Archive of Our Own

Soap has been around long enough to know what he's talking to on sight.

Always been sensitive, his family has. His grandmother would interact with spirits and things unseen like she was greeting an old friend. His mam always shivered when she walked past the door to the attic. His sisters, too, claimed to see strange shadows or hear whispers when they were right on the edge of sleep.

He never saw things like they did. Never felt a chill run down his spine in old cathedrals or houses of the dead. Even after he enlisted and found himself frequently wandering through Death's domain, he's never been beset upon by spirits, ghosts, echoes of dark creatures that feed off the suffering of others. Whatever blessing were bestowed upon his family's bloodline have kept him safe from being a latch, an anchor.

But he knows when he's talking to one.

The things he's seen like to take the shape of those he's close to. They are alive, or something adjacent to it. Creatures that change their shape or enter someone's mind for a time. Things that have no purpose, weak anchors, and are bound to go away eventually.

The secret is to treat them like nothing is amiss.

So, he's been around long enough to know when he's talking to Simon, and when he's talking to Ghost.

It's in the little things, really. Ghost doesn't smoke, but Simon does. Ghost's pupils are always a little too large, Simon's eyes always a little too soft. Ghost's intonations, though subtle, are slightly sharper, clipped. Ghost doesn't drawl like Simon does.

He's never brought it up, because frankly it's none of his business. They are both capable soldiers, fearless leaders, friendly enough. Ghost won't take him up on an offer to play cards in the rec room or visit the pub, but Simon might. Ghost likes to spar more than Simon does.

So, when Soap approaches, an offer for a drink on his lips but clocking the rigidity of those broad shoulders, the flex of gloved fingers curled just a little too tightly, and those big black pupils, he pivots. "Fancy a spar, Lt.?" he asks, grinning.

Ghost regards him, lashes low. His blackened eyes rake Soap up and down, and he tilts his head. "Not dressed for sparring, Johnny."

Soap's smile doesn't waver. "Aye, wasnae sure ye'd be up fer it. Didnae wanna press ma luck."

There's an understanding that's grown between them, since the beginning. A subtle acknowledgement that Soap knows something the fuck is up, but is willing to adapt to it instead of recoil from it. He's seen the opposite in others, a near-imperceptible fog of nerves when it's Ghost leading a training, an ease in Gaz's smile when it's Simon he's talking to, a little crease in Price's brow when he's trying to figure out who is speaking with his Lieutenant's voice, even if he can't put a finger on why.

Ghost's eyes flicker, very briefly, then crinkle at the corners. "Consider it lucky, do ya?" he taunts, prowling just a bit closer so Soap has to turn, has to put his back to the wall to stop Ghost knocking into his shoulder. "Gettin' your arse beat?"

Soap huffs a laugh and shakes his head. Lazily tilts his chin up so he can meet Ghost's eyes, doesn't miss how Ghost's gaze drops, briefly, to his exposed throat.

"If it's you doin' it, Sir? Always," he teases right back, still grinning. Ghost is more shameless than Simon, braver with his words and more willing to apply pressure with his body language - poke a tender bruise to see if it still aches.

And, well, Soap's only human. Mostly.

He curls his fingers coyly into the base of Ghost's hoodie neckhole, tugs until the back hem meets his nape. "Gym in ten?" he offers.

"Sure, Johnny," Ghost murmurs, eager, and pulls back, effortlessly tugging himself free. Soap lets him go, his eyes lingering on Ghost as he turns and stalks away, predatory and quick like he's gearing up to give chase. His gut clenches hungrily, and he turns to rush to his own room so he can get changed. Ghost wasn't wrong; he was dressed for a night out, jeans and a t-shirt a shade too tight, flattering and primped to the nines.

Thankfully, Ghost is as easy to lure as any bar bird.

Ghost is there when Soap arrives, pulling his arm across his chest in a lazy stretch. Strength and power ooze off him like a haze, intoxicating as Soap comes closer and starts taping his hands. Ghost watches him with those steady, large-pupiled eyes, somehow managing to look both like a wildcat posed to lunge, and a sleeping leviathan the world best not wake.

"Got something to prove tonight, Johnny?" Ghost rasps. "Or are you just lookin' to burn some energy?"

"Can't it be both?"

"With you? Rarely." Soap knows, if Ghost wasn't wearing his mask, he would see that scarred, gnarled smile, showing teeth that are just a little too sharp and more even than Simon's.

Soap rolls his shoulders up, shakes his hands loose once he's done binding his knuckles and bounces a few times on the balls of his feet. He feels his heart rate pick up, though that always happens - in both Simon's and Ghost's proximity.

Simon hangs back during spars, gauges his opponent's movements and lets them come to him, tire themselves out before delivering the final hit or take down that ends the match. Ghost fights like he's trying to kill, all brute force and precise hits to nerve endings and sore spots. Fighting him is like fighting a sentient tornado of shrapnel, leaves Soap battered and bleeding by the end of it.

He grunts, winded, as Ghost slams his forearm down right on Soap's sternum, knocking the breath right out of him. A single huge thigh pins both of Soap's, knee digging into knee, making the weaker joint scream in protest. His other hand wraps around Soap's throat and squeezes, grips him to slam his skull down again hard enough he sees stars.

"Christ, Ah yield," Soap gasps.

"Don't yield," Ghost snarls, leaning over him. His mask is askew, revealing the sweat-drenched tips of his golden hair, the flushed bridge of his nose, the most tempting sliver of his corded neck. "Not gonna stop some Tango stabbing you in the gut if you tell him you yield, Johnny. Fuckin' fight back."

Soap grits his teeth, punches Ghost in his exposed flank, right above his hip where the muscles are softer, less tensed in preparation for an attack. Ghost huffs, flinches just enough Soap can fight a leg free and throw it over Ghost's calf, swings as hard as he can to get them rolling. It works, at least enough for him to scramble to his feet and dart away to relative safety.

Ghost stares up at him from where he'd remained, on his knees, hand outstretched in an instinctive swipe to try to take Soap down and stop his retreat. He's panting, they both are, flushed and sweaty. Feels like they've been fighting for days instead of the few short rounds Soap has managed to survive thus far. Soap's heart continues to hammer behind his sore sternum, his throat aching when he swallows.

Finally, Ghost huffs, and gets to his feet. "Good job," he praises, earnest and quiet, and wipes at his masked forehead with the back of his wrist. "Think that's enough for me today."

Soap would be able to tease Simon for getting old, for not being able to keep up with him. With Ghost, he just nods, because if he tried that shit with Ghost he'd lose his head. Ghost knows where he sleeps, and doesn't need to sleep a wink.

"Who's comin' tomorrow?" he rasps, and digs his teeth into the sweaty knots of tape around his bruised knuckles, unwinding them slowly.

"Simon," Ghost tells him, his dark eyes unblinking on Soap's face. "He's looking forward to it. His dreams are…"

"Yeah," Soap whispers, wetting his lips. "Ah'll take care of him."

Their eyes meet again, another slow swell of that understanding passing, unspoken. Ghost nods, straightening, and passes Soap by with a pat to his shoulder, a parting squeeze. Soap follows him out a moment later and heads to the showers, scrubs himself clean and dons fresh clothes so he can collapse right onto his mattress.

Probably for the best he didn't go out for the night. Early day tomorrow and all that.

