Chapter 3: Resistance

Note: Woot! Thank goodness for three day weekends. This chapter is admittedly darker than the others and includes a scene of attempted sexual assault– no nudity – but you've been warned. There's also another description of mild sexual assault in this chapter, but nothing unfamiliar if you've previously read the comic "Modern Warfare 2: Ghost."

Thanks to my readers and followers! I hope I'm doing justice to this epic pairing. The fact that this game is like SIX YEARS old and people are still following/reading/writing the fanfic is a testament to the epic, star-crossed romance between Ghost and Roach in MW2, haha.

Roach slept poorly that night. Between MacTavish's abrupt snores, the aching wound in his abdomen, and the vision of General Shepherd's cold stare as he held a gleaming silver magnum, the Task Force 141 sergeant had experienced far more restful evenings.

Roach laid with his back down on the cot, struggling for inner calm. He consciously drowned out the sounds of explosions, gunfire, and whirling helicopter blades and imagined a voice, working class yet dignified and confident, calling out to him, letting him know that he had to keep going, that he was still alive. He called upon his memories to will away the recollections of the chaotic suicide mission that was the breaching of Makarov's safe house, forced the images of debris and blood from his mind, choosing instead to conjure up strong, blue eyes; a crooked smirk wrapped around a cigarette; a broad and powerful body pulling him in close. In spite of the pain and trauma associated with the betrayal and the less than ideal situation the task force now found themselves in, Roach focused on his silver lining – Simon "Ghost" Riley.

Not that thinking of the man helped him fall asleep any faster than the thoughts of blood and near-death experience. Even with his tender, fresh wound and his aching sore muscles from the physical exertion of the past day, Roach could still discern the faint flip in his stomach associated with nervous anxiety, the kind that bubbled up when one was overwhelmed with life's unexpected excitement. Only this was the sort of excitement that Roach was actually eager for… the anticipation of knowing someone, liking them, and discovering that physical attraction was just the tip of the iceberg. He and Ghost were only just beginning to understand what it was exactly that they felt for one another. And it invigorated him. Roach imagined the ways in which their mutual desire for each other would grow, transforming into something neither of them realized they had previously lacked in their lives. He was caught up in fantasizing, imagined the feel of Simon's lips pressing into his own, the man's salacious tongue penetrating his mouth, prying him open and forcibly sucking away at his lips and tongue. The images flashed through his mind as he recalled Ghost's scent from earlier that evening – hints of musky sweat, gunpowder residue, dirt, cigarette smoke – all the things Roach was himself accustomed with in the line of duty that he found comforting, and envisioned Ghost's hands working down from his bare chest to undo his pants, grabbing at his erection –

Roach detected a rustling of thin sheets from Price who moved in the cot opposite him. Roach steadied his breathing – the fantasy had sped up his heartbeat. The imagery had momentarily transported him from reality, and as the dull pain shot back to his wounded side, he shifted his weight in the cot to be more comfortable. In the dim light provided by the lantern that glowed down the monastery's hall, Roach saw Price stand up and walk out of the sleeping quarters. Must be time for his watch.

He heard Price's footsteps echo down the hall followed by the murmuring of hushed voices. A brief pause, another exchange of whispers, and more footsteps sounded toward the direction of the sleeping quarters until Ghost's towering silhouette obscured the dim hallway lighting, his six-foot-two frame slouching to enter the small threshold. MacTavish was snoring, sound asleep, and Roach was tempted to do something to get Ghost's attention, but he hesitated knowing that it would seem childish and needy. Fuck, who am I kidding? 'Course I'm needy, how many times did I nearly die today? Still, don't want to tax Simon with my insecurities… besides, he's tired, needs his rest, and so do I…

Roach heard Ghost's bulking frame settle into a creaking cot, he rustled for a few seconds in the sheet and was silent. Roach willed his mind to focus on the black, quiet expanse of his eyelids… but before long the vignettes once again infiltrated his mind's eye. He momentarily felt as if he was falling…

"Good, that's one less loose end," General Shepherd's eyes narrowed, a silver magnum pointed at Roach's abdomen.

BAAAANG!

Gary was on the ground, unable to move. He blinked, trying to focus on shadowy movement.

A small, feminine figure stood over him, talking. A shining silver ring inside a black box was clutched in her hand, a small diamond sparkling in the light from the incandescent fireworks that blossomed in the sky.

"Happy New Year's! Happy 2007!" A crowd of voices shouted as the colorful explosions dazzled Gary. The figure stepped closer, sharpened into view. He was standing now and looking into hazel eyes in front of him.

"Oh Gary, I am really, truly sorry about this," her brow furrowed as she tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "But I can't – I am so sorry, but I can't marry you. I'm just too young, and we've never been with anyone else, I mean, since we were sixteen, Gary! I just think we should see other people now that we're in uni, you know?"

Before he could reply, just as tears began to brim his eyes, Gary was drifting, away from the spectacle, away from the first person he had ever loved –

"Man, you gonna hit some of this?"

Gary was lounging on the floor of a dingy flat. His mate tossed him a fat joint. Gary lit it up, casually, and let the drug work on him. He felt calm, confident… kind of horny.

"Hey Alex, those girls coming over from that load of crap psychology class?" Gary asked between drags, racked a hand through his shaggy hair.

