COD: Soap’s Last Laugh

The dog tags hit your palm with a weight that didn’t match their size.

You stared at them, the metal cold against your skin, the chain coiled like a dead snake. The sergeant had handed them to you without ceremony, just a grim nod and a muttered, "He asked for you. Specially."

Price had been standing right there. Ghost too. But Soap had chosen you. The note was tucked inside the folded flag they gave you at the funeral, slipped between the stars and stripes like a secret. The paper was creased, the ink smudged, written in a hurry, maybe mid-mission, maybe while bleeding out. You wouldn’t know. You hadn’t been there.

"Make ‘em laugh at my funeral, yeah?"

That was it. No "take care of yourself", no "miss you already". Just one last stupid joke from a man who’d spent his life turning everything into a punchline. You crushed the note in your fist.

It was raining. Of course it was raining. Price stood at the front, ramrod straight, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitching. He didn’t cry. He didn’t. But when the guns fired their salute, his hands shook, just once, before he locked them behind his back.

Ghost was a statue in the back, his skull mask swapped for a black balaclava, his sunglasses hiding nothing. You saw the way his shoulders hunched, the way his breath hitched when the priest said "valiant sacrifice". You stood there, Soap’s tags digging into your palm, and tried to think of something funny.

Nothing came.

Gaz stopped talking the day the coffin lowered.

Not out of spite. Not out of anger. Just… nothing. His voice left with Soap’s, as if the universe had deemed one of them unworthy of sound now that the other was gone. You’d catch him opening his mouth in the mess hall, a joke half-formed on his tongue, then freezing, the words dying unspoken. His lips would press into a thin line, his fork would clatter onto the tray, and he’d leave.

Ghost tried to provoke him once, shoved him against the lockers, snarled "Say something, you coward", but Gaz just looked at him, eyes red-rimmed and empty, and Ghost let go.

The worst part was that Soap’s voice still echoed in the halls. Gaz would turn corners too fast, as if hoping to catch the tail end of a laugh that wasn’t there.

Price drank. Not the usual "one whiskey after a mission" drink. This was "bottle in a dark room, don’t f-cking talk to me" drinking. You found him once, slumped over his desk, Soap’s file open in front of him, the words "KIA" circled like a target.

"He laughed," Price slurred, not looking up. "Even when I told him it was a suicide mission. Laughed."

You left him there. You didn't know how to respond.

Ghost disappeared. Not literally, he still showed up for briefings, still took missions, but he wasn’t there. Not really. His voice was flat, his movements mechanical. The only time he reacted was when Gaz accidentally knocked over Soap’s favorite coffee mug.

Ghost slammed him into the wall.

"Pick. It. Up."

Gaz didn’t even fight back.

You tried.

You tried to tell the story about the time Soap set his own pants on fire. Tried to mimic his stupid accent, his "Aye, but did ye die?" grin. But your voice broke and no one laughed.

---

You saw him sometimes, in the mess hall, leaning against the doorway, smirking. "Christ, that’s the best you got? I could’ve done better."

Then you’d blink, and he’d be gone. Just like always.

It hit you at 3 AM, staring at his dog tags on your nightstand:

He knew. He knew no one would laugh. Knew you’d try and fail. Knew it would hurt worse that way. Because Soap always got the last word, even in death.

You found the intel in Soap’s locker, a crumpled map with a circled extraction point, bloodstains in the shape of fingers. Their base.

Ghost didn’t ask questions when you slid it across the table. Just stared. Then stood.

"Don’t," you said, knowing he wouldn’t listen. He paused at the door, his silhouette jagged in the dim light.

"Tell Price I went camping."

Ghost didn’t kill them quick. He toyed with them, ripped comms first, sliced tendons second, left them just enough strength to crawl toward the exits he’d already mined. You watched from the tree line, counting the screams, matching each one to a name from Soap’s mission report. When it was done, Ghost slumped against a tree, his gloves dripping, his breath ragged. "That's enough of a joke for you, Johnny?"