If he's being honest, Soap is glad it'll be Simon he's deploying with. He hasn't seen Simon for a while.

Simon's eyes are soft and fond when they meet up for breakfast before shipping out, briefings already handled a few days prior. "Hi, Johnny," he says, bent over his mug of tea like a guarded animal, his mask rucked up to his nose so he can drink. Always protects his food like it's going to be taken from him, they both do.

His lips are the same, his mouth makes the same shapes, but his teeth are uneven, a little more yellow from smoking, and far more blunt.

"S'good tae see ye, Lt.," Soap says with only a little more meaning than the words warrant, nudging their thighs together beneath the mess hall table.

With his mask up, Soap can see the tickle of pink on his cheeks, the barely-there freckles that Ghost doesn't share. "You too," he murmurs, and bites his lower lip. "Sorry."

"Hey, as long as yer alright, so am I," Soap tells him, and lets their elbows brush again. Simon smiles at him, bright and sweet. Ghost can be sweet too, when he wants something. Soap relishes these soft, rare moments with Simon, like they're the only people in the world even in a crowded room. The noises of the mess are a background murmur, unimportant and therefore unheard over the little tick of Simon's nails against his mug, the rhythm of his breathing, the rustle of fabric when he shifts his weight.

Soap does his research whenever he encounters something strange. By his best guess, with what little he knows of Simon's bloody and fraught history, and from observing Ghost, he thinks he's dealing with a doppelgänger. A manifestation of something darker, a little more alien, forged when on the very edge of death, half a soul lost to the afterlife while the rest remained to power its human body, doggedly forcing itself to survive.

Depending on the culture, doppelgängers are either a ghostly mimic, or a manifestation of a spiritual twin - able to share memories and feelings, but often bringing bad luck or representing the 'evil' side of the person it haunts. In some cultures, this spirit is not malicious, but more often than not they are frightening, and cause distress to the victim of their mimicry as well as those around them.

Personally, he doesn't think Ghost is inherently malicious. He doesn't go out of his way to cause Simon trouble, or behave in any way that feels out of character for Simon aside from his Otherness, which isn't something he can help. Animals sense oncoming rain, liminal spaces cause an instinctive crawl of fear beneath the bones, and Ghost unsettles people. That's just the facts of life.

The one thing Soap knows is that when Ghost is around, Simon isn't. They avoid each other, making sure never to appear in the same place at the same time. He has often wondered where the other one is when he's interacting, but has never felt it proper to ask. If he's being perfectly honest, at first he just kept waiting for Ghost to go away - spirits, no matter how malevolent, get bored when they don't get the reactions they want.

But Soap has been part of the 141 for almost three years, and Ghost still lingers.

"Ready tae head out?" Soap prompts when Simon just stares at his rapidly-cooling tea. Simon shifts, humming, and finishes his mug, pulls his mask back into place. Soap follows him out, trailing him like a protective hound as they make their way to the armory to suit up, and then the tarmac to board their transport.

It ought to be a quick mission - a nice classic smash-and-grab, turnaround quick enough that their bird will be circling the airspace just waiting for the call to come pick them up. They're expecting a hot exit, and Soap is glad to see that Simon seems alert and ready, gearing up with the same quick efficiency he's always possessed.

He can't put a finger on when, exactly, it happened. When his feelings towards Simon changed from admiration and loyalty to the chain of command, to affection, protectiveness. Simon certainly doesn't need it; he's got more successful and much more brutal solo missions under his belt than Soap will endure in the next decade, can kill a man with his bare hands at least twenty different ways, and possesses a ruthlessness and skill that Soap openly drools over.

He's no greenie, and he's strong, sharp. He's perfect, and perfectly capable of protecting himself.

Soap just…wants to protect him, too. Feels the urge like an impulse, an itch he can't help but scratch. Some thing that dwells deep within his bloodline which commands him to find an anchor, a person or place on which to latch.

His blood is diluted, many generations old, but some primal instincts cannot be bred away entirely.

They load up into the waiting helo, Simon tapping the pilot's shoulder once Soap is strapped in and taking a spot opposite so the weight is better distributed. Soap regards him, taking in the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the steady rhythm of his breathing as it expands his bulky tac vest and gear. He looks well-rested, alert, ready.

Simon stares right back, those pretty dark eyes fond and warm, as they always get when they land on Soap. They crinkle at the corners when Simon smiles. "Admirin' the view?" he teases, settling further into his seat with a sigh.

"Always," Soap replies, grinning back.

Simon blinks at him, slow. "Get some rest, Johnny," he says. "We'll be comin' in hot."

Soap frowns, wets his lips. He should rest, as much as he's able - save his energy up for the mission. But he's possessive of his time with Simon, and sees him so rarely these days. His stomach knots, vulnerable and tense, at the idea of speaking such a thing aloud. He can't talk to Simon like he can talk to Ghost - Ghost is far more shameless, Simon far more shy.

"Ah'm alright, Lt.," he says. "Got a good amount of sleep last night. Fresh as a daisy, me."

Simon's eyes crinkle further. "That's good." He hesitates, eyes darting briefly to the pilot who is either ignoring them or can't hear them at all. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, tac vest bulging up awkwardly to crease beneath his chin. His mask moves when he opens his mouth to talk further, then closes it again.

Often Soap has wished he could simply open up Simon's skull and peer inside, poke and prod at his grey matter to determine what he's thinking, how he's feeling. That somehow he could extend his strange ability to see and understand beyond human flesh and bone. Alas, such super-cognition eludes him, always has.

"Johnny," Simon finally murmurs, drawing his attention again. He swallows, and says, "I saw it this morning."

Soap's eyes widen, and he tenses all over.

"Just…be careful today, yeah? I don't want… I can't…"

He looks away. Desperately, Soap wishes they were close enough that he could reach out and touch.

"Ah've got yer back, Simon," he replies. "And Ah ken ye've got mine."

Simon nods, still not meeting his gaze. "Yeah," he mutters, and swallows. "Yeah."

Their mission is a success in that they manage to retrieve the intel and get back into the helo, flying off in a barrage of gunfire.

It does not go well, in that Simon has three different gunshot wounds in his stomach, shoulder, and thigh. Thankfully no major arteries were hit, but triaging all of them at once is a logistical nightmare - Soap simply doesn't have enough hands. He tourniquets Simon's thigh while he cuts open Simon's sleeve and tears at his tac vest so he can get to his shoulder. Hit the tricep, looks like, a clean in-and-out. A raw bite of exposed flesh greets him as he rips open gauze packets and bandages, unscrews the bottle of iodine with his teeth and spits out the flavor clinging to his lips before he sloshes it all over Simon's sluggishly bleeding wound, making him hiss.

"Hold tight, Lt.," he rasps, shoving a fistful of gauze at the exit wound and taping it down before he turns his attention to the front. It's not bleeding too badly, and hit mostly muscle. It'll need stitches, but Soap doesn't have time with the two other holes in his CO's body, so he stuffs the entry wound with more gauze, tapes it down haphazard and amateurish, and then turns his attention to Simon's thigh.

Simon's skin is pale, his legs trembling when Soap takes a knife and slices down the outside of his thigh, through the holster strap so he can get at the bullet wound. It's bleeding like a faucet even with the tourniquet, gushing red-hot blood that quickly coats Soap's hands and makes them slick. He can't find the exit wound, which means the bullet is still lodged somewhere inside Simon's leg.

