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Ghost knew which floorboards were the creaky ones in the barracks. He avoided all six of them as he made his way from his room to the kitchen. It was late enough that the lights were dim. Everyone else was asleep, but he preferred it that way.
The kitchen lights came on with a click when he stepped over the threshold, illuminating the small space. It was barely big enough for two counters crammed beside a rusting oven and a fridge that had duct tape running up the side, but it was good enough for Ghost to make a cup of tea.
He gathered the kettle and the tea with silent, nimble fingers, barely needing to watch what he was doing. The oven, like the lights, clicked when he turned the burner on, and once the kettle was steady beside him he leaned against the countertop.
The barracks were quiet. Ghost was silent, too, alone with the breath in his mask and the kettle. It was just how he liked it—silent, still, alone. As much as he loved the heat of battle, this was where he felt the most peace.
That was, until a shiver ran through his body, making his shoulders twitch and his teeth tap together.
Ghost swore, crossing his arms so he could tuck his bare hands into his armpits. It had been a week since he’d gotten hypothermia from a frozen Russian river, and although he’d kept all his fingers and toes, the tremors still caught him off guard every now and then.
He waited to see if another shiver would come. He probably looked ridiculous—hooded, masked, wearing black from head to toe even if it was only sweats and a hoodie, and hunched over to protect himself from the cold. The entire thing was ridiculous—enough that he didn’t even think about getting hypothermia. It was too embarrassing. Soap had had to undress them both, and sleep lying on top of Ghost the entire night—
Ghost scowled at nothing, twisting to open a cupboard and pull out his favorite mug. It was a chipped white cup. A cartoon tea bag was printed on the front, over the word You’re Tea-riffic. Ghost didn’t know where the mug had come from and he didn’t care to ask.
He shivered again as he set it gently on the counter. Maybe he should have put on a bigger sweatshirt—but if anyone saw him wrapped in layers, drinking tea in the middle of the night, he would never live it down. The only reason he was living down having hypothermia in the first place was because Soap was the only one who had seen him, and Soap wasn’t the type of person to rat Ghost out.
Settling back against the counter, Ghost flexed his right hand. A scar stretched across the back of it, even paler than the rest of his skin. It surprised him whenever he saw it, because he forgot it was there. The only other person who had seen it—well, he hadn’t really looked at it, had he. Soap had trailed his fingers over the mark, his touch so light it made Ghost want to simultaneously shove him away and clutch him closer.
It scared Ghost. It scared Ghost that in the week since they’d left that little shack in the middle of nowhere, Ghost had dreamt of that night four times. Once was a nightmare—he’d been alone in the shack, shivering so hard he couldn’t see, and Soap was nowhere to be found. Twice it had been nothing more than the memory of how Soap had felt, his body pressed to Ghost’s, warmth seeping off him. The third time—the third time it hadn’t been a nightmare, nor had it been true. Ghost had woken up panting and hot, his sweats tight, and he hadn’t been able to look at Soap in the eye for the entire day.
He didn’t think about it. He definitely didn’t stare at the scar on the back of his hand and ache at the memory. That would be—that would be—
“Bloody hell,” Ghost muttered as the kettle started to whistle. He turned again and busied himself with the tea.
Alright, fine. He’d felt weird ever since that night—not just because he’d had a dirty dream about one of his closest friends. It was a weird that caught him in the middle of the night, when he’d roll on his side and stare at the empty half of his bed. Or during meals, when the others would lean out of their way to avoid brushing elbows with Ghost.
Ghost sighed into the silent kitchen and boosted himself up to sit on the counter, cradling the mug in his hands. It was warm on his palm as he used one hand to lift the bottom of his mask up to his nose, leaving his mouth free to sip the drink.
He felt the heat roll through his body when he swallowed, a pleasant defense against the chills that wracked him every now and then. There was nothing better than this—a cup of tea on a cold night. And if Ghost was avoiding sleep because he was worried he’d have one of those dreams again—well, that was no one’s business but his own.
He heard one of the floorboards in the hallway creak a few minutes later, the telltale sign of someone else in the barracks unable to sleep and seeking refuge in the form of a snack. It was probably Price—the man never held to a sleep schedule. He’d take a cup of tea if Ghost offered.
But the man who stepped into the kitchen a second later was not Price. Soap cracked a grin at Ghost, his hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts. Fuck, Ghost thought, his fingers tightening on the mug. A second later he relaxed—it was just Soap. Short, obnoxious, irritatingly warm Soap.
“Alright, Lt?”
Ghost tipped the cup in his hand. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Aye, seems to be going around.”
Ghost watched Soap pad into the kitchen, his socked feet silent on the chipped tiles, and start rummaging through the fridge. Ghost was thinking about—about the shack again. About having hypothermia. About Soap’s head on his chest.
He took a long sip of tea when Soap straightened. Maybe he needed to go in for a psyche eval. Or get punched in the head so hard he lost his memory of the past week.
“Someone ate my leftovers,” Soap muttered, pushing the fridge closed. “Bet it was Gaz. Always eats my shit.”