"Nah, they bailed. Said they wanted to study," Alex stated, inhaling marijuana from a bong.

"Fuck man, I thought that Megan chick was into me," Gary moaned.

Alex shoved aside his bong and was beside Gary in moments. "So? I bet she's not the only one into you…" Alex wrapped an arm around Gary's shoulder, pressing the side of his body into his. Gary resisted for a few seconds, laughed nervously, thinking the drug had warped his friend's mind, but found himself give in as Alex's hand moved to inch forward until it reached under Gary's waistline, infiltrated his boxers, wrapped around his manhood… fuck, it actually felt good…

Gary opened his eyes, looked in Simon's shaded gaze, hard to interpret, and the other man backed away. A Russian woman was holding a gun at Gary's head as he lay on the floor, unable to move. Simon walked to stand beside her, dressed in combat fatigues.

The woman slowly placed the barrel of her pistol into Gary's mouth, who was still unable to move, fight, or resist in any capacity. He felt paralyzed, entirely at the whims of the female solider. He felt the cold tip of the business end press against his tongue, the metallic tang overwhelming his mouth as she forced the metal shaft into Gary. He looked up at Simon, eyes pleading, but the man did not acknowledge him, as if Gary was not even there nor being penetrated against his will in front of his lieutenant's eyes. Rather, Simon was no longer wearing his balaclava, his face encroaching upon the woman, who did not resist as Simon's lips met hers. She forced the gun deeper into Gary's throat as their kissing grew into a passionate fervor of lashing tongues and hair pulling –

"Sanderson?" A Scottish accent echoed in the chamber.

"Wha - ?" Roach startled, awake, but groggy, confused, head throbbing from restless sleep. The thin sheet clung to his body with sticky sweat. Somehow, he had managed to practically swaddle himself on the cot. He shifted, pain shooting up his side, to unravel himself.

"You alright? Looks like you might 'ave been dreamin', whatever it was, you didn't seem to particularly care for it," MacTavish expressed earnestly.

"Ye – Yeah, think so," Roach replied weakly as a flood of images surfaced almost all at once. It was difficult to separate his actual tired thinking from the full-on dreams – Well, with the exception of the part with the women and the gun rape… and Simon. That definitely was a dream. Fuck's sake, where do I come up with this shit?

"Thanks," Roach mumbled to his captain, physical shaking his head to shirk the dreams from his mind.

"No problem, mate. "Any case, Price says we ought to clean up your wound again. C'mon, I'll walk you over?" MacTavish offered.

Roach nodded, swung his feet over the edge of the cot. He winced, the pain stronger than last night. Hope Price has plenty of those pain meds… Roach blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the window-less chamber. All of the other cots were empty.

MacTavish braced Roach as he stood up and walked a few paces. After a few strides, Roach was able to walk on his own, albeit slowly, as they walked to the impromptu medical station. He was managing better than yesterday; just mostly weakened from lack of sustenance.

"Don't think I got 'round to tellin' you last night," MacTavish stated as they were halfway to their destination. "But I'm damn proud of you. Riley told us, Price and I, about the safe house op. He seemed impressed with the efficiency of your breaching and how you handled the assault –"

Roach sighed, not feeling deserving of the words, "You should be praising Lieutenant Riley. He's the reason I'm still here to begin with."

"Sanderson, let me finish, will you?" MacTavish chided with a slight chuckle. "I remember, what you told me before the op – hadn't seen you so nervous since you tested to make the one-four-one – you even had a hard time tryin' to understand what made Riley select you for the mission. Look Sanderson, he's always trusted your abilities, just as I have. You certainly proved yourself yesterday. Don't doubt it for a minute."

"He really said that, did he?" Roach queried, suppressing a smile.

"Aye, 'course he did! Said you acted with valor to succeed at the mission, demonstrated concern for your men," MacTavish nodded.

"We did have a talk, before the op," Roach admitted, kept his tone neutral. "It was apparent that I read into his behavior incorrectly… that I had taken his reprimands too personally."

"As I suspected," MacTavish said as they walked into the small chamber with the blanket-clad stone slab. "In any case, we're all glad you're safe, all things considerin'."

Price was preparing materials to clean Roach's wound, the unrested solider painfully aware of Ghost's absence. Roach was eager to see him, especially after the bizarre dream. MacTavish assisted Roach as they approached the slab, helped him sit down on the stone.

"Sleep alright?" Price asked as Roach settled into position.

"Not really… had rather odd dreams, to be honest," Roach confessed, looked up at Price, the gaze of the field captain fixated on the medical supplies in his hands.

"Prob'ly the meds, in addition to everything that's happened…" Price remarked. "Trauma enhanced by opiate, not always a pleasant concoction."

"I'll affirm that. Pain seems to be worse this morning though," Roach replied, glancing at Price whose gaze still avoided his own.

"I'll give you a pill after we've finished here, along with another antibiotic, but do eat something with it," Price said as he unraveled a fresh set of dressings.

"Where's our resident apparition this morning?" Roach asked with an emergent smirk, thinking himself clever. MacTavish snorted good-naturedly.

"Out. Doing recon," Price said.

"Shouldn't this place be safe?" Roach prodded.

