#Soap's gettin' his arse kicked

[highcaliberstupidity]

Whumptober Day 11 Pulling Pigtails Rating Mature CW's/Tags Implied/referenced torture, Ghoap if you squint Characters John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley, John Price, Phillip Graves Summary

It had been calculated, an inside fucking job. They knew where he'd be, knew where to catch him and how to do it. He remembers rough treatment, punishing fists and knees as he'd spit and snarled and fought until someone took an M4 stock to his skull. There was no telling how long he'd been out, so the chances of the 141 not even knowing he was missing yet, were higher than he liked.

Pain is the first thing he registers when his senses begin to come back online.

It leaves him gasping, lungs expanding in a weak, wheezing inhale as he forces his body to work. He's pretty certain he's got at least a handful of cracked ribs if not more. And it hurts to even shift his body forward in the seat, leaning over himself in an effort to relieve the pressure on his tied-up arms.

It helps a little, but it's not enough.

Slowly he feels his eyes open, wincing at the light, groaning as he takes in the barren concrete cell around him.

It's a basement, a set of steps going up and out, the only entrance or exit.

Not even a window in sight.

Soap only remembers flashes of what happened, of the fucking shadows coming alive in the form of real Shadows, taking him down and ripping out his come before he could do much as blink.

It had been calculated, an inside fucking job.

They knew where he'd be, knew where to catch him and how to do it.

He remembers rough treatment, punishing fists and knees as he'd spit and snarled and fought until someone took an M4 stock to his skull.

There was no telling how long he'd been out, so the chances of the 141 not even knowing he was missing yet, were higher than he liked.

The sound of a door opening, and boots echoing down the stairs had his head snapping up, forcing himself as upright as he could. He'd meet his date head on, and spitting bloody mad.

At least, that was the plan.

Until a familiar blonde head came into view, that easy smile was replaced with something dangerous.

If they wanted to throw him off his game… well congratu-fucking-lations, they did.

"What the fuck." He can't help the hiss of surprise, watching as Graves, a dead fucking man, saunters towards him with a look of deadly glee on his face.

"Well, well, well, nice of you to finally join us, sleeping beauty." He smiles wide, teeth bared in a way that screams 'I want to rip out your throat.' "been a while, Johnny. How's it been? I hope the boys weren't to rough with ya."

And Soap clamps his jaw shut, because Graves wants a reaction, and he's not going to fucking give it to him.

"Mm, not so talkative now, huh?" He steps in closer, sweeping behind him, and it takes every bit of fight he has to hold himself perfectly still, eyes focused on the floor. He's been through RTI training, he can handle this. "Don't worry, my boys will get you to squawk soon enough."

He nearly flinches when Graves hand slaps down on his shoulder, and in his periphery he can see his once charming smile looming, now shark like.

"Now, let's be real here John. I'm a guy who likes to be an optimist. So, I want to think we can work together on this. I just need you and your little friends out of my way." It takes everything, not to look at him. Not to speak. "Now, I don't want to kill anybody, I admire you guys. But, if you make me pull the trigger, I will." And he can't help the sneer that tracks across his face at that, because does he think he's stupid?

Graves will kill every one of them the minute he gets the chance, if only to make sure his steaming pile of shit stays covered.

“Ah come on now, brother. Don’t give me that look.” And Graves, the fucker, has the audacity to pout at him. Soap’s never wanted to spit in a mans face more than he does in that moment.

“You know takin’ me hostage ain’t doin’ shite for ya, right?” His voice comes as a croak when he speaks, but he tips his chin high, still not letting his eyes fully turn to regard the dead man beside him.

Graves’s hums, lips twitching as he straightens again and stands at Soap’s back, just out of sight. It’s grating, he hates it, can feel him, but he can’t see him.

“You make a fair point, but i’m kind of hoping putting the metaphorical gun to your stupid head will be enough to make Price call off the hunt.” Soap snorts, and then laughs, knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. “Oh well now i’m just hurt, laughing, really? What are we, twelve?” And then theres a hand fisting in his mohawk, fingers tangling into the short strands and wrenching his head back with sparks of pain crawling up his scalp.

“So lets cut the shit then, MacTavish.” Icey blue eyes meet flinty blue-grey, and that dangerous glint is back, it’s back and it’s growing into a gleam. “I’m gonna make this real cut and dry so you stupid English cunts,” It comes out in a terrible play of Ghost’s Machester drawl, not nearly as gravely, “Will get the fuck out of my god damn hair.”

His face is barely an inch away, and Soap really wishes he could bring his head up just enough to crack him, take him down a few pegs on his ego and pride.