"Fuck," he snarls to himself, and tears through their medical kit until he can find some tweezers. Simon's gone white as a sheet, feverish, his eyes wide and his breathing turning shallow. He still has a wound in his gut and he's keeping pressure on it with his own hands, but Soap can see he's waning.

Soap just has to keep him alive, long enough to reach medical, to reach people who know what the fuck they're doing and have more than two hands to attend to each of the wounds. He presses his free, bloody hand in a crescent around the entry wound, pulls it open and taut, and digs in with the tweezers. Simon hisses, cursing under his breath, his shoulders heaving as he fights to keep his leg still and not jerk or jolt and interfere with Soap's frantic searching. The tips of the tweezers click against the bullet and Soap digs in with a vengeance, tearing through pulsing muscle until he can grip onto the little bastard and pull it free.

More blood oozes out, far too quickly. Simon is lying in a fast-growing pool of blood, and from the pulses, Soap can see his heartbeat is slowing, running out of blood to pump. Fuck, fuck, he's losing too much blood. Soap doesn't have enough hands, and there's no one here but the pilot who needs to focus on flying the bloody helo, and -.

Soap swallows, and after a moment, reaches out to flatten his bloody palm over Simon's eyes.

"Ghost," he calls, hearing Simon's breath hitch, his head rocking from side to side in instinctive refusal. "Ghost, please, Ah need help."

"Don't, Johnny," Simon begs, so weakly, voice thready with both pain and swiftly-approaching unconsciousness. "Please -."

But it's too late. Ghost always comes when Soap calls.

He manifests on the other side of Simon, briefly looking at where Soap is covering his eyes, and nods his understanding. Training takes over quickly, as Ghost tugs off his gloves and douses his pale, scarred hands with iodine, before he shoves Simon's hands away and turns his attention to the wound in his stomach. Soap feels Simon's lashes fall shut beneath his palm, so he pulls his hand away and focuses on binding up and stemming the bloodflow in Simon's leg.

"Tweezers," Ghost commands, and Soap hands them over without a word. Ghost digs clawed fingers through Simon's torn skin, slices his tac vest off the rest of the way. At least in his stomach, Simon had the protection of his plates and armor; the bullet is lodged in his skin, and while it's bleeding a lot, it didn't get deep.

Ghost carefully removes the bullet from his skin and tapes gauze over the wound, makes a soothing noise when Simon growls under his breath and tries to flinch away from him. "I told you," Ghost mutters, his clipped cadence sharp, hissing. "Bloody warned you, didn't I? Still had to play hero."

Soap winces. At least two of the bullet wounds are because Simon took them in Soap's place. He'd shoved Soap down and behind him when the door was kicked in, took the bullet in his shoulder and stomach in reward. His third came later when they were rushing from the compound, neither of them able to get to cover before a bullet tore through Simon's thigh.

It's frankly a miracle Soap didn't take any wounds of his own. That, or his own uncanny luck, which is more than happy to take collateral in his place.

Simon gasps as Soap binds up his thigh as tightly as he can, the bandages blooming red swiftly until Soap can reapply the tourniquet, and that seems to do a better job stemming the flow. Ghost's big hands flatten heavy on Simon's stomach, then his heaving, blood-stained chest.

"You're not dying today, Simon," he snarls. "Stop trying. Fight it."

Simon's golden lashes flutter, pale where the greasepaint has been sweated off. He twitches, his breathing shallow, but his heartbeat is somewhat steady, if slow. Ghost growls under his breath, his bearing more of a panicked animal than an otherworldly creature.

"He's gonna make it," Soap whispers, and it comes out more like a question.

Ghost doesn't look at him, doesn't nod or growl. He settles at Simon's side, hand over the gauze on his belly. "I didn't… I didn't mean for him to see me, earlier," he whispers. "I didn't mean it."

With so many conflicting stories on doppelgängers, Soap doesn't know if there's any true significance in the story that seeing yours marks your death. It never made sense to him - parasitic creatures feed off of strong emotion, and it doesn't track that one which requires sight and interaction to survive would allow itself to go without being perceived. If Ghost was a demon, or a malevolent haunting, he would want Simon to see him. He would want Simon to be afraid, and lose sleep, and isolate himself out of fear of harming others.

Never, not once, has Soap gotten that impression from Ghost. For all intents and purposes, he seems just as stuck as Simon is. Two animals forced to share an enclosure and maintaining a respectful space to avoid conflict.

Simon said he'd seen Ghost that morning. Maybe he already expected to die.

The helo lurches suddenly as the pilot begins their descent, forgoing gentler action since he knows the immediacy of Simon's condition. Soap braces himself as best he can, gritting his teeth. Ghost will have to disappear eventually, he and Simon can't be seen in the same place at the same time. Soap has, uniquely, solely, been given that privilege, that power.

He reaches out and touches Ghost's hand on top of Simon's belly, squeezes his sticky, iodine-and-blood-soaked fingers. "Ah'll take care of him," he promises. "Better than Ah did."

Ghost nods, and cups Soap's face with his free hand, before he disappears as though he was never there. Simon sucks in a shaky, shallow breath, his lashes fluttering open and staring up at Soap. "Johnny," he rasps, and Soap grabs his hand, squeezing tight.

"Ah've got ye, Simon," Soap tells him, leaning in close so Simon doesn't have to project to be heard over the roar of the helo. He nudges their foreheads together, closes his eyes. "Jus' stay awake fer me, yeah? Keep talkin'."

Simon huffs, gives a small shake of his head. "What…what would you like to talk about?" he mutters, somehow managing to sound exasperated.

"Anythin'," Soap replies, a little desperate in the wake of Simon's thready, breathy voice. He's fading fast, Soap has to keep him awake, keep him talking. "Read any good books lately?"

Simon stares at him, and rolls his eyes. "Books? Really?"

"Gimme somethin', Si. Anythin'."

"There's…" Simon falls silent, for far too long, lashes closing in a slow blink, eyes hazy when Soap cups his cheek and taps his jaw until he opens them again. "Gaz was…talkin' about a new spot that… That's gonna open up. Some Yank restaurant, he wanted to go…"

"Aye?" Soap prompts, smiling. "We should go. Have a night out as a team, that sounds nice."

"Not worth it," Simon murmurs. "Gut bomb'll take, take ages to work off… Too old for that much grease, Johnny…"

"Ah promise tae hold yer hair back when yer vommin' in the toilet."

"Charming," Simon huffs, his smile weak, his eyes fond.

"Someone's gotta be there tae nurse yer ancient arse back tae fightin' shape," Soap whispers, voice thick. Shame and guilt well up in him when Simon hisses, tensing as the helo rocks violently to one side, then corrects itself. He swallows back the urge to yell at the pilot to steady himself, knows he's just doing his job, and Simon doesn't have the time or luxury for a smooth descent. The sound is changing, growing lower as they get closer to the ground. "Almost there, Si, come on."

"Stop motherin' me," Simon growls without heat, gritting his teeth and wincing. "Been through worse, Johnny."

