Simon "Ghost" Riley oneshots

Gone

The wind howled over the Scottish Highlands, a sharp, biting thing that cut through the silence. The sky stretched wide and gray, heavy with the weight of an impending storm. It was fitting, Ghost thought. The world should mourn him too.

Soap had always talked about home like it was something sacred. "Scotland’s got a soul, Ghost," he used to say, voice full of pride. "A proper one. Not like these places we get sent to, Scotland stays with you."

Now, Soap would stay here forever.

Ghost stood near the edge of the hill, watching as Gaz and Price each took a handful of the ashes. No words had been spoken for a long time. There wasn’t anything left to say.

The urn was passed to him, and for a moment, Ghost hesitated.

"You take the dark and carve me out a home..."

The war had never given him a place to belong. But somehow, Soap had made something out of the chaos, something steady, something Ghost had never dared to name.

And now, Ghost had to let him go.

He reached inside, fingers brushing against what was left of Johnny MacTavish. The fine powder clung to his gloves as he took a handful, his grip tightening slightly before he forced himself to move.

The wind caught the ashes as he released them, carrying them over the rolling hills, back to the land Soap had loved.

"I picture you when you are all alone..."

Ghost closed his eyes. He could still see him, Soap laughing after a mission gone right, teasing Ghost for being too brooding, nudging him with his shoulder like it meant something.

And it did.

It always had.

"I know how we got here... I know how we got here..."

They had walked the same path, shoulder to shoulder, through fire and blood. Soap had followed him into hell more times than Ghost could count.

This time, though, Soap had gone somewhere Ghost couldn’t follow.

"I am the shadow, you are the passenger..."

The wind grew harsher, howling around them like a living thing. Ghost barely felt it. His hand was still outstretched, fingers curled slightly, as if some part of him had wanted to hold on just a little longer.

"If you want to give, then give me all that you can give..."
"All your darkest impulses, and if..."
"You want to give me anything, then give..."

Soap had taken everything Ghost had been willing to give, had accepted him for what he was, flaws, silence, and all.

And Ghost? He had never said a damn thing about what that meant. Not until now.

His throat tightened.

Price stepped up beside him, clearing his own throat before speaking, voice rough. "He would've hated this part."

Gaz huffed a quiet laugh, the sound almost lost in the wind. "Yeah. Would’ve told us we were being too sentimental."

Ghost said nothing. Just stared at the place where Soap's ashes disappeared into the distance.

"I'll tear the fiber from the filament..."
"I'll be the limit of your light again..."

Ghost had never been one for faith. But standing here, looking out over the vastness of Scotland, he wished he could believe in something, anything, that told him Soap was still here.

Not just in memory. Not just in the past.

But here.

"I will be watching for your enemies..."
"To let them know that they contend with me..."

Ghost exhaled slowly, the cold air burning his lungs. He had made a promise, long before this moment, and he intended to keep it.

There was a man out there who had taken Johnny MacTavish from him.

And he would find him.

Makarov.

Price clapped a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, squeezing briefly before stepping away. Gaz followed, giving one last look at the hills before turning back toward the vehicles.

Ghost stayed behind for a few more moments, letting the wind whip around him, letting himself imagine Soap standing there beside him, arms crossed, shaking his head.

"I want to know you're out there..."
"I want to know you're out there..."

Ghost’s fingers twitched.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a ghost at all.

Just a man missing his best friend.