"'Course its safe," Price grunted. "But one should never be too careful. Think I speak for us all when I say, I don't bloody trust Isayev… and with Makarov and Shepherd's men after us, who's to say she wouldn't sell us out, if it worked to her advantage?" Price started to undo the old bandages on Roach's wound, his brow furrowed in apparent concentration.

"That's my Captain," MacTavish stood with his arms crossed, standing beside Roach and Price by the slab. "The fact we even have this place to begin with…" Respect shinned in MacTavish's eyes.

"Never did trust Shepherd, Soap. And we can't get too comfortable here. They'll track us eventually," Price finished removing the last of the old, dark red dressings. He scrutinized the gunshot wound and dipped a cotton ball in antiseptic, "Healing well enough," He murmured to Roach, whose stomach quivered at the string.

"You ever trust anyone, Price?" MacTavish laughed half-heartedly, his face a serious contrast.

"I've trusted you lot," he looked at MacTavish, square in the eye, nodded and turned to acknowledge Roach with the same sincerity – the first time since Roach had entered the room. "That's why I expect us all to focus, put aside personal wants and desires, and bloody well focus."

Roach was taken aback by Price's words and the hard looked he offered before the field captain returned his attention back to the wound. MacTavish looked momentarily at Price and Roach with a mix of mild curiosity and surprise.

"Aye, that stands to reason…" MacTavish spoke, exchanged a questioning look with Roach, who uneasily turned his attention to the purplish-red wound on his abdomen. "Think the only thing we all want and desire right 'bout now is Makarov dead."

Price nodded as he prepared the new dressings and adhesive for Roach's wound, "I expect as much."

Roach looked at Price for further explanation, attempting to read the old soldier's expression for answer, but it revealed nothing. Why did he look at me, almost to imply I wasn't serious about completing the mission – about killing Mak?

Roach's lips parted, but his voice hesitated. He was in pain, sleep deprived, head throbbing, and not up to the task of deciphering Price's riddle. The last thing he wanted was passive-aggressive admonishment. Against better judgement, Roach forced his vocal cords to action.

"With respect, sir, do you mean to tell me I'm distracted? Perhaps you think it's the reason Shepherd shot me, is that I wasn't focused enough? That I could have prevented it had I been more alert?" Roach made a conscious effort to keep his voice steady, calm, but his tone betrayed himself, as an infusion of annoyance clung to the words, "I was nearly unconscious and deafened when Lieutenant Riley hauled me to the LZ –"

"Sanderson," It was MacTavish who interrupted, placed a hand gingerly on Roach's shoulder. "Don't misunderstand Price, he's just concerned for us, is all he means by it."

"No, Soap, Roach is right – no sense beating 'round the bush," Price sighed, finished patching Roach's wound. "Look, Sanderson, you lot are like sons to me, but you should know, the one-four-one isn't a damn boarding school, you catch my meaning?"

"Price, what exactly are you implying here?" MacTavish asked, his eyebrows raised in perplexity.

Roach was about to stammer something when Price replied, "He knows what I'm talkin' about," with a cool, neutral tone as he returned unused medical supplies in a pouch. Roach felt hot and uncomfortable as the eyes of both captains fell upon him.

Beaded sweat prickled at Roach's brow. Fuck, he suspects – or knows – about me and Simon.

"I'm not about to jeopardize a mission," Roach managed, attempted a convincing, respectful tone.

"If you'll forgive me, I'm still not followin'," MacTavish stood, crossing his arms, looked at Price. "Why would Roach put a mission at risk?"

"We're fighting a war here, we've no external military support; it's just too risky to screw up the chain o' command with two of our men in the sack together. Your sergeant and lieutenant here have grown intimate," Price's voice was quiet but stern as he fished an opioid and antibiotic from a small pill case. An uneasy silence fell across the stone room.

"I've said my piece," Price concluded, handed Roach the pills. "Soap, I'll be inspectin' and cleanin' the weaponry, and divvying up what ammo we've got." He turned on his heel and departed.

MacTavish looked at Roach, his eyes narrowed. Roach was dumbfounded by Price's words, but also vaguely astonished that the experienced solider had the perception to notice the burgeoning relationship between him and Ghost. Then again, perhaps we ought to have been more discrete.

Price had clearly observed their brief intimate exchange in the exact same room last night, and while Roach had thought they were alone at the time, it would have only taken Price several seconds of lingering in the hallway – to tie a bootlace, rummage through his supplies, or have a smoke – to overhear their conversation or to see their embrace as their lips met one another's.

"You're not denying it," MacTavish stated, sighing as the creasing around his eyes dissipated.

Roach wanted to stare at the pills in his hand, but consciously turned his gaze on his captain, "I'm not, sir."

"It's 2016 – the Ministry of Defense hasn't discriminated against sexual orientation since 2000. Price is of a different generation. Don't let it get to you. That said, given the chain of command, it does complicate somewhat…" MacTavish said, gaze transfixed on the wall behind Roach.

"Given your close proximity, I suppose I no longer have to concern myself with the quality of the rapport between my only surviving sergeant and lieutenant," MacTavish added, slowly turning his attention back to Roach, who was less embarrassed by Price's words and more disappointed at himself for betraying his captain's trust.

"Don't… look, it's not Lieutenant Riley's fault. I may have – I was the one who initiated the contact. Before the op on Makarov's safe house," Roach confessed, as it seemed the best course of action.