"'Fraid yer stuck with me and ma motherin'," Soap tells him, tightening his fist around Simon's. That primal urge is rising again, to dig himself into Simon's bone marrow and never come up for air. If he had the equipment to hand he'd tear open his own veins and feed his blood into Simon, let their capillaries intertwine, fuse his red blood cells into Simon's muscles and organs until every beat of his heart harmonized with Soap's.

A few breathless moments later, they touch down, and the doors open to let in the rush of medical staff. The pilot called ahead and a half dozen masked and gloved medics rush in with a gurney, oxygen mask, blood pressure monitors and IVs and everything they need to keep a body going until they can get to surgery. Soap rattles off Simon's wounds, tells them he's responsive but lost a lot of blood, and lets them cart Simon away towards the ward.

By the time they're gone, the pilot has killed the bird and made his way off, and Soap is left alone in the belly of the helo, kneeling in a pool of Simon's blood. Adrenaline makes him shaky and numb as he gathers up Simon's tac vest and the equipment he and the medics cut off him, blood-soaked and messy.

A shadow falls across him, and he looks up to see Ghost. "Need a hand?" he asks, and takes Simon's gear from Soap before he can reply, grabs his shoulder and hauls him to his feet.

"Thanks," Soap murmurs weakly, his knees refusing to lock for a moment before he manages to straighten. He stares after where they took Simon, tries not to linger too long on the trail of blood like breadcrumbs to the far-away building. He falls blindly into step with Ghost, both of them like wraiths in the darkness as they make their way to the armory. "Is he…?"

"He's alive," Ghost says flatly. "He'll stay alive if he knows what's good for him."

A statement Soap should question, but instead he feels an instinctive assurance of the same. Simon will survive, because Ghost commands it. Because Soap demands it.

They turn in the bloody gear and weapons, Soap grimacing and offering a paltry apology to the clerk for the state it's in. The clerk is none the wiser that the masked Lieutenant at Soap's side is currently also on the brink of death in the medical ward, just grumbles and gives them a reproachful look at the equipment's condition.

Ghost leads the way to Simon's room, lets Soap inside. Soap takes the private shower first, scrubbing himself raw before changing into a fresh set of clothes that he's grown to keeping in Simon's room. Just left them there one morning after spending the night, and Simon never returned them. Ghost showers after, comes out with his face bare and his hands clean, his gnarled mouth twisted in a grimace, showing his too-sharp teeth, his pupils wide enough to make his eyes black like a shark's.

Soap settles on Simon's bed, his back to the wall, heels tucked up against his thighs, arms around his shins. He doesn't want to be alone, and Ghost never makes him leave. Ghost sits beside him, mimics his position though he puts his elbows on his knees, staring at the door as though waiting for Simon to waltz right through it, fresh as a daisy.

"That makes four," he says. Soap turns to look at him. "Four times he's seen me."

Soap remains silent, expectant.

"I'd hoped by now he'd understand that I'm not going to hurt him." He looks down, biting his lower lip, his fingers curling into shaking fists. "I could help him, if he'd let me. If he'd just look at me."

"Exposure therapy doesnae work when it's spread out," Soap offers. "Hate tae break it tae ye, but each time he's seen ye, it has been a close call."

Ghost nods. The first time, Soap knows, is when Simon first almost died. One sweltering night in a Mexican desert, the details of which are vague and horrifying inasmuch as Simon or Ghost has told him, when Simon dug himself out of his own grave with naught but a jawbone and grim determination, and Ghost had been there, hauling him out the final few inches so that he could breathe fresh air. The second time, some time before Soap, a firefight where he'd earned the bullet hole in his chest, scarred-over and purple to this day, just shy of his heart. Another time on a solo mission where he'd almost frozen to death in the Russian tundra, barely kept alive with the body heat of a creature he couldn't bear to look directly at. He'd been brought home delirious and feverish, scared of the dark for weeks, a haunted look in his eyes that it took Soap almost six months to soothe away. To this day he dresses too warmly, terrified of the cold.

And now, four.

"Maybe ye should stop hidin'," Soap offers. "Let him see you."

Ghost sighs, and rubs the heel of his hand into his eye. "He'll never call for me," he says.

"Then Ah will," Soap says. "Ye always come when Ah call. S'like ye like me or somethin'," he teases, nudging their shoulders together.

Ghost drops his hand, meets his eyes. "I do," he says earnestly, slicing into Soap's underbelly with utmost tenderness. "I like you very much, Johnny. We both do." Soap shivers, swallowing harshly, and doesn't shy back when Ghost leans in.

Simon likes to make love. Ghost fucks like he's going to die if he doesn't. They both kiss the same, though - like they're expecting to be pushed away, rejected when they try. Soap has never rejected either of them, never wanted to, never will.

Soap lets Ghost fuck him, and knows that come morning, Simon's skin will bear the same loving bruises in the shape of Soap's hands.

Debrief is a flat and solemn affair. Turning in the intel is the cherry on top of the shit pie, what with Simon clinging to life in the medical ward, but at least they can call the mission a success by the barest stretch.

Price and Gaz regard him with expressions Soap doesn't have the energy to parse. His shoulder aches something awful, ringed with a fresh set of sharp teeth-marks. His wrists are bruised as well; he tugs down the long sleeve of his shirt to try to hide them. Him and Simon are a terribly-kept secret with his team, and he doesn't need them seeing fresh marks and wondering how he got them, what with their usual culprit out of commission.

"How is he?" Soap asks, when all's said and done, all the i's dotted and t's crossed.

"Stable," Price tells him through a heavy sigh. "He lost a lot of blood, and he'll be in physio and on desk duty for a while until his leg and shoulder heal up, but he'll live if he puts his mind to it."

Soap nods, relieved beyond measure. "And how…is he?" he asks, with a different inflection.

Price meets his eyes. "Shaken," he finally says. "Though he'll never admit it."

Soap swallows.

"I can cover some of your trainings, Tav," Gaz offers. "If you want to…be close by."

Soap looks to Price for permission, and finding no refusal, he allows himself a small smile, overwhelmed with gratitude. "Appreciate it," he rasps, and curls his fingers into fists at his sides. "Maybe… Maybe he should take some leave, once he's up and about."

"That's his decision," Price mutters. "Haven't managed to get him off base in…Christ, in years. But I believe in your powers of persuasion."

Soap nods again. He doesn't ask if he can take leave at the same time, God forbid he actually implies he'd be with Simon during. Price's willful ignorance can only extend so far; if Soap is to try, he'll have to make sure the paperwork is squeaky clean. Leave Price room for deniability in where Soap was, who he was with, what he was doing.

But he's done it before. All he has to do is convince Simon.

He slips into the medical ward past visiting hours, sweet enough with the night staff that they're willing to look the other way for him. He prowls through the hallways, darkened in deference to the time when patients should be sleeping, and finds the room Simon was put in without trouble. He opens the door silently and slips through, finding that Simon was put in a semi-private room with a second bed, but at this moment he doesn't have a neighbor.

The curtain around Simon's bed is pulled half-way shut, so that his upper half is visible to the door - or, rather, he can see who's coming. Simon's lashes flutter at the sound of Soap's approach, and lazily open, his head turning in the direction of the sound. He has an oxygen tube set into his nose, no fewer than five IVs filled with transfusions and nutrient fluids running into his arms, a plethora of sensors snaking in under his hospital gown to monitor his heartbeat and blood oxygen. He's pale, his flaxen hair greasy and limp on his head, and Soap can see the ocean of bruising that spreads along his collarbones, and undoubtedly mottles his shoulder and stomach and leg.

