Chapter Text
He didn’t start it.
That sounds incredibly juvenile. Like a small child crying out it isn’t my fault, he poked me first. But his point stands.
Ghost did not start this shit.
Nor, by any means whatsoever, did he invite it. The fabric that weaves together Ghost is not of huggable material. He’s clothed in heavy kevlar, strapped with sharpened knives and walled behind a permanent mask. What kind of deranged sod would share their warmth with a faceless skull? Simon’s cuddled up to a corpse before. He wouldn’t exactly describe the experience as pleasant.
Ghost is shrouded in a thick layer of gruffness and poorly concealed distrust which is (sometimes correctly) interpreted as contempt.
People usually have the self-preservation instinct not to poke the proverbial bear, and as such, his exposure to friendly interactions is… limited.
Which is just as well considering he almost slit the throat of the last recruit that tried to get too chummy with him.
Price had chewed him out for it, and it’s not that Ghost hadn’t deserved it, but the whole fiasco was infuriating given it'd been less intentional response on his part as it was an involuntary, knee-jerk reaction to having someone unfamiliar place a hand on him so recklessly.
Ghost is supposed to be stoic, composed, unflappable. He doesn’t enjoy being reminded of the areas he lacks self-control.
It’s an unspoken rule around base that no one touches Ghost unless it’s deemed absolutely necessary. Even then, half the nurses consider him no better than a rabid animal. Something to eye with wariness and keep stray fingers clear of.
He’s not inherently aggressive. He doesn’t hate people. It’s just that in the past, every time he’s opened himself up to another human being…
Well. It hasn’t gone well.
Intimacy is uncomfortable, claustrophobic. Sickening, at times. He’s half-convinced he’s become allergic to affection. The very idea of letting someone in close enough to make contact is enough to elicit a dull buzz beneath his skin – a prickling discomfort, like there’s mites crawling around just below the flesh. Makes him want to scratch until his nails are peeling away the skin.
Then there’s Soap.
Johnny is… tactile. Unthinkingly so.
He had to know the rumours about Ghost, and yet the very first time he’d met him, it was with a sly grin and a jab to his chest, there and gone before he truly had time to react. Casual and confident in a manner that would make anyone watching think he already knew Ghost, like they were old war buddies. They’d never been strangers, not even for a moment.
Ghost thinks he might’ve been alright had it stopped there. He feels a smidge of sympathy for any poor soul that attempts to fraternise beyond the first impression. People that hop over that barrier usually do so because they are intrigued by the myth surrounding him. They seek to know what’s lying beneath the dark stoicism, right up until they realise it isn’t just a front. That if there was a sensitive inner world rattling around behind his cool exterior, it was one forever closed off to their dimension. Look past the intrigue of the mask and the mystery of the legend, and you see what was always lying on the surface. A garden-variety psychopath paid to do the only thing left that he’s good at – murdering people. A tosser who’s also kind of fucking miserable to be around. An oversized edgelord filled with sullen silences, blunt remarks and emotional unavailability.
Ghost is who he is. Not particularly because he wants to be that way, but because the pit of his trauma is a mile wide and goes down deeper than the Mariana Trench. He’s still working on climbing his way out of the shithole despite how unlikely it is that he’ll ever hit the surface again. Doesn’t matter so much as he maintains the upward trajectory, but he can’t blame people for having neither the time, aptitude or patience to wait around to see when or if that happens.
Which is fine with him. There’s a security in loneliness. The less people can touch you, the safer you are. The less likely Ghost is to be pulled back down.
Still. Soap seems a nice enough bloke, so while he fails to rebuke his advances, Ghost endeavours to not encourage them. Not even after they make it out of Las Almas together, a trial by hellfire which ends in him finding Johnny considerably more tolerable than any other person he’s been forced into cohabitation with in recent memory. Ghost is never the first to initiate any form of physical contact. He’d like to think his ‘aversion’ to touch is made all the more distinctly clear when they return to base, where Soap sees firsthand the wide berth others provide him, parting like the red sea whenever he has to make his way through the compound.
Which is why he’s a little taken aback when rather than backing off, Soap faces Ghost’s plethora of warning signs and takes to them like a moth to an array of headlamps.
Soap never hesitates to place a grounding hand on his shoulder after a firefight, pat his stomach playfully as he passes him in the gym, lightly punch his forearm when Ghost makes a particularly horrid joke, lean on him when he’s tired. He never pushes too far, but he doesn’t hold back either. It’s never overbearing, never suffocating. There’s nothing crawling beneath Ghost’s skin.