"Price is right, Sanderson. We do need to focus, our lives are on the line here… But, with Shepherd KIA, god rest his soul," MacTavish spat sarcastically, a grin lighting his features as if struck by a sudden epiphany, "And given the recent disavowal of the task force on the record, to hell with bloody protocol. As far as I'm concerned, there's no breach in the chain of command if it's not officially recognized by military institution. Carry on," MacTavish concluded, giving Roach a light pat on the shoulder.

Roach exhaled for what felt like the first time in minutes. He was actually elated, considering the circumstances, but still felt himself a sneak for his secrecy. "Sir, I do appreciate your support… but, I owe you an apology. I behaved selfishly and if the circumstances were otherwise, I'd expect a full dismissal."

"Aye, but the circumstances aren't otherwise," MacTavish said with a shrug, his tone neutral, a mix of pain and sympathy lining his faced.

Even Roach felt mixed emotions about the outcome. Sure, he could maintain his relationship – but at what cost? Most of the task force was KIA and the only survivors were currently on the run from the US Army and unwillingly in the service of an inscrutable Anti-Inner Circle movement, an organization perhaps no less radical than the cause it fought against. The only reason he could stay involved with Simon was because the task force was no longer officially recognized. It was bizarre, the entire turn of events, but at the very least, Roach was comforted knowing he would not face prosecution and that MacTavish offered his blessing. Bollocks, whatever Price thinks of me.

"I'll inform Price of my decision," MacTavish added. "He won't be happy with my leniency, I expect, but he'll respect that I've served and led the one-four-one longer than he has. He'll come 'round… you and Riley, just keep things discrete, eh? We don't want to give the old man a bloody heart attack," MacTavish finished with a raucous laugh.

"Sir, it's more than I deserve," Roach offered. I'm a proper shitbag. A damn lucky shitbag.

"We all deserve a little break right about now… c'mon, let's get you some chow."

…

Roach, with the assistance of MacTavish, seated himself in large room in the back of the ancient monastery. The makeshift dining area was sparsely furnished: a rickety old folding card table with four plastic chairs, boxes filled with MREs, an oil lamp, cases of reserve oil, and a cast iron wood stove that could supply heat in colder months and a cooking range. MacTavish had fished an MRE for Roach – classic spaghetti and meatballs – that Roach had decided to eat at room temperature. It tasted decent enough, as he took his time chewing his food, unsure what he would be capable of doing after he finished his meal. Not much in this condition.

MacTavish had joined Price several minutes ago to assist the older captain with weapon cleaning – And, probably to tell Price what he thought about the 'breach' in the chain of command. Not exactly a conversation I wanted to hear…

Roach slurped down the last mouthful of spaghetti, wondering what Ghost was up to, when he heard commotion from the front of the monastery. The wooden door slamming, boots falling across damp stone, voices booming down the narrow corridor.

"Price set himself up pretty good here, yah?" Roach recognized the distinct voice of Nikolai, the pilot friend of Price who had extracted the one-four-one from Rio. Damn good pilot at that, too. Roach vividly recalled his particularly desperate jump from the rooftops of the favela to the rope ladder dangling from Nikolai's copter when he was on the run from hostiles, knowing full well he would not have made the leap of faith if Nikolai was any less of an airman.

"It's bleedin' Buckingham Palace compared to the gulag we extracted him out of," Ghost barked with a laugh.

Roach heard more footsteps enter the hallway, Price and MacTavish. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood abruptly – the pain med had worked its magic – eager to greet the arrivals. It had only been several hours since he had last seen Ghost yet it felt agonizingly long since their lips had met and Simon's hand had caressed his cheek, his hair. Shit, perhaps Price was right about me losing focus.

Roach struggled to remember the last time he had felt simultaneously nervous, excited, and comforted by the mere thought of someone else's presence. After everything they had endured in the last forty-eight hours – from their reciprocal masturbation to the attack on Makarov's estate and surviving Shepherd's betrayal – he was more drawn to the man more than ever. But I gotta keep my cool about this, we're still in a world of shit, on most accounts.

Roach worked his way slowly to the hall entrance, saw the backs of Price and MacTavish greeting Ghost and Nikolai in the small foyer. He limped slightly as he moved forward, but otherwise felt good – the sight of Ghost perhaps another form of treatment.

MacTavish turned around abruptly, "Oi! You getting 'round okay on your own?"

"I got this," Roach shouted to the captain from the opposite end. He continued walking, thinking about when he and Ghost would have another opportunity alone rather than the ensuing conversation. MacTavish clasped his shoulder as he joined the group.

"Nikolai, you remember Roach?" MacTavish asked the broad Russian.

"Da, how could I forget – I've seen many close calls in my line of work, but nothing quite like Rio! Good to see you again, comrade," Nikolai greeted him.

"Thanks, man, we've certainly less shit to worry about with you around," Roach offered a sincere handshake, felt the Russian's firm grip and calloused hand. Nikolai was dependable, a good ally, and while Roach felt more than a little awkward around Price, he was genuinely grateful for the man's ability to make valuable and trustworthy connections.

"I heard you took a bullet courtesy of that bastard American general," Nikolai stated, looking impressed as he released the handshake.

"That I did," Roach gingerly slid the hemline of his tank top upward, revealed his covered wound to the audience.

