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“Soap.”
He’s been talking for so long that his throat is beginning to feel scratchy and raw. He’s not even sure what he’s saying at this point, barely paying attention to the words slipping from his tongue. All he knows is that if he keeps talking, he keeps this. For at least a moment longer, he keeps him. Soap ignores the call of his name.
“Johnny.”
If he weren’t so focused on burning holes into the soles of his boots as he paces back and forth across Ghost’s floor, Soap would notice the annoyance creeping into the other man’s tone.
The owner of the voice sits on the edge of the bed, dressed head to toe in tactical gear he has yet to take off; Soap hadn’t given him a chance to take a breath.
Upon hearing the news that Ghost had returned from—yet another—solo mission, successful but a bit beaten up, Soap had abandoned his meal and his company in favour of marching down to the room he knew the man would be in, standing around the table Laswell sat at while they debriefed. His footsteps were heavy and his jaw was set. A few new recruits passed him and, while usually joyful and comedic, picking fights with Soap and pestering him, they skirted to the edge of the hallway, hugged the wall when he passed; kept their heads down and eyes on their boots.
It had taken everything in him to not barge into the room and drag Ghost out by the straps of his vest, by the collar of his jacket. He had even debated knocking politely, trying to convince Laswell that Price sent him to retrieve Ghost for a reason they both knew to be untrue.
But he had waited, leaned his shoulders against the wall right beside the door and crossed his arms over his chest. His toes tapped impatiently against the floor. If he listened closely, he could hear a muffled voice through the wood; Laswell’s calm and cool tone, perfectly structured sentences and formulated responses. Soap couldn't hear Ghost.
Still, he waited. He knew the man to be behind the closed door, whether he was talking quietly or simply not talking at all; he knew Ghost was there, and he wasn’t planning on letting him slip through his fingers again.
He wasn’t leaning against the wall for long.
The door opened casually, neither of the people inside aware of Soap’s presence.
“Oh,” Laswell paused for a moment upon seeing him. She regained her composure easily, quickly, and continued, “Good evening, Sergeant. Is everything alright?”
Soap had barely listened to her, barely registered her words. He rushed out a quick, “Good to see you, Laswell,” before reaching past her.
Ghost was standing behind her, looking upset at being stopped for an unimportant reason. His arms were by his sides and his weapons were left on the table behind him. There was blood on his mask; the dried brownish-red substance stood out shockingly against the white of the skull, and Soap figured there was more that had seeped into his vest and clothes, but the fabric was too dark to show it. Despite his anger and frustration, Soap hoped that the majority of it had belonged to Ghost’s enemies and not the man himself.
Laswell watched with raised eyebrows as Soap grabbed onto one of the straps on Ghost’s vest. He tugged, glaring up at the hulking man.
The look on his face must have been motivation enough—Soap doubted the man felt remorse, felt guilt—as Ghost put up no fight at being tugged along, though he made brief eye contact with him before taking a step. Black paint framed brown eyes and stained his skin and he looked at Soap as if he were ready to stab him.
Soap could tell when he wasn’t wanted, could tell when people don’t want company. But he surged on, gave Laswell a tight-lipped smile and curt nod and ignored the way Ghost tore him limb from limb with his stare. Hand still held tight around the vest strap, Soap yanked Ghost fully out of the room and started down the hallway.
They were the only two in the area, the base seeming deathly silent and still, spare for Soap’s anger, so large it filled the space entirely. He fumed and his body felt hot. Words crowded his mouth, choking him and making him gag; he felt used. Abandoned. Misled and confused and untrusted. Ghost followed close behind him, quiet.
It hadn’t taken long to navigate the base, and they had ended up in Ghost’s room. Soap had opened the door and, rather harshly, shoved Ghost over the threshold. He had followed, closed the door behind him. Locked it.
Soap had given Ghost no chance to remove his tactical gear, given him no chance to speak or breathe; he had been pushed, again, toward the bed.
This is where he still sits.