He’s not able to ignore it exactly. Ghost’s always thinking, observing, analysing every little detail. He can’t help it. But, he’s got a fucking job to do. He can’t let this new distraction hold him up.
He compartmentalises.
Example A, the shitshow he’s loathingly and not at all fondly dubbed EDI. Abbreviated, because it sounds less stupid in his head than the Espresso Distresso Incident. A disaster that had come about when someone fucked up a shipment order, resulting in a substantial coffee shortage. No one’s ever ascertained the original perpetrator's name, probably because witness protection was essential for the guy when the rumour spread like wildfire around base and resulted in garrison-wide coffee-hoarding chaos. Which only managed to worsen the caffeine deficit until a new currency was established in the form of espresso sachets worth more than their weight in gold.
Soap had apparently missed the memo, and had been fucking loud about his displeasure.
In Ghost’s mind, it hadn’t been that difficult a problem to resolve. A couple days later he had Soap’s favourite brew smuggled into base. Simple, quiet, nothing to write home about. Wasn't even a gift, really. Ghost had planned to excuse himself some cutting gripe about finally shutting up Soap's caffeine-induced whinging were he to be interrogate him about it.
The withdrawals must’ve really been going to Soap’s head though, because when he had knocked at his door to hand over the tin (casually, without fuss, without so much as glancing his way), Soap had thwarted Ghost’s attempt to immediately retreat by smacking his hands over his cheeks, bellowing “Lt, you bloody brilliant bastard!” then pulling him down and standing on his toes so he could plant the fattest, wettest kiss to his forehead.
He’d taken any subsequent… emotions from that interaction, beaten them into submission, then filed the EDI away into a dark corner of his mind labelled do not touch.
Compartmentalisation is not a perfect solution. Ghost can still recall the pressure of Soap’s hands, the shape of his lips against his head, the way the heat had radiated through the fabric of his balaclava, seeping into his mind, rendering him non-functional.
Soap’s contact is often gone as fast as it’s laid down, too quick for Ghost to address, or react, or reprimand, but always, without fail, the heat remains. Burning through the fabric barrier, through his flesh, imprinting into his mind.
The strangest part of all, Ghost finds he isn’t uncomfortable with it. He doesn’t hate it. More than tolerates it.
Johnny’s affection is as simple and natural to him as breathing, and he lends it to others without any expectation of reciprocation or reproach. It’s nothing to Soap.
It becomes everything to Ghost.
He doesn’t do gentle physicality. Not anymore. That vulnerability, that humanity, it’s Simon. Ghost’s separated the two of them behind a tall, solid barrier, and he fears that if he pulls away the bricks he’s meticulously stacked up over these years, if he tries to break Simon out of that grave he left him in, the wall will collapse in on him. It will break him to the bone.
Soap makes it so terrifyingly easy though, Ghost discovers he doesn’t have to do anything at all. He’s already cracking at the seams. All he does is stand by Soap’s side, and that fucking embodiment of sunshine burns away at the shadow whispering into his ear - the one telling Ghost he’d gone so cold no fire would ever be able to warm him again.
He doesn’t have to acknowledge it. You don’t mull over how a star’s light hits the spinning rock you live on when you wake up. It just is.
Might have something to do with why he likes missions like this one so much. Where it’s just him and Johnny.
Ghost can’t afford to have creature comforts, but he can’t deny that he’s more comfortable on stake-outs knowing he’s got Soap at his back and in his ear. It helps that he’s highly competent – a cool-headed CQB expert even in the most fubar of scenarios and a downright diabolical demolitionist to boot. He also has a good head on his shoulders, and is stupidly, unwaveringly loyal to those he decides to trust. Ghost has no idea what he’s done to earn that trust, can’t say he feels worthy of it, but he is grateful for it. It’s nice not having to waste extra precious mental energy hoping to high hell that he won’t have another betrayal on his hands (the amount of fucking paperwork he had to slog through after the Las Almas debacle should be considered a war crime in of itself).
In Ghost’s humble opinion, Soap’s fucking mint. Which is about as high a praise Ghost’s ever given to a soldier.
He really only has one downside.
Impatience.
He’s good with the planning stage of the mission. He hates going in blind, resents being left out of the loop. Will borderline obsessively toil over maps, dragging Ghost into his space to ask questions, point out flaws, offer suggestions for back-up plans and escape routes, and all round contribute far more than what is within the jurisdiction of any sergeant to provide. Most commanders would call it breaking rank, pushing the barriers of his job description, undermining their authority. Ghost calls it helpful.
