Slowest Heart

Chapter 1

November 5th, 2022.

The world ends with a dull roar--no sound and fury in the theater of war, but a shuddering silence at home. It rises to greet them as they return to their respective home fronts, a stark contrast to what they were used to. There are a scattering of reports on the flight back to Stirling Lines in Hereford, but it doesn't feel that much different than 2 years ago, when the whole damn world shuddered to a stop for a time. They assume it's more of that, more of the same, and maybe just like before it will afford them a rest.

But, something feels off once they hit the tarmac. There's barely a soul around to guide the helicopter back to rest on solid ground. Nikolai seems unsettled by it, and this time only stays long enough for the boys to gather their gear before he takes to the air again for sights unseen, wherever it is he calls home. Maybe Price will tell them one day.

There are a lot of maybe's in this new Task Force, a lot of opportunity to make a real difference. If not for clouds on the horizon, those maybes could have been something truly important. Right now, they still have hope in more of the change they made-in Mexico and Chicago, specifically. Lives saved, big damn heroes.

Even Ghost feels lighter for the first time in recent memory.

Gear slung across his broad back, he watches as Price wanders in the direction of Command, intent on filtering all of the bullshit they've been through in the past few weeks into a concise report. Gaz trails along with him, to help or to bother, it doesn't really matter. They've all bonded as soldiers and friends under the din of bullet fire.

Dully, Ghost notices a presence still at his side.

"That all you got, LT?" Soap's voice isn't quite the same as it's been in his ear for days now. Thick with exhaustion now that they're finally safe.

"Were you expecting luggage?" He glances at Soap briefly, not surprised to find him directly in his personal space. Even as he starts off toward parking, the Sergeant keeps in step beside him.

"It's not that, just-" A half-step faster as he talks. It didn't take long for him to get used to Ghost's long strides, maybe a day of following him across Mexico. Back at home he follows along almost like a loyal pet-or a lovesick teen. Ghost suppresses a smirk at that thought, even under the mask. "No souvenirs? We had time."

"Didn't think it was tactically advisable to stop in a corner store for an "I heart Chicago" shirt," Ghost knows that's not what Soap means, and it's not that.

"Very funny, sir," Soap makes a noise that's halfway between a laugh and a groan, which is at least what Ghost was looking for. "You just strike me as a trophy sort of guy, that's all."

A muffled grunt is all of a response Soap gets to that. Granted, he does have it right, but the sort of trophies Ghost collects are personal. For him, not to show off. Things that mean the job was worth doing.

At his side, Ghost hears the rip of velcro and rustling, followed by Soap shoving his arm in Ghost's narrow field of view. In his grasp is something small, metal fragments in a plastic bag. Tinged slightly red and--oh.

"You pick those out of your damn shoulder, Johnny?" Ghost slows a step to watch as Soap pulls his collected bullet fragments back, looking them over with an expression Ghost would almost describe as fond.

"When I had a couple minutes, yeah. Hurt like hell, but I did a decent job." He tucks them back into one of his vest pouches and, ah, the expression is pride. It's subtle, but he's proud of himself.

"Going to turn them in and ask for a medal, then?" This time, he isn't able to suppress the smirk under his mask. Ghost just hopes Soap doesn't hear it in his voice.