"Sanderson," Ghost offered a curt nod. "Your condition has improved?"

"Yeah, Price here's done wonders," Roach nodded to Ghost, who was donned in his usual fatigues paired with the skull balaclava and dark sunglasses, rendering the man unreadable.

"That's the opiate talking, lad," Price chucked dryly – perhaps more dry than his usual tone. "Riley, Nikolai – you hungry? Been a long day, we've MREs in the back."

"Thank you, Price," Nikolai lifted two oversized duffle bags off the floor. "I also bring supplies with me, more ammo, instant coffee, toiletries… good vodka."

"Good, spot any sign of trouble on your way over here?" Price asked as the group of men lugged down the passageway.

"Negative," Ghost stated. "Did a sweep this mornin' of the perimeter and met up with Nikolai roughly six klicks west of our hideout, no sign of activity in the area. I'll do another sweep in a few hours."

"I'll do the sweep at dusk," MacTavish intervened. "Did you even manage three hours o' sleep last night? You rest… or you know, look after our wounded warrior." MacTavish flashed Roach the briefest of knowing glances. "Price, you able to cover me out there?"

Price hesitated a fraction of a second, then turned his head towards MacTavish, "Always, Soap."

…

"Isayev told us forty-eight hours. It's already been a day. We should expect her company 'round nightfall tomorrow," MacTavish explained.

"That name mean anythin' to you, Nikolai? Natalia Isayev?" Priced asked. "Calls herself commander of some rubbish Anti-Inner Circle Movement, still Ultranationalists, of course."

"Ah, yes, that name I know. It's said she might be a bastard of President Vorshevsky's," Nikolai stated.

"Interesting. Perhaps her ties to him are funding her operations," Price mused.

"Good call, Price," MacTavish nodded. "We'll have to see about using that knowledge to our advantage somehow. Alright, we'll contact you lot should we spot anything," MacTavish brandished an old walkie-talkie provided by Nikolai's supply run. "Obviously too risky to depend on our old task-force frequency."

"You lads get some shut eye. Someone's gotta keep watch, and we ought to station a man on the roof for better coverage. Work in shifts," Price suggested. Within the dorms there was a passage with a narrow staircase that led to a small lavatory followed by another set of stairs that gave access to the steeped roof at the front of the monastery. MacTavish and Price turned towards the main entrance, weapons and ammo slung across their tactical vests.

Roach saw the two captains depart at the end of the hall, the bright, reddish glow from the setting sun engulfed their silhouettes as they passed through the threshold into the wilderness.

"You know what make watch better?" Nikolai rummaged through one of his large duffle bags and proffered three flasks. "It strong, but we just drink a little," he chuckled.

"You two enjoy," Ghost stood, already turning toward the monastery entrance where Price and MacTavish had recently departed. "I'll keep a look out."

Nikolai took a large swig from a flask, "Okay, but later you will try," he winked at Roach.

"Riley," Roach called. "You sure you don't want one of us to be on watch with you?"

"Rest up, Sanderson, your body needs to heal," Ghost replied as he marched his way to the dormitory, the smaller his figure in Roach's line of sight, the stronger his loneliness felt. He knew he could hardly take it personally – a mission was a mission – but it seemed the recent near-death experiences had exacerbated Roach's desires to seize the moments of opportunity. Perhaps he would go to bed soon and see Ghost later in the dorms, once Price and MacTavish returned from their sweep…

"He is right," Nikolai extended a flask toward Roach. "Have a little, rest will come easy."

Roach knew it was fool proof – he had always been a bit of a light-weight when it came to drinking, and it was more typical of him to feel sleepy rather than buzzed after drinking a single beer. Roach clasped the flask, knocked back a gulp of the fiery substance that burned his throat.

"Whoa," Roach blinked, his eyes watering. "That's strong, mate."

Nikolai barked a laugh, "I told you. Take another swig and wait a few minutes."

Roach did as instructed and Nikolai produced a deck of cards. His throat burned again momentarily but it was less intense this time. He felt a warm ember in the pit of his stomach, as if a furnace burned slowly from within. The Russian began teaching him to play a card game, but Roach was more or less just following his commands rather than comprehending the actual instructions, his mind dulled as the heat from within spread outward and reached his extremities. Nikolai appeared to be winning with a strong hand and growing stack of cards as Roach's eyes began to droop, his own hand impossible to read through the slits of his vision.

"Let's get you to the dormitory, yah?" A strong voice chuckled.

"I'm knackered," Roach managed, vaguely recalling that he now had alcohol and opium in his system as Nikolai guided him to the sleeping quarters. He released the bulking frame of the Russian as he settled into the cot in the dark room, eye lids heavy with exhaustion.

…

Roach's bladder throbbed as his eyes opened into darkness. No weird dreams this time, thank god. He had an aching piss to relieve but waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. He heard the voices of Nikolai and MacTavish in the dining hall, the glow of a lantern illuminating the hall.

Roach ascended the small, narrow staircase at the back of the sleeping quarters that led to the latrine. The toilet was essentially a simple, weathered dark hole in the middle of the room, carved out of the stone floor. Roach suspected the hole led down into the sediment, perhaps to a natural cavern that would eventually flush away the waste. Thankfully, the depth of the hole and a narrow window carved from the wall allowed enough breeze to keep away any stench.