It’s the in-between that gets to Soap. In every other facet of the job, he’s cool as a cucumber, but the waiting – suspension and tension without release. It sets Soap’s nerves on edge, transforms him into a perpetually distracting flurry of jitteriness at the edge of Ghost’s awareness, which grates on his nerves in turn.
Ghost’s on his stomach, perched at the top of an abandoned construction site, the stock of his rifle pressed against his cheek as he looks down the scope, his hands steady, mind empty. The conditions are perfect. Wind’s down, the sun’s dipped behind the horizon – no longer in his eyes, the streets below are clear, it’s quiet. Not too quiet. He would almost be enjoying the downtime, if only it weren’t for… well, two problems.
Soap’s by Ghost's side (ideal situation), sitting idle as his spotter (shit situation). He’s all restless energy with nowhere to go. His thigh bounces at the corner of Ghost’s eye, his boot tapping rhythmically against the floor. He taps his fingers in tandem, pops his knuckles, wrings his hands out, shifts his weight from side to side, picks at his nails. It’s driving Ghost up the fucking wall.
The chronic itch behind Ghost’s ear is not helping matters. He’d given up hoping it would go away about an hour ago, because it’s still fucking there, and it’s clear it won’t disappear until he tends to it. He’s half convinced a bug or something has crawled back there because this shit is unbearable, and he can’t do anything about it because he’s got his hands full, and he is definitely not going to risk shifting position and losing the target they’ve been tracking for the past week to ease a small discomfort.
He tries to alleviate it from where he is, scrunches his face, rolls his jaw, lifts his brows, aiming to shift the mask a little, all to no avail.
“How much longer is this going t’ take?” Soap mutters.
Ghost exhales, long and slow.
He understands that Soap’s not actively setting out to be an annoyance. He likes to feel like he’s contributing, wants to be in the middle of the action. He’s most at ease when he’s moving, running, shooting, when he’s blowing a tank to smithereens. He needs to be doing something, all the time, and that kind of hyperactivity is probably going to land him in deep shit one day, which is exactly why Ghost is taking every opportunity to systematically desensitise him to the beauty of tedium.
“Patience is a virtue, Johnny.”
“Aye, as virtuous as not shooting people through the back of the head. And yet…” His voice trails off. Ghost suppresses the urge to roll his eyes.
To be fair, this is talking longer than they’d expected. They’ve been waiting for this high-ranking asshat official to leave the party in the building opposite. They must be having one hell of an orgy in there because it’s been four hours and he’s yet to show his face.
Soap leans down to check and retie his laces. They’re fine. Ghost knows they’re flawlessly knotted because it’s the seventh time in the last hour that he’s redone them. The itch behind his ear is causing him to regard this fact with a higher degree of annoyance than he normally would.
He’s used to being uncomfortable. For fuck’s sake, he’s endured extensive torture. This is just… highly irritating. He should be able to ignore it.
He tilts his neck slightly (like that’s going to fucking help). The movement provides no relief. If anything, the itch worsens, mocking him, and Soap perks up like a dog at the sight of a squirrel - his back straightening, catching the shift immediately because apparently between the leg jiggling and the shoelace tying all he’s doing is watching Ghost.
“You see something?” There’s a rustle of fabric as Soap reaches for the binoculars.
“Head itches.” He grits out through clenched teeth.
There's a pause. Lengthy. Soap calibrates. Ghost tries to wave off the rising heat of embarrassment. He isn't known for whining – rarely complains about any injury smaller than a bullet wound.
“Where?”
Ghost’s a couple seconds away from abandoning his post to rip off the mask and scalp himself, so he humours him. Maybe Soap has some magic itch cure.
“Back of the head. Behind the left ear.” He mutters. “Why do you-”
His voice cuts off, mouth clamping shut and jaw coming together with a click when a sudden pressure brushes against the fabric between the collar of his jacket and the edge of his mask.
Soap’s hand remains there for a long moment, warm and unmoving, a question. Ghost is paralysed by the contact, neither flinching away nor leaning into it, unable to form an answer.
He doesn’t protest though. Doesn’t retaliate or shy away from the touch, and that’s permission enough for Soap.
With slow, controlled movements, his fingers slip beneath the mask.