But his grips good, solid, and the zip-ties are tight.

“If your Captain and his little CIA bitch don’t fuck off, the things i’m going to do to you are going to make them wish I’d taken a gun to your fucking head.” And that strikes the tiniest bolt of fear in his chest, makes his lungs squeeze and his heart jump, his pupils contracting as adrenaline pumps into his system. “Now, i’m gonna set up a little laptop, and your going to tell them to back down, comprehende?” Of course his Spanish is still shit, Soap’s fairly certain that’s not even a fuckin’ word.

“Fine. But make it fast, us English cunts gotta make it back for tea and brekkie after all.” He sneers, hisses when Graves grip tightens, and then releases him.

And then the man is gone, up the stairs, leaving Soap reeling.

-

Soap’s a smart man, and he’s ready when Graves returns, a small table set up in front of his chair, laptop open and waiting.

He wonders if Price will even answer.

The call goes through, routes, then finally, a face snaps into view, a very furious face.

“Soap.” His words are sharp, but he can hear the question, see it in his hard eyes.

“Captain.” He nods back, flicks a glance toward Graves, whos arms are crossed where he stands behind the laptop. He gestures to it, makes it clear what he wants. “I’ve got a message for ya, from Shadow Company.” Graves would probably kill him for this, and if he didn’t, Soap was sure to wish he was dead, when the man was done with him.

“Out with it then.” Soap couldn’t help but wonder if Ghost and Gaz were there too, if they’d hear this. Would they call him a ballsy idiot? Probably.

A deep breath in.

“Graves is alive, do not st-!” Instead of snapping the laptop shut like expected, Graves rounds it and plants his first square against Soap’s jaw. The chair rocks hard, nearly sends him over. But a firm hand from Graves keeps him upright, groaning as his head falls to the side.

Price has gone deathly silent.

“Well, I tried to play nice Johnny, I really, really fucking did.” A hand fists in his hair, jerks his eyes up to meet Prices stoney, emotionless face.

Soap smiles, teeth bloody, someone has to lighten the mood.

“Just know Graves.” Price’s voice rings strong in the room, and the commander turns with narrowed eyes. “If you hurt him. It won’t be me you have to worry about.” Graves snorts, drops his head in favor of turning fully to the camera now.

“Oh yeah, you expect me to be afraid of one man? You gonna send the big bad Ghost after me?” His lips curl, and then he brandishes a knife, the blade gleaming wickedly. “He’s a single man, think I can take him just fuckin’ fine.” And then he pivots, and sinks the blade into Soap’s thigh, earning a wail.

And he hears something that sounds like snarling on the other side of the line, hears Price shout something, and then.

“When I find you Graves, just fuckin’ know, what ever you do to him, I’ll return ten-fuckin’-fold.” Ghost’s heavy snarl breaks through the room, and Soap could cry, hearing it. Wishes it weren’t minced with signal static and tinny computer speakers.

“Yeah fuckin’ right, good luck finding us you spirit of halloween wannabee.” Graves snorts, and then he’s reaching out, snapping the laptop shut before he turns back to Soap, eyes dark.

“Well. Ready for some fun, Johnny-boy?”

All he can think is that he really hopes Ghost hurries.

#whumptober 2023 #“All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.”. #“No one will find you.” #call of duty #writing #whump #angst #implied/referenced torture #Soap's gettin' his arse kicked #rip #simon riley #simon ghost riley #john 'soap' mactavish #captain john price #john price #john soap mactavish #john mactavish

[questforgalas]

Tags/Warnings: None

Masterlist

WC: 2.5k

Flower symbolism: Ghost's bouquet: Orange lily (hatred), thyme (courage), dark crimson rose (mourning) Soap's Bouquet: Heliotrope (devotion), marjoram (joy), sunflower (adoration)

This fic is rated Mature

For those who prefer Ao3

“Day twenty, Lt! An’ wha’a glorious day it’ll be. Can already feel it in ma bones.” A particularly nasty series of pops joined in to emphasize the point. “You an’ me. Green hills an’ forests for miles aroond. An’ a warehoos as excitin’ as a snail race in glue. Wha’ more could ye ask fer?”

“Go for your run, Sergeant, before I throw ya into those green hills ya’re so fond of,” Simon grumbled.

“Well, well, well. Somebody’s right prickly today.” The couch’s strained groan made Simon wonder just how many more nights of military operatives sleeping on it it had left in its old supports. Padded footsteps moved behind him. “ Wha’ crawled up yer ass in the middle of tha night? Cannae be Ghorbrani seein’ as he’s not fuckin’ ‘ere.”