Still, he smiles, seeing those eyes fond and alert, focusing on him. "Hey, darlin'," he murmurs, and places a hand tenderly on Simon's forearm right below one of the intake tubes.

Simon blinks at him, slowly. His heartrate ticks up a couple of beats, making Soap's chest grow warm. "Hi, Johnny," he whispers, and then winces. "Rough night?"

Soap swallows, unconsciously puts a hand on the throbbing wound in his own shoulder. "No rougher than yers, Ah imagine," he says.

"You shouldn't let him hurt you," Simon rasps. "S'not right."

"Ah promise ye, Si, he doesnae ever do anythin' Ah'm not perfectly down fer," Soap replies. They don't talk about it - how Soap eagerly lays his hands on both Ghost and Simon. It's one of those understandings, that Soap is free to have as much of either of them as he likes.

Still, Simon stares at him, and then he says, "You like him better."

Soap shakes his head. "That's like sayin' Ah like one of my eyes better than the other. Yer the same, Simon. Two sides of the same coin and all that clichéd nonsense."

Simon huffs at him, and slowly lifts a shaking hand to thumb under Soap's left eye. "I like this one best," he says, half-joking. "S'the one that stays open when you wink. And… And you like to sleep on your right side, so when you're half in the pillow this is the one I see when you wake up."

Soap rolls his eyes, turns and kisses the heel of Simon's hand. "Meds're makin' ye loopy, aye?"

Simon lets his arm drop with an exhausted sigh, turns so he's lying flat on his back and stares up at the ceiling. "Doctors say I'm lucky to be alive," he whispers. "I don't feel lucky. I feel…"

"Blessed?"

"Caught." Simon blinks again. His words are slurring a little, they must have him on some really good painkillers. Still, Soap has always known him to fight anything that makes him sleepy. He'll wrangle consciousness free of any chains placed upon it until he's damn good and ready. Soap desperately hopes he'll let himself sleep soon.

But, Soap knows, drugs also make him honest.

"I feel like I'm chained up, trapped in this plane of existence," Simon continues airily. He turns his head away from Soap, towards the window with its blinds drawn so they cannot see outside. "Stuck. Like no matter how hard I try, I'm not allowed to leave."

Without his consent, Soap's hand tightens on Simon's arm, and a snarl escapes him before he can stop it. "Yer not," he hisses, drawing Simon's startled gaze. "Ah'm no' gonna bloody let ye, you hear me?" His teeth feel too sharp, his tongue too heavy, like he's speaking words that have power. That have the ability to command the sun rise in the West, or gravity to lessen its weight for just a moment.

Simon stares at him, his heart rate ticking up another few paces. He presses his lips together and swallows. "Alright, Johnny," he says quietly. "I'm not…trying, right now. Swear I'm not." His lashes dip in another slow blink. "I like it here. With you. Are you…staying?"

"If Ah can," Soap rasps, forgiving him immediately. "If ye'd like me to."

"Please," Simon whispers, and does his best to move to one side, quickly giving up with a hiss. Soap drags a chair over and sits himself down in it, leans over Simon's bed and already feeling the protesting twinge in his lower back. His wraps his hand in both of Simon's over the thick bulge of bandages on his belly, leans his head on Simon's uninjured thigh. It's clear Simon wishes they could get closer, but even high out of his mind he's not that stubborn.

Simon stares at him, still fighting sleep. Soap smiles at him, wide enough to show his teeth.

"I'm glad you're alright," Simon murmurs.

"Ah'm alright because you were reckless," Soap replies, a little too sharply. "Ah'm no' stupid, Si - ye thought ye were gonna die and ye did nothin' tae prevent it."

Simon swallows, looks away. "I didn't try to get shot," he mutters.

Soap straightens, tightening his grip on Simon's hand. "Look at me," he demands, and waits until Simon reluctantly obeys before continuing; "Ghost doesn't want tae hurt ye, Simon. He's not tryin' tae get ye killed. Ye keep survivin'."

"No," Simon argues, his eyes narrowing. "I fucking don't. I'm just surrounded by stubborn arseholes who refuse to let me die."

"Ghost helped me save yer fuckin' life, ye bloody ungrateful bawbag," Soap hisses. "Ye wouldnae even know because ye refuse tae be in the same room as him, and look - Ah get it." He exhales slowly, harshly, willing himself not to let the anger that sits in the base of his throat overwhelm him. "I ken he scares ye, but ye'd have died without him. On that mission. In the tundra. In Mexico. And the fact that ye keep fuckin' sayin' ye wish ye had pisses me off."

"Johnny -."

"No, just -." Soap huffs, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye and sucking in another unsteady breath. "Can't you…feel him? He's said he can see yer dreams, can ye see his?"

"…Sometimes," Simon admits tiredly. "They're not…exactly dreams. Just feelings. Voices. Some of them…familiar. To him, at least." He sighs. "Dreams about you a lot."

"So do you," Soap counters.

"Yeah." Simon's eyes dart to him, then over his shoulder briefly. Seeking, or unable to hold eye contact for long, Soap cannot say. He swallows and closes his eyes in a slow blink, still fighting his sedatives and clearly losing.

"Get some rest, darlin'," Soap urges. "Ah'll be here when ye wake up."

Simon swallows harshly, and nods, lets his eyes close. It isn't long at all before his heart rate slows and his breathing turns deeper, more even. Soap smiles to himself, affection warming him all over. There's something so breathtakingly vulnerable about Simon when he's asleep, angelic with his golden hair and pale skin.

He's still staring, keeping silent watch while Simon sleeps, when movement and a presence pings awareness in the back of his mind. He sighs, smiling in welcome, and tilts his head up to see Ghost standing at Simon's side. His dark eyes are soft on the face of his source of life, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"He'll come around," Soap murmurs.

Ghost sighs through his nose, and carefully reaches out. He pulls one half of Simon's hospital gown a little more securely across his chest, lightly brushes a knuckle over his pale cheek. It's times likes this, rare though they are when both Simon and Ghost are in the same room at the same time, when Soap has never been more certain that Ghost isn't the creature of malice and death that Simon believes him to be. The abject care he shows for Simon, the yearning looks and longing sighs, betray a deep affection, an endless desire for closeness.

Soap knows the signs. He was the same, before he found his way into their bed, nestled himself in their hearts.

"I'll give him good dreams," Ghost promises, his sharp voice low. "And you can…give him the rest."

"He'll come around," Soap says again, and takes Ghost's hand, the fingers of his other hand lacing with Simon's and squeezing. Connecting them as best he can, for now. "Ah'm not lettin' either of ye go."

Ghost meets his eyes, soft and dark, and smiles. "No," he says, tilting his head. "Got your hooks in both of us, haven't you?"

"Aye."

"Sometimes I wonder," Ghost continues, "if it's him who's keeping me here, or if it's…you. There's something about you. Could never figure it out."

Soap bares his teeth in a smile. "One of life's great mysteries, Ah suppose."

"Could call it that." Ghost sighs, casts one more longing look to Simon, and takes a step back.

"Stay," Soap commands, not letting go of his hand. "Stay close."

"I can't."