Ghost’s muscles lock up tight, eyes widening as air catches in his throat. Soap’s wearing his fingerless gloves. There’s no barrier between the pads of his fingertips and a surface no human has touched for far longer than Ghost's able to recall. Definitely longer than Ghost’s been a concept, that’s for sure, but he’s not certain even Simon can remember someone’s hands on his neck without the intent to harm.
Johnny's hand slides tentatively across the sensitive skin at Ghost’s nape, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake, rising steadily upwards until blunt fingernails are raking lightly through his scalp, burying into his hair. Ghost tenses, bracing himself for pain, expecting the fingers to tighten, to tangle and tug. Anticipating it, fucking hell, wanting it.
The hand flattens, and Ghost swallows back something that tastes dangerously close to disappointment. It’s clear that Soap’s having a little difficulty here, his movement limited beneath the tightness of his mask. It’s probably a challenge for him to be able to pinpoint the area without seeing the back of his head. He manages to scratch at a point a little too low, closer to Ghost’s jaw than the epicentre of prickliness, and this would be the perfect opportunity for Ghost to open his mouth and tell him to stop-
“Up a bit.” He murmurs.
Bloody fucking hell.
Emboldened by Ghost’s pliancy, Soap’s other hand rises to slip a thumb beneath the edge of his mask, slowly lifting the fabric higher, revealing more of his neck.
“This okay?” Johnny checks in, his low voice matching Ghost’s volume.
He grunts an affirmative, not trusting himself to speak.
Both of Soap’s thumbs move along the seam of his mask, slow and careful so as to not shift the hard plate of his skull as he meticulously edges the fabric upwards. He only goes so high as to bunch the fabric over the top of his ears, but Ghost feels every millimetre. He shivers at the feeling of the cold breeze hitting the bare skin at his nape. The mask is supposed to be off-limits to everyone but himself, and even then... Soap’s not even removing it, he’s simply lifting the back. His face remains perfectly in place, and yet still something about this feels… forbidden, taboo. Intimate.
He feels exposed, vulnerable and malleable beneath the strength held in Johnny’s hands. Soap could snap his neck, he could place a knee into his back, push him into the floor and strangle him, he could kill him here if he chose to, and Ghost would probably let him.
That thought is terrifying enough to lift Ghost’s head out from underwater, remind him where he is, allow the barrage of wrong time, wrong place to break through the dam and filter into his thoughts.
Then, Johnny’s nails find that itch, and the logical division of his brain immediately returns to dormancy. The wave of relief consumes him, dragging him back under. Ghost’s eyes go half-lidded, vision blurring as a full-bodied shudder runs through his frame, impossible for Soap to miss. The hand freezes. And fuck, no, not yet, he mindlessly presses his head back into Johnny’s touch, silently urging him to continue.
Soap’s stillness, his silence is fucking deafening. If this whole mate-helping-a-mate act of service wasn’t already weird, Ghost thinks he may have just officially landed them in that territory. Soap’s going to pull away from him, he’s going to awkwardly try and make a joke out of this - tease him for acting like a fucking affection-deprived dog, or worse still - pretend it had never happened in the first place.
There’s a tightly-held pressure in his chest - suspension, the feeling of walking out over a ravine. Ghost’s pulse throbs against his neck, the rush of blood loud between his ears. Then, Johnny’s fingers move again, fingernails raking into the sweet spot, and Ghost falls. He’s just barely present enough to bite back the low groan threatening to rumble in his throat, the tension releasing instead in the form of a long, shaky exhale.
This is worse than simply putting the gun down and fixing the problem himself. Soap’s touch is intoxicating. Ghost feels more than a little drunk off of it, his trigger finger wavering, breaths shallowing, thoughts muzzying. He can feel himself losing grip on his ability to focus on anything other than Soap. And he must’ve blanked out for a bit, because when he returns it’s to the sound of a soft, rumbling chuckle.
“Lt, you copy? Haven’t lost you, have I?”
Ghost blinks.
He replies after a long moment, forcing a semblance of composure into his voice. “Solid, copy.”
Soap relents, his hand moving back down to lazily play with the short hairs at the base of his neck, a completely unnecessary sliver of contact - indulgent in its irrelevance, fingers lingering like Johnny hasn’t quite had his fill yet.
Down his scope, on the peripherals of his remaining vigilance, is movement. Ghost tenses, shock rippling through him.
It’s their target.
He’s on the sidewalk, moving to hail down a cab, and Ghost had eyes on him the entire time, but he hadn’t seen him, hadn’t even notice him leave-
There’s not a single moment left to waste. Ghost hastily lines up his sights, his breaths coming out sharp and uneven. He pulls the trigger. The gunshot rings out. Soap’s hand rips away from his neck.