“Just makin’ a list of all our friends in intelligence I’m going to be payin’ a visit when I get back to base.”

Two light taps on his shoulder announced the sergeant’s presence before he stood next to him. “Sounds like a worthy field trip. Mind if I come an’ watch the show? Might ‘ave some words of ma own fer the class.” 

A simple hum was all he received in reply, Simon’s every brain cell too occupied with the electric charge that shot through him each time his shoulder blade brushed against Soap’s hand resting on the back of the chair to allow him to form a coherent thought let alone string a series of words together that wouldn’t stab a knife through his reputation as one of the best operatives in the 141 and not some bumbling fucker who’s cheeks heated at the brush of a hand. Each time he shifted in the chair, attempting to regain feeling in his left arse cheek, that hand moved with him. Always connecting. Always touching. 

The sergeant had a knack for being in Simon’s space, and Simon was starting to realize he didn’t mind that one bit. That in the course of 20 days, a small space reserved for Soap MacTavish had been carved next to Simon and that the world felt a little off kilter when it wasn’t occupied. 

The realization shot through Simon as if he’d just been sniped point blank, every muscle tensing as his brain yelled at him to run, to avoid the danger, the pain. Fight or flight kicking in at the thought of wanting this sergeant to stick around. This sergeant with his barely understandable accent and ridiculous mohawk and eyes that near sparkled in sunlight and…

“Back actin’ up agin?” Soap asked, having wedged himself in the small space between the wall and the chair, hand still resting on the chair and looking at Simon with a soft smile and glimmer of sympathy. Because of course he noticed Simon’s tensing. 

Yeah, back actin’ up. We’ll go with tha’.  

“It’s nothin’.” Simon tried to reach around and knead a fist into the lower right side, grateful for the knot lodged in place to help play off his moment of temporary insanity, though the relief only lasted until that fucker seized right back into place,  

“Nae nothin’. Yer always stiffer than the Queen’s ‘air gettin’ oot of tha’ chair. Where’s it ‘urt?” Soap leaned over Simon’s shoulder using the hand on the back of the chair for support as the other drifted closer. 

“Seriously, Soap, it’s nothin’. Be fine once I can bloody move from this sad excuse for a chair.”

“Hmm,” Soap hesitated, sweeping his gaze over Simon’s back before relenting, free hand going back to his side, but he remained bent at the hip, not retreating from the small space he’d created between them. “Nothin’ a mornin’ cuppa cannae fix, I’m sure.” 

Simon looked up and took a breath, regretting it instantly. The familiar standard, clean scent of military issue soap hit him, but that wasn’t what caused his brain to short circuit for the second time that morning. No, it was the hints of graphite stuck under fingernails from hours of sketching and erasing and sketching again. It was the cling of smokepowder too stubborn to wash away with the sweat and grime. It was the vanilla that snuck through it all. It was all John MacTavish. 

“Believe ya’re onto somethin’, Sergeant,” Simon mustered. 

Blue eyes rolled. “Swear ye think a cuppa can cure cancer.” 

“Probably can.” 

“Dinnae think tha’s how science works.” 

“What’re ya a medic now?” 

“Tough break for ye if tha’s the case.” 

“What was that about a cuppa?” 

“Psh. Impatient bastard.” 

Sidestepping out of their little nook, Soap meandered into the kitchen, and it wasn’t long until the familiar din of banging cupboard doors and Scottish grumbles began to fill the space as the sergeant began to prepare each of their precious steaming mugs. 

The Scot moved comfortably around the space, knowingly opening and reaching into cabinets, mumbling as he went, staring off beyond the wooden walls when a thought took him, coming back with a shake of his head, focus back on the task at hand. 

Beyond the double-window above the kitchen sink, the sun began to crest over the eastern hills, a soft beam bathing the dusty counters and rickety table in the morning glow, and in the center of it stood Soap, tapping his fingers to a subconscious tune as he stared at the kettle. 

And Simon sat entirely lost to the scene, unable to look away even if Ghorbrani himself  pounded on the window next to him, mesmerized by the way the sun highlighted lighter shades of brown scattered throughout the mohawk flirting with non-regulation height, disheveled ends sticking in every direction. A soft, navy t-shirt clung to a muscular chest and biceps, complimenting golden tones of a permanent, light tan that Soap somehow claims even when calling the British Isles home. Yet, all of it failed in comparison when the sun rose higher, fully bathing the kitchen in its light, shining across the sergeant’s shoulder, and transformed stormy blue eyes into crystal pools. 