The bottle shattered against the wall, glass skittering across the floor like shrapnel. You could hear screaming and swearing in the other room. You ran in to check on him.

Price rarely yelled. Rarely moved unless it was tactical. But now he paced, his boots crushing paperwork, his hands tearing at his hair. "It was supposed to be simple, in and out!!"

You stepped closer.

"Captai-"

He collapsed into you, his sobs wet and guttural against your shoulder.

"I sent him," he gasped. "I f-cking sent him." You held him up as his knees gave out. "He trusted me."

The first time you saw him, you thought you were hallucinating.

Soap leaned against his own gravestone, arms crossed, glaring at the wilting flowers Price left that morning.

"Pathetic," he scoffed, kicking at a loose pebble. It phased right through his boot. "Whole team’s gone soft."

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He noticed. "Oh, here we go-" he groaned, rolling his eyes as you choked on a sob. "Don’t start with the waterworks. Christ, I told you to make ‘em laug-"

"We can’t!" you snapped, your voice cracking. "Not without you!" Soap blinked. Then grinned, slow and wicked. "Finally! Some f-ckin’ fire!" He gestured at the grave. "Now that’s the eulogy I wanted!! ‘Soap was a right bastard, and we’re pissed he’s gone!’"

You laughed, ugly, wet, real, and for a second, just a second, the weight lifted. Then the wind shifted, and he was gone.

---

You knew it was a stupid idea.

Soap’s birthday, two months post-funeral, and the team was still a collection of walking ghosts. Price drowned himself in paperwork, Gaz flinched at every joke, and Ghost? Ghost hadn’t spoken in weeks.

But Soap would’ve hated this. Hated the quiet. Hated the way they all stopped living just because he stopped breathing. So you packed a cooler.

Price arrived first, scowling at the six-pack of terrible Scottish lager you’d set on the headstone.

"He hated this garbage," he grumbled.

"Yup, that’s why I bought it~"

The voice came from behind the grave. Soap lounged against his own tombstone, boots crossed at the ankles, grinning like this was the best f-cking show he’d ever seen.

You didn’t jump. You were used to him by now. Gaz wasn’t.

"F-cking hell!" he choked, nearly dropping his own beer.

"Language, mate," Soap cackled. "I’m f-ckin’ dead, not deaf!" Ghost materialized from the tree line, his grip crushing the neck of a whiskey bottle. He stared at Soap’s ghost.

"...Christ," he muttered. "Nah, just me," Soap smirked. "Though I did see ‘im once. Bit of a wanker, honestly~"

Price laughed. It was ugly, more cough than sound, but it counted.

---

Gaz tried first. "Remember when Soap tried to flirt with that CIA op? And she tased him!"

"Aye, best shag of my life!" Soap laughed from the grave. Ghost snorted.

You told the pants on fire story. Price admitted to planting the soap that earned Soap’s nickname. Soap reminded him that his nickname had nothing to do with him, but he was laughing. Ghost just drank, but when Soap dared him to arm wrestle the headstone ("C’mon, Lt., scared ye’ll lose to a rock?"), he actually rolled up his sleeve.

He lost. "F-ck you," Ghost growled, but there was something in his voice. Something almost... fond.

Soap beamed. "Now that’s what I call a f-ckin’ birthday." The sunrise found them all still there, laughing, alive, just like he’d wanted.

The team didn’t stop celebrating after sunrise.

If anything, they got worse.

You noticed it first, a slash of blue fabric tied around Ghost’s bicep, stark against his black tactical gear.

"Since when do you accessorize?" you asked, poking it. Ghost swatted your hand away, but there was no heat in it. "Shut up."

From the corner of your eye, Soap’s ghost grinned, kicking his feet up on a nearby crate. "Aye, knew he loved me." Ghost flipped him off without looking.

---

The unveiling was a disaster.

Price had insisted on "historical accuracy", which is how you all ended up staring at a bronze Soap mid-faceplant, one hand clutching a very detailed grenade, the other flipping the bird.

