thinkin about how soap, who grew up a devout catholic, may have felt when he arrived at the church in las almas. he’s halfway to death’s door, committed more sins tonight alone than most do in a lifetime. there’s blood on his hands and only some of it is his own. he can see ghost, his savior, through the gates, and he thinks there’s probably a metaphor there, but he’s too hopped up on adrenaline and blood loss to think about it. for a moment he feels like a kid again, except instead of praying for good grades or sisters that don’t make fun of him, he’s praying that he makes it out of there alive.
then ghost vaults himself over the gate like a fucking cat, and they’re moving again. soap feels a bullet graze himself somewhere but he barely even registers it. he wishes he had had time to go inside the church. he hadn’t been in years- his prayers had long since been confined to his shitty bed in the barracks.
ghost is yanking him by the wrist to cover and it feels like holding hands to say grace over dinner.