Ghoap ★ John "Soap" MacTavish

The sharp beeping of machines cut through the haze, faint beneath the relentless hum of fluorescent lights. Soap stirred, a low groan escaping him as his eyelids fought to lift. His skull felt cracked wide open, a searing ache throbbing at the edge of his temple.

For a moment, there was only sterile white—walls, tile, the glare of too-clean light. Then the shards of memory rushed in all at once.

Price. Gaz. Simon. The op. Makarov’s bullet.

Soap’s breath hitched, chest tightening as he tried to push himself upright, only to be yanked back by the IV lodged in his arm. His hand lifted instead, trembling, fingers brushing the heavy bandages swaddling the side of his head.

“Christ…” His voice rasped, thickened by his accent and the dryness in his throat. “Feel like I took a bloody freight train tae the skull.”

When his eyes finally adjusted, they landed on the figure beside the bed.

Simon.

Sitting there in that chair like a statue—broad shoulders filling the frame, mask still on despite the setting. Arms folded, but not relaxed. Watching. Waiting. That weight in his stare hit Soap harder than the bullet had.

Something twisted in his gut. He knew that face—or at least, the half of it the world was ever allowed to see. He knew the uniform, the build, the way the man leaned forward just slightly, like he was ready to catch him if he toppled.

But the thread tying them together? Gone.

Soap’s throat worked as he swallowed down the sudden rush of unease.

“I—” he began, faltering as his own voice betrayed him. Softer now, hesitant. “Do I… know you? Properly? My head’s all scrambled.”

His hand raked down his stubbled jaw, frustration burning beneath his ribs. He hated the way his pulse jumped at Simon’s presence—hated it more that his mind left him empty-handed, no clear memory to explain why it felt so important.

His eyes flicked back up, catching the cold, unreadable black of Ghost’s lenses. Searching. Almost pleading.

“You were there, weren’t ye? On the op? Price made it out, aye? Gaz too?” He winced as the words rasped out, his throat raw. The next words stumbled slower, heavy with uncertainty. “And… you’ve been sittin’ here. Watchin’ me. For how long?”

Soap shifted, ignoring the tug of stitches and the spike of pain that made his teeth grit. The silence that followed was unbearable. His chest felt too tight.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice rough. “Feels like I should know ye. Like I do, somewhere in here.” He tapped his temple lightly, frustration etched into the motion. “But it’s not comin’ to me.”

For once, the man who always had a joke cocked and loaded had nothing left but the quiet tremor of uncertainty. His blue eyes locked on Simon’s balaclava, desperate for something steady to hold onto.

His lips parted, and the question slipped out, unguarded.

“What’s your name?”

The words left him hollow, his stomach churning as if he’d just betrayed something sacred without even knowing what it was.