Title: Raise Your Weapon
Author: diayang
Rating: K+
Pairing: Implied Soap/Ghost/Roach, aka the (un)holy trinity.
Summary: "Sign away our peace, for your war."
Disclaimer: Call of Duty:Modern Warfare 2 (c) Infinity Ward
A/N: Drabbled to 'Raise Your Weapon' by Deadmau5. I sincerely doubt any of you aren't already aware of what happens in Loose Ends(Shepherd you absolute cock,) but in the event you aren't - spoilers, feel free to close out.
The sound of that laugh, soft and easy, was painfully familiar, turning and tumbling in his ears like the liquid sound of water. A dim memory, voices rising to surround him in familiarity, pull him back into dreaming of bygone days. And suddenly, like a rubberband snapping into a temporary rightness, he was back, back with them, the annoying insolence of his XO a welcome thorn in his side, the FNG's light chatter a balm for his nerves, the press of bodies, the presence of life.
In that instant, he never wanted to leave. It was Roach's easy laugh in his inner ear, Worm's stupid jokes, Archer's stolid presence, Ghost's crackling aura, electric when they moved. It was the heat in the favela and the chill of the mountains. It was Toad boasting and Chemo grumbling, Meat being a daft nutter with his impeccably bad timing, it was him walking in on a drinking party and wondering aloud about the loss of his invitation, it was them... it was the 141 come back to life. It was Price flanking him, and Gaz ahead of him. It was...
"But there's always gonna be another FNG, sir," Roach laughed, goggles down around his neck and eyes disarmingly clear, despite the imagined spatters of blood that crossed his side, the torn vest. "Seriously, don't worry 'bout us, you know we're always gonna be here for you."
"It'd never be the same," he murmured. "It wouldn't be you, with your ridiculous inability to jump, you fuckin' Roach. Fuckin' had to save yer arse from getting smashed to bits at the bottom of an ice cliff."
The same way he'd been rescued from a watery grave, Price's grip unrelenting. The entire ride back he'd wondered if it was simply because he'd been holding the manifest.
It hadn't been.
"He'd bloody well have spread his wings and flown, Soap, or did you forget that?"
You couldn't kill a ghost. You couldn't kill what was dead. But Riley, Riley was steadfast and dependable and only all too human underneath the exemplary nature of what he was - a soldier, a damned good soldier. His executive officer.
His.
"Don't you worry about the what-ifs, Soap," he spoke up again, neatly heading off the captain's thoughts, making him blink. It seemed they were both there, by his side, at ease. Or it might have simply been a trick of the light. "Got bigger things to worry about now. We'll be right, won't we, eh Roach?"
"That's 'cuz we got us, me 'n Ghost and the others. Sure we'll be right, 'least 'till you get us lost again, Master Navigator Riley," the FNG teased, earning himself a smack from the lieutenant. Roach twisted and dodged, dredging up a reluctant smile from Soap.
"But - "
"No 'buts'," Riley said softly. Under the cracked lenses of his shades, his eyes were the keenest, sharpest blue, pale and deadly, and only barely softened around the edges with a smile. "No more buts. No more regrets, John. What's done is done."
"You both - still out there," Soap rasped out, chest twisting. "I should - "
"Sorry, sir, but we'd be a little bit hard to find," Roach said ruefully. "Shepherd's a fuckin' bastard."
"Gary and I will be fine."
Were they standing together? He didn't know. But they'd been buried together. A shallow grave and a fire, left for the wild elements. Where was the rest for them, the dignity they should've had? Soap had no answers, for once.
"Shepherd's gone, just so you boys know," he breathed out, surprised at the jagged edge of betrayal still present in his tone. "He was whaling on Price. I had a knife in my chest, used that... got him, right through the eye, sweet as you please."
Gary's whistle of appreciation echoed in his ears, and Simon chuckled with a deep, dark pleasure.
"Nice work. Very nice."
"No shit, sir. Would've liked to be there myself."
"Don't apologise, John," came the sudden whisper, a touch of lips at his ear. He could only stare at the ceiling, at the faint, faded afterimage of Ghost, without his balaclava for once, his face sharply angled and scarred, keen and beautiful as a naked knife blade. "There's no need to."
"Yeah. Look, we'll see you on the other side. Get those fuckers good for us, sir."
Get those fuckers good, for us, sir. Get those...
The world snapped back into its rightful place. But as John stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the moonlight, skin still tingling from phantom touches, it could only be deeply and utterly wrong without his men.