Roach was buttoning his boxer shorts when he detected movement from the lower staircase, the scape of a heavy combat boot on weathered stone.

"Sanderson?" It was Ghost's voice, sounding ragged and tired.

"I'm here," Roach breathed, his stomach flipping with nerves. He heard the subtle murmuring of conversation from the dining room below through the stone, the quiet sound of insects singing through the night of the open window as a warm breeze tickled his face. Suddenly, Roach's world felt safer, the ambiance of the evening soothing – and, finally, he had his moment alone with Simon.

Ghost's boots crushed loose gravel upon the stone floor as he approached Roach. The slim light of the moon and stars shinning in through the narrow window revealed Ghost's pale human face in the surrounding darkness. Roach stood, waited for Ghost to say or do something. The man had been noticeably distant throughout the day, although Roach had understandingly attributed his behavior to the gravity of their present situation. He thought about the conversation that occurred earlier with Price and wondered if the older captain had made similar comments to Ghost.

"Price knows… about us," Roach said when Ghost failed to speak. "But MacTavish told him off, said it doesn't matter now that the task force is disavowed."

"Aye," Ghost murmured, his arms wrapped roughly around the narrowest section of Roach's waist, making contact with his still tender wound.

Roach responded with a wet hiss as pain coursed through his side. "Easy," he managed a weak laugh, feeling the heat of the other man's body through their layers of fabric. Roach placed his hands on Ghost's lower back and began to needle his fingers into his spine. It felt good to have him close, to feel his flesh and bone. Roach sighed, letting himself melt into the other man's contours.

"What?" Ghost responded with a dark chuckle, pulled Roach in tighter with the fabric of his tank top. At the same time Roach smelled vodka on Ghost's heavy breath – before he could register the movement – Ghost grabbed and twisted Roach's arms behind his back, turning him to face the stone wall, shoving Roach forward, until his chest made contact with the wall and the side of his face was crushed uncomfortably upon the stone. The wind knocked out of him, he struggled for air, to voice a protest –

"Aren't you a bender?" Ghost grinded his pelvis against Roach's rear, accompanied by the sound of rustling fabric as Ghost's pants rubbed across Roach's boxer shorts. Although he remained mostly clothed, Roach felt nothing short of violated as the other man pinned his body against the wall, dry humping his ass. The pain in his side intensified as the other man's weight leaned against him, but was to be outdone by the despair Roach felt, realizing that Ghost was intoxicated.

"You're acting like a proper wanker, you know that?" Roach hissed at the wall, feeling his skin scratch into the rough stone. "You're drunk, you arse!"

"Don't fuck with me, Sanderson," Ghost breathed hot and quiet into his ear. "You're the one who wanted to be fucked by me, remember?" His grip tightened around Roach's arms, which he also forced back against the wall. Roach felt fresh scrapes cut across his hands and arms but failed to register any physical pain, too confused and emotionally wounded by Ghost's drunken display of aggression and power.

"Price said something to you, about us, didn't he?" Roach sputtered. "Find it damaging to your precious masculinity complex?"

Ghost barked a rough, forced laugh as he shoved Roach's frame closer against the wall, "That your fancy education talkin'? 'Masculinity complex'?" He mocked Roach's word-choice with a faux posh accent.

"Bugger off, I dropped out of uni before I even got my degree –, " Roach paused, recalling that Ghost was from a blue collar background, having overheard once that he was some type of apprentice before he enlisted.

For fuck's sake, Simon's actually insecure… about himself, about us. Hell, he assumed Ghost likely had never experienced intercourse with a man before, yet alone emotional attachment. Now that their affair had essentially 'gone public' it was bound to cause mixed feelings in the closed-off, private man who self-selected the call sign Ghost as if to signify the intangible workings of his inner psyche. It was a damn delicate situation and Roach was severely underpowered in both strength and strategy. He had never seen Ghost so strongly under the influence before. Not that he felt pity for him; Roach was actually rather disgusted at his behavior. There was no point in trying to reason with a drunkard.

Ghost replied to Roach's remark with another shove into the wall; he felt warm liquid trickle from his brow down his cheek. He could yell for help, the monastery was small enough that someone ought to hear him, but given Ghost's impaired judgement it seemed unwise to cause a big scene and involve the others. Alright, I gotta get his guard down, wait for the right moment. Roach whimpered, allowing himself to show his vulnerability.

"Do… whatever it is that you want," Roach panted. He sensed Ghost bristle, as if the man had expected something else entirely, felt the very second Ghost's firm grip slacked on his hands and his body released a fraction of the pressure he was exerting on Roach's build –

Roach lifted his left leg, extending it back behind him and off to Ghost's side, and swung it back forward, his foot finding impact with the backside of Ghost's knee with all the strength and anger he could muster. It was enough force to topple Ghost to his knee, and while he collided with Roach on the way down, he was too inebriated to catch himself from falling to the ground. Roach landed another kick to Ghost's side, just enough to ensure the other man would be too impaired to catch him, and jumped aside to freedom.

Ghost groaned slightly on the ground and started to dry-heave. Roach stood back and watched apprehensively from the stairway. After a few seconds, liquid gushed from Ghost's mouth onto the floor.

"You ought to feel like shite," Roach spat, rather feeling like it himself.