Ghost misses.
Pandemonium erupts on the streets. There’s the sound of screaming as civilians further down the road duck for cover. The target jerks, shouts, his hands rising above his head as he whips around in a panic, searching for the shooter, stuck for a single moment between the decision of freeze, fight or flight. It’s the only chance Ghost has to end this mission before it gets messy.
Time seems to slow as the adrenaline floods into his bloodstream. His heart thunders in his chest. All noise drowns under the buzzing of his nervous system, a detached, motionless, pure white static in his head. He readjusts, shuts himself off. Lets Ghost take over. Breathes in deeply for three, holds it, fires on the exhale.
Headshot.
•·················•·················•
Fuck.
Yes. That’s his full performance appraisal.
Fuck.
He doesn’t want to go into detail any deeper than that. Doesn’t want the scrutinising eye that will inevitably run over his report, zero in on that second bullet and mull over what possibly could have occurred to cause Ghost to miss.
Ghost never misses.
Fuck off, it’s true. It’s impossible to have a one hundred percent hit rate, but when he’s lined up on a target like that, he doesn’t even have to think. Distractions, stakes, poor conditions, chaos. None of it matters. Sending a bullet through the back of their skull comes second nature.
But Ghost missed, and all it took was Johnny scratching that itch.
He probably should take the time to examine how this shit might be starting to affect his work. At the same time, if he unearths the root of the problem, he’ll be forced to do something about it.
Ignoring the momentary slip-up is a far easier pill to swallow. He’ll move on, bury it down, slide any memory of that interaction into his rapidly expanding do not touch file.
Exfil, at least, goes smoothly. The whole mission actually, aside from Ghost’s little hiccup there (and it can’t even really be classified as a hiccup - the target is dead, and the only person that cares about it taking more than one shot is Ghost, and maybe Price, and fucking hopefully not Johnny). Aside from that, everything’s gone according to plan.
It’s only them and the pilot on the flight back to base, and despite the amount of space available in the back, Ghost finds Soap’s side pressed up against his own, their outer thighs and arms touching. He feels Soap’s warmth radiating through layers of clothes and gear and bleed into his skin. A detail that Ghost can’t rip his mind away from. A detail that Soap probably doesn’t even notice, the scots’ attention consumed with scribbling something down in his journal, his tongue between his lips with focus.
Were it anyone else, Ghost would feel inclined to mind his own damn business, but he finds his eyes drifting towards the book in Soap’s hands. It’s tilted just outside Ghost’s field of vision, angled towards the dim light. He’s writing... no, his hand sways back and forth, the pencil stroke light, shading - drawing something.
He’s going at it with an intense, single-minded focus, not even noticing when Ghost leans into him a bit, trying to peek over where his arm is blocking the page.
“What’re you working on?” He murmurs.
Soap jumps, the book snapping shut.
“It’s nothing.” He says, voice harsh and clipped in a way that strongly implies it’s not nothing.
Between the two of them, Soap isn’t usually the one to keep secrets. Curiosity prickles at the edge of Ghost’s mind. He doesn’t push the topic. He, more than anyone, should understand the need for personal space and privacy.
Soap tucks the book away beneath his vest.
There’s a long beat where the only sound between them is the low roar of the plane’s engine.
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
His head drops to meet Soap’s gaze. He searches for that mirth in his eyes - checking to see whether or not he’s fucking with him.
“Granted.” He says when Soap proves sincere, though he still regards him with an air of apprehension. It’s uncharacteristic of Soap to appeal to authority like this. Quite frankly, he has got to be the most insubordinate little shit Ghost’s ever had the pleasure of commanding, and if he’s being completely honest with himself, Ghost kind of prefers him that way. It's quietly profound to have men put their lives in his hands without question. It's something else entirely to have a man that would question his superior every step of the way, but willingly puts his life in Ghost's hands anyway.
Soap only pulls this shit when he’s trying to placate him. To remind Ghost that he respects him, that he has faith in his competency as a CO.
Ghost kind of hates how well it's working on him.
Soap hesitates a moment, choosing his words carefully. “You’ve been awful quiet.”
His hiccup is not being ignored then. Ghost doesn’t know why he bothered hoping otherwise.
He averts his gaze.
“That right?” Ghost asks, aiming to minimise, dismiss the concern. “Fortunately we can’t all be as mouthy as you.”