"You can and you will," Soap presses, voice hardening. "Because Ah said so."

Ghost eyes him for a long time, dark eyes unblinking. Finally, he nods, and steps close again, lets Soap rest his shoulder against his hip. Soap squeezes his hand and smiles when Ghost squeezes back.

"He'll panic when he sees me."

"And Ah'll be right here when he does," Soap promises.

"Alright," Ghost murmurs, and leans down to press a kiss through his mask to the top of Soap's head.

Despite his order, Ghost has to leave when the medical ward starts to wake up. Can't have the doctors seeing two Rileys in one place. Soap has to make himself scarce as well, though he manages to sneak in a morning kiss and a promise to return quickly when Simon wakes up. The night shift are sweet on him but Doctor Walsh is a hardarse and runs a tight ship, and won't look too kindly on Soap being here outside of visiting hours.

He sorts himself out enough to lead trainings in the morning, gives a demolitions demonstration just before lunch, and then packs up some extra food for Simon and brings his offering to the hospital room. Simon still has no roommate, thankfully, and seems relatively alert, smiling when Soap walks in and makes himself at home.

"Are ye cleared for solid foods?" Soap asks, pulling his tray over his lap and unboxing his haul.

"Yeah, bullet didn't nick anything important there," Simon tells him. "Thank fuck - I know you're not meant to be able to taste liquid IV but I swear it always leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

Soap nods, and settles back, watches Simon eat. He's favoring his uninjured side - both bullets hit him on his left, so thankfully his dominant hand can work without issue, though he winces whenever he has to lean forward or move his shoulders. Soap stands to pack more pillows behind him, helping him sit more upright.

"Price wants tae send ye on leave once you're on yer feet," he tells Simon, who huffs, mouth flattening into a thin line. "Reckon it's not a bad idea. Go somewhere nice and quiet where ye can recover properly. Ah could come with, take care'a ye."

Simon opens his mouth, closes it again. He meets Soap's eyes for a beat too long. "…I can go without taking leave," he hazards. "And he can…stay here."

Soap sighs. "Simon, ye ken it won't work like that," he says. "If Price or anyone sees him walkin' around acting like he doesn't have three bullet wounds in him, the jig is up. And Ah can't just off and leave without cause. It'll look odd."

"But it'd be good cover," Simon argues. "You take leave, I don't. Squeaky clean alibi."

It's strange, that Simon clearly trusts Ghost enough to act in his stead, but not enough to be in the same bloody room as him. He presses his lips together, weighing the merit of outright telling Simon he intends to bring Ghost with them, give him some good exposure therapy in a place where getting shot at and killed isn't going to happen, a setting where his risk of dying is practically zero.

"Ah'll think about it," he finally concedes. It feels awful lying to Simon, even by omission, but if Simon had his way Soap wouldn't know about Ghost at all, so it only seems fair.

In the end, he manages to convince Simon to put in for a too-short leave. That way, Ghost can come back if he needs to and play the part if Simon still isn't at one-hundred percent. Getting shot isn't something one just bounces back from, especially in the thigh and shoulder, after losing so much blood. Simon is weak when he tries to stand, and has to hobble on only one crutch since he can't tuck the other one beneath his injured arm without causing undue stress. He's still got stitches and needs constant wound care, but Soap is more than happy to provide that for him.

He takes care of the paperwork. Claims he's heading North to help with his sister's latest bairn, even gets her to sign off on a witness statement should it be necessary. Bless Jess and her willingness to put up with his shenanigans - she's not due for another four months.

Cutting the team in half fills him with guilt, but Simon is his priority. He'd leave the military entirely for Simon if he had to. Simon would never forgive him, but that wouldn't stop Soap. There's precious little he wouldn't do to keep Simon safe.

Simon has a flat in Manchester. It's a struggle to get him up the stairs and Soap has to carry in all their bags, but he manages on his own with only a little lighthearted grumbling. Resists the urge to call for Ghost just to make a point. Simon's flat is dusty and musky, needs the windows opened and some fans going to circulate air, a modest one-bedroom with most of the open space dominated by a thrifted couch and old box television. Soap goes to the shops to stock up on food and drink for them both, makes sure to grab enough sweets to curb Simon's snacking and extra protein powders and shakes to keep his strength up when his stomach is bothering him.

It's not the first time Soap has joined him, has stayed in his flat, even if it's just for the weekend and not a prolonged leave. His spare toothbrush is still in the cup, his set of shampoos on the shower-bath rim, a few changes of clothes his size hanging in the closet. The television still winks on to the channel Soap left it - one of those broadcasts that plays reruns of a crime drama on repeat. He helps Simon with showering and cleaning and redressing his wounds, gets him comfy in bed and makes them supper, eats with Simon in bed and laughs when Simon complains about crumbs.

"Left me sleepin' in the wet spot, and that's where you draw the line?"

"Don't get bugs with comestains, Johnny," Simon murmurs, enough of a catch in his voice that Soap dutifully brushes the sheets clean without protest. He feeds Simon his nighttime dose of meds, refills a water glass and sets it on a coaster on Simon's bedside table so he doesn't complain about rings, sets him up with a stack of books and crossword puzzles for Simon to entertain himself if he can't sleep.

The way the flat is set up, Simon can see most of it from his spot in bed if the door's left open. He watches, his eyes heavy on Soap's back, as Soap closes the windows, moves one of the fans into their room, washes the dishes and turns off the television, triple checks all the locks and turns out the lights. The meds are clearly starting to take effect by the time Soap showers, changes for bed, and returns to him; his lashes are heavy, eyes hazy, head lolling lax on his pillow.

Soap cuddles up to his good side, places a hand over his heart so he can feel its steady beat. "Take such good care of me, Johnny," Simon murmurs, head tilted towards him.

"Always will," Soap promises, with a fierceness that surprises even him. Simon just smiles, dopey and lax, and pulls Soap closer to his side. The bruising is still fierce, the edges visible around the loose collar of Simon's old sleep shirt, mottling his thigh and stomach beneath his clothes. Soap presses a kiss to his good shoulder and waits until Simon closes his eyes, relaxes in his sleep, before he allows himself to drift off behind.

Soap waits. Often his team jokes about his lack of patience, his impulsiveness and rash behavior.

But Soap can be patient, oh, he can. To a lethal degree.

He waits. Until they form a routine - wake up to the alarm for Simon's morning meds, take them over tea and toast while Soap redresses his wounds and helps him to the sink to wash his hair and change his clothes. Work through the hand and leg exercises to make sure he doesn't lose feeling or function in his limbs. Another dose of pain meds mid-morning when his food's settled, washed down with more tea and water. Lunch - delivery, more often than not, whatever Simon's craving, eaten together to the backdrop of whatever game show is playing at the time, canned laughter and audience applause breaking the silence.

A short walk, if Simon's up for it. Reading and sketching if he's not. Kissing and cuddling on their sides so no weight gets put on Simon's wounds if Simon is feeling particularly restless or vulnerable, gets this look in his eyes like he's going mad. Another round of dressing the wounds and wiping Simon down if the humidity's bad enough to sweat, or Simon's let Soap stroke him off and made a mess of their hands, careful of the bandaging on his stomach. More snacks - sweet treats that soften Simon's muscles and make him sleepy. Antibiotics to round out the evening with the dinner Soap cooks for them - sometimes with Simon posted up to watch from the dining table, sometimes lying in bed if his thigh's hurting too much to sit. A shower and last round of meds to finish the day, Simon letting Soap fuck through the ring of his fingers while Soap kisses him with water slicking their mouths, doing their best to keep the bandages out of the way of the spray and failing miserably.

