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His wing feels cleaner than Ghost thinks it's ever been, and the near constant ache that was once there has been worked out with the touch of Soap's slow, methodical combs. Ghost distantly registers himself trembling under his touch.
Soap pauses, and then one of his hands pulls away to curve around the back of his neck; firm and grounding in its steadiness. Ghost, for the life of him, can't stop himself from pressing into his hand with a breathless wheeze.
"Breathe, Simon," Soap murmurs. "It's just me."
or, it's the ghostsoap wingfic that no one asked for