Ghost doesn’t make a habit of wasting words, but his rebuttal here would be a hell of a lot more convincing if it weren’t for them both being perfectly aware that the foundations of their relationship were built upon cheeky banter and dark humour. Mindless chatter that had started as a way to settle hearts, minds and nerves when things were about as bad as they could possibly get, only to later transform into… well, mostly the same thing, but... call Ghost crazy, these days more and more it feels like it’s also partly something else.
“Think we both know you like my mouthiness.” Soap plays along, smugness tugging at his lips.
“I like not having to fill the space with my own noise.” He replies dryly.
It's an indirect confirmation of sorts, just personal enough to prove to Soap he’s not intentionally pulling away from him.
Soap smiles up at him, and they lapse back into a comfortable silence.
Ghost’s enjoying his brief, blissfully ignorant moment of believing the topic’s been dropped when he feels Soap shift against him again, his finger scratching against the denim of his jeans. One of Johnny’s numerous nervous tics.
“Did I cross one of your boundaries earlier?”
He tenses.
His boundaries. Yeah… Right. That’s something he has. He’s supposed to have. Unspoken rules that anyone that’s worked with him as long as Soap has should be well aware of. Any toe that steps over one of Ghost’s lines is supposed to get sliced off. That line’s gotten pretty blurry when it comes to Johnny though, hasn’t it? Ghost has never analysed that bug in his usual programming too closely, frightened by the malware that may be hiding there.
He turns to meet Soap’s gaze. The smirk has dropped, giving way to something more genuine and searching. Ghost’s cold silence in the past couple of hours has apparently been very loud. He needs to remedy that. He’s not about to let this blunder of his undo all the work that’s gone into building whatever it is he has with Soap.
“Have you found my knife embedded into your gut by any chance?” He asks brusquely.
Soap lifts a brow. “Not yet.”
He offers a single nod. “There’s your answer.”
No one is ever going to accuse him of being a poet, but his reassurance here is blunter than he would’ve liked. It sounds a lot more like a threat to Ghost’s ears now that he’s said it, but upon hearing it Soap seems to settle, the furrow in his brow smoothing out slightly, some of the tightness leaving his eyes.
He understands Ghost better than most.
He would ask him not to do shit like that the next time he’s trying to fucking focus, but that would likely come across as a little too revealing in terms of how thoroughly the small amount of contact had affected him.
He doubts Soap would use the information against him, but he’s also already insufferably smug about his magnetic appeal as it is. He doesn’t need the ego boost.
Satisfied, Soap relaxes back against his seat, his arms jostling against Ghost’s as he folds them across his chest. He makes himself comfortable, closing his eyes and leaning into Ghost’s shoulder. A half hour or so later and he’s clonked out, his chin against his chest, dead to the world, fast asleep.
Ghost finds his gaze drawn towards him.
He always looks younger like this, more vulnerable, the hard lines of his expression smoothed out, lacking the usual tension in his face - born from stress, age, years without proper rest. He feels a sudden, uncontrollable surge of fierce protectiveness radiate from his chest. A uselessly moronic sentiment, considering their career choice and the fact that Johnny’s perfectly capable of looking after himself in spite of their career choice. Also given that they’re safer during the couple of hours they’re stuck in the sky than practically anywhere else in the-
Because the universe loves a good chance to prove him wrong, it’s during this thought that Ghost's stomach bottoms out, the plane dropping unexpectedly.
A shock of adrenaline rushes through his bloodstream. Soap tilts forward. Ghost’s arm lunges out to catch him – stretching out across his shoulders and pulling him in close.
The plane gives a light shudder before levelling out again. Nothing but a bit of turbulence.
He looks down to where Soap’s head has fallen against his shoulder. He hasn’t stirred at all – out cold, resting on Ghost like he belongs there. Like he’s Johnny’s personal travel pillow.
Ghost’s eyes flicker to the front of the plane. The pilot hasn’t looked back at them once. And why would she? Why, for that matter, would Ghost care?
Soap shifts slightly, his face burrowing closer into the junction between his shoulder and neck. It sends a frisson of affection sparking through him. He pours a bucket of ice over that fire, reminding himself that this has nothing to do with Ghost. Johnny’s just seeking out warmth.
Ghost watches him, ideal thoughts bouncing around his skull for some time before he finds his own eyelids drooping.