A final redressing, some more painkillers if Simon needs it. Their days are dull, their nights restful. Peaceful.

Safe.

Whether through Ghost's intervention or the medications, or both, or the fact that Soap somehow can affect such a thing simply by lying near Simon in the dark, Simon doesn't have nightmares. His dreams are pleasant and long.

Soap waits. Long enough for Simon to get complacent, lax. Trusting that there are no enemies around, or danger lurking in the corners of his flat. No threat, no need to keep watch. Just the quiet flat where it's only the two of them, and the sound of traffic rushing along outside.

The stitches come out and the bandages are reduced to some Vaseline and a light covering within a month. The wounds to the actual musculature are far more dire, Simon has lost a lot of strength in his limbs and still needs help sometimes getting around, but he's not at risk of tearing himself open and bleeding out anymore.

With the bandages gone, Soap invites him for a bath. Carefully lowers Simon into it once the water's warm and climbs in behind him, holding Simon close to his chest. The bullet wounds in his shoulder, stomach, and thigh are stark and angry-looking. They're ugly, made messy by Soap's novice triage, gnarled and knotted things that are sure to scar in an unflattering way, but there is no part of Simon that Soap could ever find disgusting. Scars and bruises are proof that he's alive, that he's here, and Soap will cling to those truths with all his teeth and snarl at any suggestion that these grievous wounds are anything short of precious.

He holds Simon close, nuzzling behind his ear, smiles when Simon laces their fingers together and lets himself go lax. The tub isn't big enough for them by any stretch of the imagination; their knees breach the waterline, their toes curled up severely against the far edge, the hard surface at the bottom promises Hell on their hips and the tub's too narrow to let them tuck their arms in. The pain meds have made Simon soft, sleepy, his head tilted awkwardly to rest on Soap's shoulder, his eyes heavy-lidded.

Soap kisses his nape, and says, "Ah'm gonna call 'im here."

High on painkillers as he is, it takes a moment for Simon to react. He stiffens after a moment, jerking in Soap's strong hold and growling when the action makes pain flare up from his injuries. "Soap -."

"There's no danger, Simon," Soap whispers. "Yer not gonna die. Ye think he's gonna, what, grab a bloody toaster and drop it in?" He cups Simon's chin, feels his rabbiting pulse beneath his thumb and smooths over the taut tendon. "There's nothing sharp here. Cannae fall and crack yer head open. Ah've got ye. Not gonna let anythin' happen tae ye."

"Johnny." Simon's voice is weak, pitiful. He tries to turn around but can't with his shoulder. Soap lets him sit up, watches him realize he won't be able to get out on his own unless he's willing to crawl. Tension sharpens his spine, makes his shoulder blades stand out starkly. Soap reaches out and touches the old bullet wound next to his heart, flattens his palm.

Simon swallows, lets out a wounded, animal sound. "Why does it matter so much?" he demands, voice thick. "Why the fuck do you care?"

A question Soap has asked himself often. He shouldn't care. For a long time, his survival and sanity relied on ignoring one of these manifestations of Otherness, looking away so they cannot demand his attention until they get bored and fade, or find another poor soul to latch onto.

"Because he's not going anywhere," Soap tells him gently. "And because it hurts somethin' awful tae see the people I love be so afraid."

Simon scoffs. "He's not afraid of me," he snarls.

"Yes he is, Simon," Soap argues. "So am I, if Ah'm bein' honest."

Simon tilts his head, the corner of his eye barely visible.

"The fact that just the sight of 'im is enough to get ye preparin' tae die fuckin' terrifies me," Soap tells him. "What if Ah'm not there, the next time? What if somethin' happens tae ye and ye just…give up?" He shudders at the thought. "I can't let that happen. I won't."

Simon shakes his head, but has no reply.

Soap sits forward, wraps his arms carefully around Simon again and kisses his damp nape. "Ah willnae let 'im hurt ye," he promises. "Can ye at least trust me on that?"

Simon swallows loudly, his heartbeat fast and heavy against Soap's chest. He's gained enough weight that his ribs aren't as visible when he heaves in a breath, his thick thighs shaking badly enough to ripple the surface of the water. Simon exhales harshly, and covers his eyes with his hands.

Soap presses his lips together, figures that's as much as he's going to get. "Ghost," he calls, quietly. He's never needed to shout to get Ghost's attention. "C'mere."

Ghost's shadow falls over them as he steps into the room, blocking out the overhead light, which flickers briefly before coming back to life. Simon shudders violently, able to sense his presence, and Soap watches as Ghost stares at them both, then kneels down and removes the mask from his face.

"Johnny?" he asks, his harsher voice unsure. Simon flinches away from the sound, but with Soap's arms caged around him, he can't go far.

Ghost's fingers flatten on the edge of the tub, gloved but surely with white knuckles from the force of his grip. His eyes linger on Simon, dark and yearning. He presses his lips together, sighs through his nose.

"Simon," Soap coaxes, keeps his voice soft. "Simon, darlin'. Look at him. See how he looks at ye."

Simon shudders again, gasping, panicked. He shakes his head, once.

Ghost swallows, so unbearably sad, and whispers, "Please?"

Simon's breath hitches. Slowly, he lowers his hands, laces his fingers with Soap's and clings to him tightly. Tension lines every muscle, surely aggravating his injuries, but he refuses to uncoil or move, like he's braced for a blow. His eyes clench tight enough to form lines at the corners, before he inhales slowly, and allows them to open.

He turns his head, and their eyes meet. It's not cosmic, some great shifting of the axis of the world to send them all careening into vertigo-induced hysteria. There's no explosion of light and sound, no darkness, no dread - at least, not on Soap's end, but he's never been afraid of Ghost. Not in any way that matters.

Just a sudden, abject softening of Ghost's eyes. Simon's eyes, suddenly, staring back. Abruptly, Soap realizes that maybe Ghost has never been able to mimic Simon in his sweetness, because he's never experienced it himself. He's never seen a fond, happy smile. Never seen the open affection in Simon's eyes. Never heard his voice short of panicked and harsh.

But when Soap squeezes Simon's fingers, and brushes a thumb over his sternum, Ghost sighs into it. His scarred lips part in a smile, revealing human teeth, a little crooked, a little yellow. His brow softens from its perpetual frown.

"Hello, Simon," Ghost whispers.

Simon shivers, swallows. Rasps, "Ghost."

Ghost looks down, briefly, to the new wounds adorning Simon's body. Slowly, he pulls his gloves off, revealing a perfect mimic of Simon's own hands. They shake as he reaches forward, and though Simon tenses all over, he doesn't shy away when Ghost's fingers brush his cheek.

They both shiver at the touch. Simon shifts his weight, the water too cool now for comfort, and goose bumps break out down Ghost's neck. Simon just stares at him, breathless, strung taut. Soap fights a hand free and reaches for Ghost, cups his face and as Ghost leans into his touch, Simon leans into Ghost's, mimicking him without conscious thought.

"See?" Soap whispers to both of them. "Nothin' tae be scared of."

