be alright. He’s out before he can even think to look and see if it helped at all.