Ghost hasn’t slept a wink since they’d left base two days ago (a fact that Soap’s already taken issue with). It shouldn't be a surprise that here, within their bubble of temporary safety, sleep tugs at his consciousness, threatening to pull him down. It's unusual though. He’s gone without for far longer with the aid of stims and adrenaline rushing through his veins. Not to mention he’s not half as open as Soap is. Struggles to let his guard down in the presence of others.
Perhaps that’s what this is. He trusts Johnny more than he should.
He fights the pull regardless, if only to prolong this pause between the chaos.
Soap wakes as soon as they touch down, his eyes blinking open to the rumbling shake of the plane’s wheels meeting the ground.
He slowly lifts his head from Ghost’s shoulder, looking around for a moment, sleep addled and disorientated, mohawk flattened down from where it's been pressed against him, gears turning. Their eyes meet, and Ghost can pinpoint the moment things click into place.
His eyes dip to the dark patch on Ghost’s collar where a patch of his saliva has seeped through. “Jesus.” He cringes, colour rising to his cheeks.
“Sorry Lt, didn’t mean to slobber all over you.” He says, heartachingly earnest, and some fucker from a dark corner of Ghost’s mind is howling with laughter, because he’d quite happily have Soap spit on him, drool all over him-
Ghost slams down on that trail of thought before it can devolve any further.
“Stick a dog collar on you and nobody would know the difference.”
Didn’t slam down hard enough, it seems.
The slip is worth it when the unflappable Soap blanches, his blush deepening.
He recovers quickly, punching his arm, and because he never misses an opportunity to give as good as he gets, he responds real low, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”
Ghost neither confirms nor denies.
•·················•·················•
Price calls them in for a debrief the moment they’re off the tarmac.
He wants nothing more than to collapse into his bunk and forget this night ever happened, but the Captain wants things hashed out while the information is fresh and raw in their minds, and Ghost is in no position to disobey.
He and Soap sit in Price’s office, a mug of tea in their hands. Soap’s disgusting sweet tooth probably would’ve preferred coffee with a splash of milk and roughly six teaspoons of sugar. It’s late though, he doesn’t want to be dead on his feet for any longer than Ghost does, and so he subjects himself to whatever Ghost has and takes small, polite sips, scrunching his nose each time at the taste.
Price is delivering most of his questions to Soap, getting his side of things first. This is strange as the first account usually comes from Ghost, with Johnny adding things along the way. He can feel Soap shooting confused glances his way. He has no answers for him.
Price doesn’t ask about the first bullet when it comes up, which is actually a worse outcome than Ghost had initially imagined, because it means he probably has an idea in mind of what happened. Ghost can feel his gaze on him, analysing. It makes his skin feel too tight, sets off a bright red blip at the back of his mind. Soap nudges their feet together. It feels almost like an apology.
Price’s speedrun through Soap’s account takes on a new element of ominousity when he declares, “Alright Soap, that’s all I’ll need from you. You’re dismissed. I’d suggest you wash up, refuel, and get some rest. You’ll be flying out at 0500 tomorrow for another assignment. Ghost and I can finish up here.”
Soap’s eyes flick to him, then back to Price.
“With all due respect sir, Ghost needs the rest as much as I do.”
Price’s brows rise a touch, surprised by the push-back.
A beat of consideration, then he says, “Ghost won’t be accompanying you on this one. I can’t go into detail. You’ll receive your mission briefing on the way.”
Behind the privacy of the balaclava, Ghost’s brow furrows.
He and Soap have been a team for over a year now. The thought of placing him in the hands of another superior officer sits wrong in Ghost’s stomach, like rancid meat hitting a bowl of acid. It’s no secret Soap has issues with authority figures that aren’t Price. Or him, he supposes, though that’s probably because Ghost plays hard and loose with regulations and very rarely pulls rank on him. Leeway that Soap utilises to its fullest extent. Who the fuck else has the audacity to treat their CO - Ghost no less, like that?
Soap has weird quirks. That, on its own, is a mute point - no soldier considered for the 141 is one hundred percent there in the mental health department. Ghost's the most obvious case study, but none of them are normal. Their life mostly consists of fun activities like being shot at, crawling on their stomach through several kilometres of freezing cold mud to avoid detection, eating stale MREs for weeks at a time, being pulled away from friends and family at any moment for god knows how long, knowing that if something happens it'll be weeks or months before their families are notified. It's in the job description to consistently put themselves in the most stressful situations on the planet, often in the most abysmal conditions imaginable, with multiple lives on the line (including their own) and the expectation that they’ll perform better than any of the other nutcases that were dumb enough to sign up for the same hell they keep consciously deciding to walk into. You have to be a little crazy to do this. No one that's completely sane would choose to do this.