Simon huffs, and Ghost smiles. His fingers trace one of the scars on Simon's lips, down his chin, to the ragged healing tissue on his shoulder. His touch is feather-light and careful, and Simon barely twitches.

"You're healing well," Ghost praises quietly. "Letting Johnny take care of you, yeah?"

"Yeah," Simon replies. "Couldn't stop him if I tried."

"Me neither," Ghost says. "He's a stubborn bastard."

"That I am," Soap mutters, and uses his toes to grab the chain of the plug and pull it free so the water can drain. "Help me get him out of the tub, aye?"

Ghost nods, his hands landing gently on Simon's flanks to hold him steady as Soap wriggles himself free from behind Simon and clambers out of the tub first. Together, they help Simon upright, let him grab shoulders and wrists and fight himself to his feet. Ghost holds him when he steps out of the tub, Soap takes up the towel and dries him off, grabs a fresh set of clothes so he can help Simon get dressed. He kneels to get on the sweatpants, Ghost helps Simon work his arms through the sleeves of his t-shirt.

"There's a lad," Soap praises quietly, kissing Simon's shoulder. "Last meds and then tae bed, aye?"

Ghost swallows, takes a step back.

"Did Ah say ye could leave?"

He doesn't miss the look Simon and Ghost share. Exasperated, unsure. Two peas in a pod, they are. Finally, Ghost shakes his head with a small, rueful smile.

"C'mon," Soap coaxes, and steps away so Simon has to lean on Ghost and walk out of the bathroom. He flicks off the lights and fan, fetches Simon's medication and water for him as the two stumble towards the bedroom.

Simon dutifully swallows his pills once he's settled in bed, watching Soap as he gets dressed, Ghost hovering awkwardly at the far side of the room. "Just my luck to have a heart attack in my sleep, now," he mutters.

"S'not gonna happen," Soap replies sharply. "We won't let that happen."

Ghost nods immediately.

Soap slides into bed, pulls Simon close, and fixes Ghost with an expectant look. "Come here," he commands, when Ghost just stares at him.

Simon tenses again. "You can't be serious."

"Deadly," Soap teases, stroking Simon's wet hair from his forehead. He looks to Ghost again, jerks his head. Ghost prowls closer, unable to hide his predator's gait even with Simon's soft eyes, his human teeth. Slowly, he pulls the covers back and crawls into bed behind Soap, and Soap feels his clothing melt into something softer, better to sleep in. His arms are bare up to his short sleeves, his toes cold just like Simon's, making Soap jerk and hiss when he presses them to Soap's calves.

Soap smiles as they all settle, the room doing dark, breathing evening out. It's pure habit that has him cupping Simon's face and kissing him, drawing him close to his chest. Behind his head, he hears Ghost gasp.

Of course, objectively, he knows that Simon feels what Ghost does, and vice versa. They can sense each other in a primordial way, an instinctive way like an animal senses an oncoming storm. When Soap has left bruises on Ghost, Simon's skin sports the same marks. Whenever he's spent the night with Simon, Ghost moves the next day with the laxness of a well-fucked, satisfied predator.

There's knowing, and there's feeling. Feeling the tentative press of Ghost's body against his back and thighs. Feeling the heat of Simon's hand as it flattens on his flank, over his heartbeat, and knowing Ghost can feel it too.

They kiss the same, they always have. Sweet and hesitant like they're waiting to be pushed away. Soap deepens the kiss, slides his fingers through Simon's hair just to hear Ghost whine, nuzzling his nape. "Johnny," they whisper at the same time, and then more urgently, when Soap reaches down to grip Simon's cock through his sweats; "Johnny…"

Ghost's cock twitches against his thigh as Soap strokes Simon, slow and lazy. Digs his hand beneath the waistband to grip him skin to skin, earning an echoing gasp. Ghost kisses desperately at Soap's nape and Simon's mouth goes lax, uncoordinated, mismatching actions making him pant and moan against Soap's mouth, hips twitching weakly into his grip.

"There's my boys," Soap whispers. Simon's soft, dark eyes are wide, occasionally darting behind Soap but unable to stay away for long. Soap pulls him closer, keeps his grip firm, and turns so that he can find Ghost's mouth in the darkness and kiss him, too. Ghost grinds against him, panting, Simon pressing needy little kisses to the arch of his throat. Soap quickens his hand in reward, drinking in their dual harmony of whines and moans.

He parts from Ghost's mouth when he needs air, rolls back towards Simon and then climbs over him, careful not to put any weight on his injured thigh. Simon stares up at him, chest heaving, and cries out when Soap frees his cock and bows down, taking Simon all the way down his throat. Ghost's snarl is heavy, choked off, his entire body shuddering in a way Simon's can't with his injuries.

Soap swallows around Simon's cock, gets him all slick and messy, then pulls off so he can bring his hand back in, turns when Ghost reaches for him and pulls him up into another fierce, wanting kiss. He doesn't push them together, knows Simon isn't ready for that, but his hands and mouth are generous, effortlessly bringing Simon closer to the edge and feeling in Ghost's increasingly sloppy kisses that he's feeling it too.

When Soap reaches down and grips Ghost's cock with his free hand, both of them cry out, faces twisted into matching expressions of overwhelmed pleasure. Heat and slick flood beneath his palm on Ghost, and he aims Simon's cock so that his come spills over his knuckles and Simon's shirt, nothing on his skin to aggravate his stomach wound.

Four hands reach for him, pull him down between their bodies. Two hungry mouths kiss and bite at him, desperate and needy. Soap kisses Simon until he calms; his cheek, his forehead, holding him close as Ghost lays worshipful marks to the nape of his neck. Ghost takes his come-covered fingers and sucks them down and Soap tastes himself on Simon's tongue.

…Which is an interesting little side effect, but something to be examined at a later time.

With the pain meds and orgasm, Simon is fading fast. Tentatively, he reaches out with a shaking hand, pulls at Soap's wrist until his fingers slip free of Ghost's mouth and kisses his knuckles, laps at the sheen of saliva adorning them. His gorgeous, soft eyes are dark, his cheeks flushed, lips bruised. Downright angelic, vulnerable.

Soap slides a hand into each of their golden hair, smiling. "Give each other good dreams, yeah?" he rasps.

Simon frowns, but before he can speak, Ghost asks, "What about you?"

"This wasn't about me," Soap says, earning a matching duet of disgruntled huffing. "Ye can make it up tae me in the morning, how about that?"

Simon looks over his shoulder, another silent moment of communication. Then, he nods, swallowing harshly, and lets his arm extend over Soap's body. It makes him wince, tugging at his shoulder, but he fights through it so that he can place his hand on Ghost's flank. Both of them shiver, melt into the touch, and from behind Soap comes Ghost's hand in answer, correcting his clothes before lying flat on Simon's hip.

Overwhelming affection and possessiveness spear Soap in place. He's always been a greedy bastard. Caught between two of his favorite people, that gnawing, restless desire settles, blinks its pleased satisfaction.

"I think you're gonna be the death of me, Johnny," Simon whispers.

"One day, maybe," Soap agrees. "But not today."

Ghost presses close, nuzzles his hair like an affectionate cat, and sighs. Anchored together, unmoving, they follow each other into the deep void of sleep, interlaced and moored, and dream good dreams.