He felt powerless to the tug and pull that grew every day between these creaking walls on a hill in Lithuania, drawn to the sergeant like a moth to a flame, desperate to not get scorched. Hoping that small space carved out next to him doesn’t go up in flames. 

Time froze in that small cabin, Simon Riley unable to look away, and that same voice that just moments before was telling him to run whispered in his ear, “Maybe, just maybe, it’s ok.” 

Soap stood there, mere feet away from him, unaffected by it all. Oblivious to the battle raging inside his lieutenant’s mind. Oblivious to the damage he’d done to internal, fortified walls built to withstand even the most powerful C4, no matter how capable the maker. 

How naive of Simon to assume John MacTavish was like any other. 

A high whistle pierced the air, and time resumed as if Simon’s world wasn’t being rewritten in front of him.  

“That’s a noo one.” Soap gestured with the fresh kettle in hand. “The mask.” 

That night, well after Soap’s soft snores began, Simon tossed the skull mask into the bottom of his duffle, not sparing it a second glance as he pulled a simple, black balaclava over his face.  

“Thought I’d switch it up a bit,” he responded. “Keep ya on your toes.” 

“Oh, aye. Revealin’ tha skin aroond yer eyes chillin’ me righ’tae tha bone. Migh’need tae refresh on tha torture course, sir, if tha’s yer best tactic.” 

“Don’t need to refresh when ya’re the one who wrote it.” 

“Course ye did, ye spooky bastard,” Soap poured his coffee. “Probably first thing ye did after ye popped oot of tha womb.” 

“Who let ya into my classifieds, Sergeant?”

Soap snorted as he walked over, mugs in hand. “I knoo better now than tae poke around Simon Riley, sir. Jus’a lucky guess.” A blessedly steaming mug was placed in Simon’s hands. “It’s a nice change. Can actually see yer eyes.”

“Is tha’ so, Sergeant?” 

“Well, ye ‘ave nice eyes,” Soap said, and Simon choked back a laugh when the Scot’s eyes doubled their size. “Tha’s nae wha’! I mean! I meant! Jus’ use’ta tha - “ Scarlet coated his cheeks, deepening with each unfinished sentence. “Just’ use’ta tha skull is all. Bloody thing ‘ard ta miss. Easy tae notice things when tha’s nae in tha way!.” 

“Relax, Soap. Me an’ my nice eyes don’t take offense,” Simon laughed around the cup, taking a sip. “Fuckin’ ‘ell. Don’t know how ya do it ever’time.” 

Soap’s cheeks still flushed pink, but Simon’s casual tease seemed to put him at ease enough. The Scot gave a dismissive wave of his hand, turning to the couch and tucking both of his legs under him with the mug cradled between both hands as he settled back on the warn cushions. “Nae tha’ard tae make a man’s cuppa. An’ dinnae if ye ‘eard, but I’m kinda a’expert at mixin’ things together. Chemistry an’ the likes.”

There they sat in comfortable quiet - Simon hunkered at the post and Soap tucked into the couch - just as they did every morning once they settled into this routine of theirs, the sergeant starting his runs later and later each day. It was a small flash of domesticity rarely offered in the savage unknowns of their lives, a glimpse into a window that teases in the backs of their minds but always remains out of reach, brushing against their fingertips. A fragile, delicate snapshot when they can feel a little less like blood steadily drips from their hands and more like average civilians with the luxury of doing this every day. Their thoughts on grocery lists and birthday parties and which movie to watch to pass the time. 

Not on the best way to bleed a person out before they have a chance to yell. Not on the best way to keep organs inside when a gaping hole dares them to fall right out. Not on countless faces they erased in the name of keeping the world clean.

Not on whether or not they’ll get to repeat it all again the next day. 

“Be ‘onest. ‘ow many of those ye got stashed away?” Soap asked. 

“The masks?” Simon responded.

“Aye.” 

“Hmm that’s class -” 

“Goin’tae get a face full of coffee if tha next word is ‘classified’, Lt.” 

Simon chuckled. “Couple. The skull’s got the most varieties. Can’t exactly blend in with snow if I’ve got a black cloth over my ‘ead now can I? Might as well say ‘Over ‘ere fucker. Right in the tree line!’”

“So, skull is fer the missions?” 

“Affirmative.”

“An’ these kinds,” Soap motioned towards the present mask. “I’m assumin’ they all fit with yer aesthetic of choice?” 

Simon smirked. “‘Course. ‘Ave to keep with my brand’.” 