Soap's got his own issues, and Ghost has yet to crack them all open, but he knows he's a little... obsessive. Johnny likes being aware of the worst case scenarios, and then imagining elaborate responses to them. He hates being left out of the loop, wants to be part of the planning process, needs to be functionally considered an equal. And Ghost accommodates that, he appreciates it, but others won’t.
Not that Soap wouldn’t be able to handle it. He wouldn’t have been able to get this far if he couldn’t.
Ghost just doesn’t want him to have to.
“Anything else?” Price asks.
He can see the hesitation in Soap, his hand tightening around the grip of his mug. He won’t refuse, though. Won’t kick up a fuss. Soap’s young, loyal, eager to please, still looking for approval from Price, still playing the good little soldier.
He swallows the bullshit down with a simple, “No, sir.”
He stands, pauses at Ghost’s shoulder to give it a reassuring pat, and heads for the hall, taking his mug with him. Ghost can’t help but turn his head to watch him as he leaves.
Once the door’s shut behind them, he turns back to Price.
“This is short notice.” He grumbles, a protest thinly veiled as an observation.
Price doesn’t even glimpse up at him, “Order came from the higher ups. I’m just the messenger.” He says in a tone that dictates this as the end of their discussion on the matter, despite it never having been a discussion at all.
He looks down at the laptop, his attention returning to the debrief, “You didn’t recover any data. Nothing unusual in enemy comms…”
Ghost struggles to pay attention. The heat of Johnny’s hand on his shoulder lingers, the concept of its absence lurking in the forefront of his mind.
“Why do they want him?” He asks, stopping Price mid-sentence.
Price stares him down for a moment. The caterpillar on his upper lip twitches.
“Do you want to take it up with the brass?” His tone is level, expression calm, though there’s no telling what’s going on behind the Captain’s eyes. This is no reprimand. It’s a genuine question.
Ghost bites hard into the flesh of his cheek. It'll blister annoyingly later, but he needs something to focus on.
He knows that this is simply his own paranoia rearing its ugly head. Knows that Soap would feel invalidated and ashamed were he to make an issue of it. Like he’s some kid that needs to be kept on a short leash. And he’s not. He’s a loudmouth and a flirt, the whole base knows it, and it disarms him. Makes him seem friendlier, more innocent, when underneath he’s more fierce and calculating than anyone truly realises. Ghost’s scary when he wants to be, but Soap’s fucking terrifying. He’s the type that’s able to read someone, know exactly how to get under their skin, make them like him enough to let their walls down, only for him to place a stick of dynamite in their back pocket while they’re distracted and walk away smiling, all while they’re none the wiser. Ghost doesn’t know how much of it is an act, and how much of it is simply Johnny playing into his charisma.
Soap can handle himself, but there’s a reason Price keeps them together for missions. It’s no mystery. No luck of the draw. Soap’s the idiot that cares more about saving other people than following regulation or watching his own ass. Ghost’s the fool that’s somehow found himself committed to wrangling his sergeant into line to make sure he doesn’t die from said idiocy. It’s a bizarrely deadly combination when they’re together - somehow just the right balance of competency and intentional stupidity to produce downright supernatural results. The downside of this is that nowadays whenever they’re separated one of them usually ends up in the goddamn infirmary. Ghost’s half-convinced it’s a fucking curse at this point.
It’s a highly alarming turn of codependency, but Ghost will tolerate it so long as it means they’re not separated.
He’d sooner die than try to verbalise any of this to Price.
When his silence drags on, Price releases a deep sigh.
“There’s been a string of domestic terrorist threats in Scotland. Trident’s put in a request for an operative. Soap’s the best demolitionist we’ve got, and the only choice for going undercover for the duration of the op.” He levels him with a hard look. “That’s all I can tell you, and you didn’t hear it from me.”
Ghost hums an acknowledgement. He can hardly believe Price has divulged as much as he has. Though it does explain why Ghost hadn’t been able to go with him. There’s nothing covert about a massive manc stomping around north of the border with a fucking skull mask. Even if he slipped on his faded, lightweight balaclava and washed away the dark paint smudged around his eyes, he’d remain a fucking eyesore. Soap going solo makes sense.
“Now, can we move the fuck on, or do you want to be stuck here all night?”
He grits his teeth and accepts it.
“Carry on.” He replies curtly.
Doesn’t mean he has to like it.