Ghost gestured at the kettle by his elbow. “I can make you tea.”
Soap scoffed, ruffling a hand through his hair. “No offense, sir, but I’d rather eat Price’s week old meatloaf than have a swig of that shite.”
Ghost smiled, tilting his mug up. He forgot that his mask was up, exposing his mouth, and when he looked back up at Soap the man had frozen. Soap’s eyes were fixed on his mouth like was drinking in the sight. Ghost prayed he couldn’t see the way his cheeks warmed—his mask wasn’t that high.
He set the mug down with a clink. Soap’s eyes snapped up, and he had the decency to look embarrassed for being caught.
“No tea, then,” Ghost said softly, and Soap swallowed.
“No, sir.”
Ghost picked up his tea again if only to have something to do with his hands. He wanted to pull his mask back down, but didn’t. Instead he watched Soap pull a glass from a cupboard, fill it with water, and move to lean against the counter at Ghost’s side. He was close—closer than Ghost had let him be in a week. Ghost watched the muscles of his neck flex as he took a swig of water.
“Soap.”
Soap looked up at him—Ghost was over a head taller than him, sitting on the counter like he was. The quiet of the kitchen stretched between them.
“What happened to the baker who joined the military?”
Soap shook his head, amusement tilting the corners of his mouth. “What, sir?”
“He went down buns glazing.”
Soap’s brows furrowed. “That was…worse than usual.”
Ghost shrugged. He was still smiling but couldn’t bring himself to smother the expression. “Only got so many good ones.”
“Don’t know if you’ve had any good ones, actually.”
Ghost didn’t bother responding to that. Whatever had been sitting heavy in the air had eased—the tension, or the awkward that had settled when Ghost caught Soap staring at his face. The joke had helped, and he took another sip of his tea, content.
It helped up until Soap angled his body so he faced Ghost, and set his glass of water beside the hand Ghost had braced on the counter. The scar was bright. Ghost could feel Soap’s gaze on it.
“Meant to ask earlier,” he said. Ghost’s heartbeat was in his throat. “Where’d you get this?”
Ghost lifted his shoulders. “Dunno. It’s old.”
Soap tilted his head to regard it, and then—
And then he put his hands on Ghost’s wrist and pulled it to him, like he had that night in the shack, and Ghost didn’t dare to move as Soap shifted his hand so their palms were touching. Ghost’s hand rested in Soap’s. He was certain Soap could hear how hard his heart was beating.
“It ain’t clean enough to be from a blade,” Soap said. As if it were normal for him to be all but holding Ghost’s hand. As if Ghost wasn’t about to burn from the contact. Soap’s palm was rough and calloused, but softer than Ghost’s, and his hand was smaller.
Ghost never wanted him to let go. Ghost was going to sprint out the door and never look back.
“Could be a tear, though,” Soap said, and glanced up at Ghost. He seemed to see something in Ghost’s face, because his expression changed, and he shifted like he was going to pull away. “Sorry—”
He pulled away—or tried to. Ghost’s fingers, working entirely of their own accord, tightened around Soap’s hand for the barest second.
Then he realized what he was doing and let go of Soap like he’d been burned—which he very nearly had, to be fair—and set his hand back in his lap.
The silence stretched.
When Ghost dared lift his eyes to glance at Soap, he found the man smiling at him, far too softly and fondly. It was the type of expression that made Ghost want to stab him.
“D’you want me to hold your hand, sir?”
Between the third and fourth ribs, Ghost decided. It would be fast.
Soap was still grinning as he crossed his arms, looking far too cocky for a man whose death had just been decided. “I can see you plotting to kill me.”
Ghost lifted his cup of tea and set it back down without taking a drink. “No,” he said, and lifted the cup again.
Soap watched him sip the tea as if his mouth was a target Soap was assigned to. “No you’re not plotting to kill me, or no you don’t want me to hold your hand? Because—” He leaned forward, reaching for Ghost’s hand where it still sat in his lap.
Ghost snatched it away and raised a finger in the air, threatening. His heart was pounding again as Soap held his eyes. He would back down, Ghost knew he would. He respected Ghost enough to listen, and knew him well enough to know when he was being serious. It was part of the reason Ghost trusted him so damn much.
And Ghost did not want him to hold his hand. Whatever was going on, whatever the reason he’d been thinking about that night in the shack so often—he’d figure it out. He’d fix it, so his brain worked right. He didn’t need Soap, or anyone else, to hold his hand. All Ghost needed was a weapon, a target, a place to sleep, and a cup of tea every now and then. Everything else he had learned to live without. Everything else was inessential.
He believed it, too. He believed it as he lowered his hand to his side again, and raised the tea. He believed it up until Soap opened his stupid fucking mouth, and said, “You’ve been leaning into me, sir.”
Ghost paused, the rim of the mug on his bottom lip. He looked at Soap, but the man had turned to put his back against the counter and look at the wall instead of him. And then Ghost checked his posture to make sure—but no, he knew he wasn’t leaning anywhere. “What?”