"It’s art," Price deadpanned, sipping his whiskey as Gaz wheezed. Soap howled, clutching his non-existent stomach. "F-ckin’ glorious! More!"

The whoopee cushion was just the start.

Gaz escalated quickly, glitter bombs in the memorial plaque, a karaoke machine blasting "Highway to Hell" at 3 AM, even a life-sized cardboard cutout of Soap winking that he "borrowed" from the mess hall.

"Ye bastard," Soap cackled, proud. "I taught ye well." Gaz saluted the empty air, then yelped when the cutout mysteriously tipped over onto him.

"Oops," Ghost muttered, very unconvincingly.

---

It was Price who asked, voice rough but steady:

"What else would he want?"

The team turned to you, Soap’s chosen, the one who knew him best in the end. You smiled.

"A party. A real one. With fireworks, terrible music, and enough booze to kill a normal man."

"And someone has to streak through the base." Soap roared with laughter in the distance. Gaz immediately started unbuttoning his pants. Ghost tackled him. Price toasted the chaos.

The team made it a ritual.

Every Friday night, they’d gather at Soap’s grave, Gaz with a new prank to "test drive", Price with a bottle of something strong, Ghost with your six-pack of terrible lager. They’d leave their dog tags in a growing pile at the base of the headstone, swapping stories like ammunition, each one louder and more ridiculous than the last.

And Soap stayed. Not flickering in and out like before, but solid, perched right on top of his own grave like it was a park bench, grinning as he heckled them.

"That’s the best ye got? I could rob a bank faster!" "Aye, and die again doing it," Ghost muttered, but he was smirking under the mask.

You came alone at dawn, when the grass was still damp and the base was quiet. Soap was waiting, legs swinging, his form almost translucent in the pale light.

"Well?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "How’d the streaking go?"

You groaned, rubbing your temples. "Gaz actually did it. Twice. They're still writing the incident report." Soap howled, slapping his knee. "Knew I could count on that idiot!" A breeze kicked up, tugging at his edges, but he didn’t fade. Not yet.

---

"Why are you still here?" you asked softly.

Soap’s grin turned sheepish. "Couldn’t leave ye miserable sods alone, could I? Someone’s gotta keep ye from broodin’ yerselves to death."

You knew it was a lie. Knew he’d stayed because they needed him. Because you needed him. But you also knew he’d never admit it.

So you elbowed him. "You’re full of it, MacTavish."

"Aye," he agreed, leaning into the touch like he could almost feel it. "But you love me~" The sun rose higher. And just before he faded, he winked.

"Don’t miss me too much, {{user}}."

The cemetery was quiet this early, the sky still bleeding from black to bruised purple as you picked your way through the dew-soaked grass. You half-expected the grave to be empty, for the ghost to have finally moved on, duty discharged, legacy secured.

But no. There he was. Soap sat cross-legged on his own headstone, the worn granite doing nothing to dull the familiar mischief in his eyes. He grinned the second he saw you, tossing an imaginary peanut in the air and catching it in his mouth.

"Ye look like shite," he announced. "Someone kept ye up all night?"

You rolled your eyes, settling onto the damp grass beneath him. "Gaz insisted on a ‘post-streaking debrief.’ It involved tequila." "Ah," Soap sighed, faux-sympathetic. "And now yer liver’s deader than me. Tragic."

The first sliver of sun crested the horizon, painting his edges in gold. For a moment, he almost looked real. You told him everything.

How Price had finally hung that statue in the mess hall, how Ghost had actually laughed at Gaz’s latest prank, how the team had unofficially renamed every training drill after one of Soap’s many disasters.

"Brilliant," he cackled, kicking his heels against the stone. "But f-ck me, if they ever try grenade practice again withou-"

The stories spiraled, the sky lightening minute by minute. At some point, you realized you were laughing. Really laughing. The kind that ached. Soap’s grin softened. "See?" he murmured.

"Told ye it’d get easier. So... What's the plan for today, {{user}}?"