He heard boots from the above stairwell that led to the roof. Price entered the lavatory, looked at Roach at the opposite end of the room, "I heard commotion, you alright?"

Before Roach responded, Ghost retched a second time, with less substance and more heaving. Price looked in the direction of the noise and spotted Ghost on the floor, practically lying in his own vomit.

"Good lord, that you Riley?" He asked.

"Seems to be Riley had a tad too much fun," Roach shrugged. "I was asleep when I heard him groaning, ran up from the dorms, which is probably what you heard…" He knew he did not have to protect Ghost. The man had just assaulted him – no other way about it – but with Price already on edge about Makarov and Isayev, he thought it best to deal with Ghost directly.

"Let's bring him down to a cot, shall we? He's 'bout to pass out," Price suggested. Roach and Price hefted Ghost off the floor, each supporting him around a shoulder, walked him down to the dormitory. His feet dragged and the man failed to protest or even fully register the presence of Price and Roach.

"I'll fetch him some water, should he wake up. Is it Nikolai's time for watch? Might I get him for you, sir?" Roach asked.

"I've about thirty more minutes, just remind him for me, would you? And if you see him beating the goat like this tosser, you've permission to slap some sense into him on my account," Price remarked as he ascended the stairs and returned to the rooftop.

Roach turned to leave Ghost, hobbled to the dining area as he heard MacTavish's and Nikolai's boisterous laughter echoing down the hall. He did his best to compose himself; he was rightfully fuming at Ghost, but knew the best thing for him was to sober up as soon as possible. It would, at the least, make the duration of the evening more bearable.

"There a canteen filled with water?" Roach asked as he passed the threshold.

"Oi, Roach! Allow us to toast to your health!" MacTavish beamed, brandishing a flask in the air.

"Nah, just water, thanks," Roach spotted a canteen among some tactical gear and picked it up. He momentarily contemplated asking MacTavish to attend to Ghost, but thought against it. And let Ghost think I'm some kind of wimp? Convince him that his power display actually worked? Because it didn't.

"Oh, Nikolai – Price says you're to take over in thirty minutes, sound good?" Roach looked back before leaving down the hall.

"Dah, no problem. On second thought, water sounds good, my friend!" Nikolai flashed a smile, then offered a puzzled look. "You okay – you have blood on your head."

Roach gingerly touched the area around his temple, felt the sticky wetness congealing around a scrape.

"Oh yeah, thanks for asking," Roach quickly racked his brain. "Think I had a bug bite and scratched too hard in my sleep."

"Night, Sanderson," MacTavish called. Roach offered a wave and returned to the dormitory.

Ghost was snoring when Roach entered the room. He placed a canteen on the floor next to the cot, settled into his own bed, focusing on rest that evaded him. He heard Nikolai and MacTavish shuffle into the room sometime later, followed by Nikolai's stomping boots on the stairs to the roof to take over for Price as MacTavish's body creaked into a cot for sleep. Price was heard next, deftly descending the stairs with barely a sound, followed by the soft sigh of exhaustion as he settled in the last remaining makeshift bed. Still, sleep alluded Roach, even as he fought against the image of Simon forcing himself upon him, hearing his crude language and mockery, the stench of puke and piss as he carried the drunk down the stairs…

Roach's eyelids flickered open into the dim room illuminated by soft gray that infiltrated the small gaps in the ancient masonry. Nikolai slept where Ghost had previously laid, and MacTavish snored gently in the same cot. Price's bed was empty and Roach listened for signs of movement. He faintly heard the soft clicking of metal objects and figured Price was likely prepping ammunitions in the storeroom. And Ghost was most likely on the roof keeping watch, and as disappointed Price had been about him last night, Roach was certain that the old captain had refrained from any leniency this morning.

Figuring Ghost had now sobered up from sleep and digesting the alcohol, Roach determined he should confront him now rather than later. Most of the squad was still sleeping and since Roach needed this conversation, he much preferred to have it privately than with an audience. He spotted the canteen on the floor next to the cot, scooped it up, and quietly ascended the stairs to the roof. His wound twanged uncomfortably, but he decided on medicating later when he had time for chow. Crossing the threshold onto the roof, Roach was stunned by the natural beauty of the view. Even in the dim morning light, he saw the rolling, verdant hills and rocky outcroppings, breathtaking from the elevated perspective, the fresh air upon the wind invigorating.

In the center of the monastery's roof was a small, cylindrical turret-shaped room with several open archways that faced outward in each direction. It reminded Roach of an open-air gazebo placed on top of the roof, only far more elegant and aged than any structure found in the modern age. It provided a near three-hundred-sixty degree view of the landscape while the arches and steeped roof provided enough covering for surveillance. It was in this structure that he saw a large silhouette crouched to the side of an opening of a stone archway, shoulders slumped as it stared into the horizon. Roach placed the canteen beside the silent figure.

"Drink. Its water," Roach stated, crouching beside Ghost, his pale face shinning in the rising sun.

Ghost twisted the cap off, took a large swig; practically inhaled the water. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he lowered the canteen. "I do feel like shite… I am an arse. And a wanker. I'm all of those bloody miserable things."

"Is that your way of absolving your behavior, self-flagellation?" Roach asked.

No," Ghost set the canteen aside, rubbed his eyes with his palms. "It's not enough to excuse what I did… it's been a while since I 'self-medicated,' and it got outta hand." Ghost stopped rubbing his face; looked at Roach in the eye. "You didn't deserve that."