Soap kept his eyes on the wall. “This week. Anytime I get close to you, you sort of…lean into me, like you want to—I dunno, put your hand on my shoulder, or something. I thought it was just ‘cause of that night, but I also—I mean, how long has it been since someone’s touched you just to touch you, Ghost?”
He looked at Ghost again. Ghost wished he’d pulled his mask down ages ago, because he wanted it down now but he couldn’t even move. He felt naked. Soap wasn’t even touching him and he was going to burn out of his skin.
Thick, around the heart in his throat, he said, “I haven’t—”
“You have,” Soap said, low. “And if I am wrong, sir, I’ll never touch you again unless I have to. But I don’t think I am.”
Ghost stared at him. He wondered, in a far away corner of his mind, if he was hallucinating, because what the fuck was going on.
He knew what he should have done—he should have told Soap to piss off. He should have walked out the door. But the finality of it, of I’ll never touch you again, made him pause. Soap was good to his word; he would never put a finger on Ghost until they were both dead, and something in Ghost hesitated.
It was ridiculous. He didn’t need Soap to—he didn’t need anyone to touch him, but—
He wanted, he realized. The feeling that had been sitting in him all week was an aching want. It was ridiculous and embarrassing but it was there, and he hadn’t told Soap to piss off, and Soap was leaning closer, his hand in the air.
He wasn’t reaching for Ghost’s hand, Ghost realized with no small amount of panic. He was reaching for Ghost’s fucking face, and Ghost was going to stab him and run for the door at the same time, screw the want—
Soap’s fingers grazed Ghost’s jaw. It was as light of a touch as it could be, and that urge—to shove him away and hold him tighter—swelled in him. He didn’t move. Soap seemed to read an okay in his body language, because he stepped closer. His side was a hair away from Ghost’s thigh. He lifted his hand, sliding his fingers up to the corner of Ghost’s jaw, and pressed his palm flat to Ghost’s cheek.
“Alright, Lt?” he whispered. Ghost was clutching the handle of his mug so hard he wouldn’t have been surprised if it broke off. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, why such a simple thing felt like it would be the end of him. He didn’t know why he wanted it so badly.
No, he wanted to reply, but he couldn’t get the word out. Soap—reliable Soap, who could always read him—seemed to see it, and let his hand fall back to his side. Cool air replaced his touch. Ghost ached.
“Ghost—”
No, Ghost thought again, and slid off the counter. He dumped the last of his tea in the sink and set the mug beside the drain. He knew better than to do this—this would get one of them killed, or worse. The want was a mistake. Ghost was going to smother it like he’d smothered everything else.
“Ghost,” Soap said again as he turned to leave, pulling his mask down in place over his head. His heart was pounding again. He could barely hear over it as he moved for the door. “Ghost.”
Soap stepped in front of him, blocking his exit, and Ghost wondered if they’d fight. He and Soap never fought, not really, not about anything important.
But Soap wasn’t fighting him. Soap was staring at him, steady. The same steadiness that had held Ghost all night when he thought he’d freeze to death. The same steadiness that Ghost had been leaning into, because—fuck, because who wouldn’t? Ghost wasn’t strong enough not to want. He certainly wasn’t strong enough to shove Soap away when he stepped close and raised his arms to tug Ghost into a hug.
Ghost let it happen, because he was an idiot, and he was tired of wanting. Soap’s arms went around his back, his face in the crook of Ghost’s neck. Ghost could feel his heartbeat through their shirts, like he had in the shack. Steady, solid, warm Soap.
Neither of them moved. The silence of the kitchen sat around them. Slowly, Ghost raised his arms from where they’d been stuck at his sides, and wrapped them around Soap.
Soap sighed, like he was content—what an odd place to feel content, Ghost thought (which was completely hypocritical of him) and Soap’s fingers flexed on his back. “You’re an idiot, sir. Respectfully.”
“Mm,” Ghost said, because he was afraid anything else would disrupt the moment. He was still fighting the urge to run away, but it was better. It was—nice. He shifted, so his chin touched the top of Soap’s head. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?” Soap murmured.
Ghost inhaled. He was trying to commit this feeling to memory, in case it never happened again and he needed something to get him through tough nights. “I don’t know how long it’s been since someone touched me just to touch me.”
Soap pulled back enough to look Ghost in the eyes, leaving one hand on Ghost’s side. The other came up to the bottom of Ghost’s mask, and Ghost felt him pinch the fabric before he paused, giving Ghost the chance to push him away.
Ghost didn’t move. Soap pulled the mask up, past his mouth and nose, over his eyes, and fully off. He pushed Ghost’s hood down, too, and tucked the mask into Ghost’s pocket.
“What are you doing?” Ghost asked, his voice low. Soap laid his hand on Ghost’s cheek, where it had been before, and brought his other one up to mirror it. He was looking at Ghost like he did every time Ghost took his mask off, like he was trying to commit every feature to memory. It made Ghost feel naked, like it did every time.
“Touching you,” Soap whispered. “Just to touch you.”
His face cradled in Soap’s hands, Ghost burned.