“Nae a soul on this earth would accuse ye of anythin’ but dedicated tae tha brand, Lt,” Soap smiled. “Which one do ye wear tae scare tha recruits?”

“Skull ‘course.”

“‘Course. Natural choice. Makin’ friends in tha mess hall with it, too?” 

“Since it’s the only one I wear ‘round base.” 

“Ye really walk aroond base with tha skull on?”

“Don’t forget the matchin’ gloves.” 

“Even aroond the team?” Soap asked, a disappointed tone in his voice Simon had never heard before.

“Only while on mission.” Simon answered quickly, filled with the need to comfort the sergeant. “Back in Hereford, there’s an area assigned to the 141. More private.” 

“Ah.” Stormy blue eyes turned playful. “So, this style is fer teammates only, aye?”

“Don’t flatter ya’rself. Plastic was diggin’ into my skin.” 

“No need tae get up tae high doh, Lt -” 

“What the bloody ‘ell does that even mean?” Simon interrupted, but Soap paid no mind.

“Yer wee secret is safe with me. I’ll make sure tae act all surprised when I get tha call from Captain Price.” 

“I changed my mind. Skull’s goin’ back on.” 

“Och, dinnae be a tosser. Ye’d think yer soul’ll be snatched away if ye show even a’ounce of joy tha way ye act. Dinnae fash yerself, I’ll only be temporarily flattered ye stowed tha skull fer me.”

The playful glint remained in those stormy eyes as Soap rose, gathering up the now empty mugs, and tossing them into the sink. 

“Was any of that English?” Simon asked mostly to himself. 

“Fuckin’ Brits,” Soap sighed over the rushing water, rinsing out the cups and placing them to dry. Exasperated mumbles flowed while he worked, following him as he moved to the bedroom down the hall. 

It was exactly 0700, another hour until the morning shift would appear, and though for twenty days the same view greeted him through the scope, years of honed instinct urged Simon to check on the road again, simply so he could tell his itching skin “See? Nothin’ to worry about.” 

What Siimon didn’t count on were the four new vehicles winding their way up to the warehouse. 

“Soap!” he barked out. “Look alive, Sergeant. Unidentified vehicles on the road.” 

The bedroom door collided with the hallway wall, and the sergeant bound into the living room, snatching the binoculars that sat in the equipment bag collecting dust for three weeks. 

“Wha’ve we got, Lt?” 

“Four vehicles. Three jeeps and one freight pullin’ a container. Unable to confirm if the jeeps are armored or not. No personnel identified yet.” 

“Fuckin’ finally,” Soap muttered. 

The vehicles drove along the twisting road in a single line - one jeep at the front and the other two taking up the rear behind the container. When they reached the warehouse, the first jeep pulled to the side, letting the truck pass to the loading bay and giving it room to maneuver so it could back into the zone, completely obstructing any lines of sight to the contents within. The last two vehicles pulled up on each side of the bay, and at once, four guards clamored out of each jeep. 

“Escorts are armed. Rifles. Basic armor. I count twelve. No persons of interest, but I doubt that container’s just a bunch of flowers,” Simon rattled off. “Soap, get Laswell on the line.” 

“Copy tha’, Lt,” Soap replied, the accent nearly disappearing in an instant, and soon the crackle of the radio filled the room.  “Watcher-1, this is Charlie 0-7. Come in Watcher-1.”

A brief pause. Soap tried again.

“Come in, Watcher-1. This is Charlie 0-7. Watcher-1, how copy?”

After Soap’s third attempt, a response finally came through.  

“Charlie 0-7, this is Watcher-1. Send traffic,” Laswell answered. 

“Sorry fer tha early wake up call, Watcher-1, but we finally ‘ave some activity. Four unknown vehicles, three armored escorts an’ a container of unknown cargo. Twelve armed guards. What’s tha call?” 

A clear sigh could be heard over the static. “Thank god. Alright boys, we need to know what’s in that container, but this cannot be traced back, got it? Time to do what you do best, Ghost.” 

“With pleasure,” Simon responded with his eyes still trained on the activity at the warehouse, adrenaline licking up his spine. 

“Report back once you have the information. I’ll have exfil on standby for tonight. Watcher-1, out.” 

Anticipation sizzled in the air when the radio went silent.

Simon turned, meeting Soap’s gaze over his shoulder. “Ya ready to get to work, Sergeant?”

A savage smile appeared on the sergeant’s face. “Let’s get ourselves a win, Lt.”

#tay writes #call of duty #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #soap x ghost #ghost x soap #kate laswell #ghoap #ghostsoap