"I get it, there's a lot of shit going on… on top of trying to sort out, well, what we've felt. But you are an arse on the bottle," Roach said dryly. "It's like you had something to prove."

Ghost took another deep swig of water, set the canteen down, and returned his gaze out on the horizon. A long silence followed. "Get that from my lovely father, the drinkin' and all that."

"And where do you get the self-deprecation from, your mum?" Roach asked, more than a little sarcastic.

"Must be. She let my father walk all over her," Ghost replied slowly. Admittedly, Roach had not anticipated Ghost's honesty on the subject.

Roach nodded gently as it dawned on him how little he actually knew about the man he had come to care so deeply about, and realized how much of his own feelings for Simon were perhaps more about himself projecting what he wanted onto his lieutenant.

It's not like I've seen his true colors or something, I know I've done things I've come to regret from drinking – not that I've forgiven him, exactly – but I've seen it bring out the worst in others. Still, it's like he was telling me that night before the safe house op – there's a whole other side to Simon, a dark one, he's trying to suppress. What did he say, exactly?

"… My fucked up past will always haunt me." Ghost's words rang in his mind.

The lieutenant's gaze stared off into the rolling hills, occasionally peered through a pair of binoculars.

"They're all dead, Sanderson. Every last one of them. My mum, my little brother Tommy… my nephew, even my bastard father. I like to think I died along with 'em, but part o' me was honestly dead before that, thanks to my father's care," Ghost spat. "What I did last night… I remember enough to know I fucked up. And it's no bloody excuse to piss and moan about my past. But the alcohol intensified ev'rythin', instead of easin' it, brought up shit I hadn't thought up in years."

Just how dark is his past?

"Did your father… did he ever abuse you?" Roach asked quietly. Roach recalled last night, thought that Ghost's attempted domination of Roach was more an expression of power than it was about sexual gratification. It seemed consistent with what little he had read on the subject of sexual abuse from his university psychology course.

"Abuse, yes. Sexual? No," Ghost continued his surveillance through the binoculars, his tone uncharacteristically light as if commenting on the weather patterns. There was another stretch of silence before Ghost continued.

"There was an op in Mexico, and things went to hell fast 'cause the commanding officer was in the pocket of the drug lord my team was sent to kill. I was captured by the drug lord, Roba, tortured… assaulted, I suppose…"

"You suppose?" Roach asked. "What happened?"

Ghost sighed and Roach sensed aggravation. "What does it matter?"

"It matters because, if last night is any indication…" Roach chose his words carefully, wanted Ghost to open up, "You're still struggling with how to process whatever happened. And you tried to nullify that abuse by taking it out on me, because I don't think you've even yet come to terms with… well, what we've shared."

Ghost snapped his attention back to Roach, dropping the binoculars to the floor, "Would you stop with the bloody euphemisms? We wanked off, doesn't mean I'm a pillow biter," he snarled.

"For fuck's sake, never mind. You've been hot and cold ever since that glorious wank," Roach's agitation with Ghost flared. He was being downright offensive and all Roach wanted was to help him. "And it was glorious, you know it, but it also bothers you – you need to get over yourself."

Ghost's blue eyes narrowed into slits, rage flared his nostrils, distorting his face into something monstrous. "You think you'd have an easy time 'gettin' over yourself' once you've been stripped down to nothing, a strange woman forced on you, her sexuality used as coercion when you've been starved, sleep deprived, denied the most basic comforts?" Ghost's anger was quiet, simmering, dangerous; his hot breath rushed over Roach's face as the man inched closer. "Do you know what it's like, to wake up in a prison cell, mostly naked, with some sick fuck lickin' your face? Only for you to imagine what he must have done while you were unconscious in that shithole?"

Roach was dumbfounded as he processed the images Ghost described. Shit. He had no idea on the extent of Ghost's psychological damage. With this revelation, Ghost's confusion surrounding their relationship was deeper than just any confliction with his sexuality or the disruption it presented in the military chain of command. Ghost had endured sexual abuse and likely struggled to recognize genuine love and affection.

Ghost's faced gradually settled back into an uneasy neutral expression as he backed down on Roach. He picked up the binoculars, scanned the horizon. "In any case, it doesn't excuse me for drinkin' and acting like an arse. You have my apology, as I expect that's what you're here for."

Roach was offended once more, believing he had his fill of the lieutenant for the morning, but remained concerned, wanting to help, "Don't be thick. Not here for an apology, so don't offer it; I'm here for you. Come to me if you want to talk instead of finding comfort in some disgusting drink. If not, I wouldn't hold back on the kicking should I find you drunk again."

"Appreciated," Ghost grunted into the binoculars.

Roach stood up to leave. "You haven't mentioned this to many people, have you?"

"Not a single soul, until now," Ghost murmured.

Roach left Ghost to his watch, not feeling much better than when he initially awoke. Yet he gained more insight on the inner turmoil of Ghost and realized it must have taken him a great deal of trust to confide in Roach about his past. Ghost's complete trust and honesty would have to be earned but, at the very least, Roach sensed the foundation was established.

Note: And any case anyone's wondering, you will not see Yuri in this story. Sorry to any Yuri fans, but I find him too convenient and rather boring.