Soap keeps pacing in front of Ghost, waving his arms as he speaks and trying to keep his voice even and steady. He’s said his piece already, given his lieutenant a lecture about taking another mission solo, abandoning given orders in favour of doing things his own way, getting himself hurt in the process. He rambles on and on, no longer making any sense but continuing to speak because of how good it feels to rip into Ghost, to finally speak what’s been on his mind since they started being… Closer with each other.
And Ghost has yet to give a response; the first word Soap has heard him speak since they saw each other was his own name, then again.
The man sits like a statue, carved from expensive stone and chipped in all the wrong places. His shoulders barely move as he breathes, his fingers twitch in his gloves. There’s an air of hidden vulnerability around him, exhaustion masked behind a skull, dull eyes the only semblance of something living within the shell of a body that sits before him.
“Johnny,” Ghost calls again. His voice is low, effortless. Rough and scratched and bruised and battered and exactly the same as the man it belongs to.
Soap falters. For a brief moment, he slows. It’s as though his body lags behind his brain, foot falling to the floor mid-step and words caught in his throat. Something in Ghost’s voice, in the way he says his name and sits so still and exists—it consumes Soap wholly. He catches sight of the way Ghost stares, not at him, but through him.
“Are you even listenin’ to me?” Soap is afraid of the answer.
Ghost lifts his gaze, for a moment, to make true eye contact. “No.”
He stares at him in disbelief for all of one, two seconds, before throwing his hands up in exasperation, groaning. “You’re a real piece of work, y’know that, Simon?”
“Are you done, MacTavish?”
“Ghost, you can’t be fucking serious.”
Ghost says nothing, just stares. It’s as though he’s warning Soap at the same time he’s provoking him, daring him to take one more step and push a little further.
And Soap has never backed down from a fight, not if it’s handed to him on a golden platter, not if it’s presented by the man who frustrates him to no end.
He hates that Ghost is able to worm his way under his skin so easily, rile him up and anger him; he knows which buttons to press, likes to poke at them for fun.
He hates that he cares so much about Ghost, regardless of how he seems unable to care back.
So Soap squares his jaw and stops pacing, turns to fully face the man sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed to the nines in tactical gear but able to kill him without using any of it. He doesn’t falter as Ghost stands, rises to his full height and looks down on him.
“Are you done?” Ghost repeats.
“No, I’m not done. I—”
Ghost makes a dismissive move, waves his hand in the air. “Spit it out, then.”
“You’re fuckin’ with me.”
There’s no response as Ghost continues staring down at him. Slowly, he begins to pick apart his gear. Radio and headset, vest, belt. Thigh holster, jacket. Gloves.
Soap’s had enough. “You’re really actin’ as if everything’s okay?”
Boots next. “You’re not explainin’ yourself.”
“I did. But you don’t fucking listen.”
“Wasn’t important.”
“It was—is important!”
All of his gear has been removed, set to the side on his bed to be dealt with later. Ghost stands before Soap in socks, pants, thermal undershirt. The mask is still on, still coloured with dried blood. Soap is scared of what wounds might exist under the cover of his clothing. “Quit your whining.”
Something inside of Soap snaps. “Simon Riley you are the most selfish bastard I’ve ever been unlucky enough to meet.” With every word, he takes a step closer, feels the anger that’s been bubbling inside of him for days since Ghost left on the mission; it pulses against the sides of his skin, heats his brain and his tongue and makes his words fiery. It boils over, spills out.
Ghost stands his ground until Soap is right in front of him. “What else?” He provokes.
“You’re destructive. Reckless. All you care about is yourself.”
“Don’t lie to me, Sergeant.”
“Oh, yeah? What part isn’t true?” Soap doesn’t give him a chance to respond. He’s right up in his face, now, breathing heavy. “You take missions solo, ignore Laswell and Price and every fuckin’ other person who offers to support you. You go off on your own, preach your choices have consequences bullshit. You don’t care when you get hurt—at this point you seem so desperate to fuckin’ die!”
There’s no space left between them, so when Ghost takes a step, Soap is forced to back up. His voice is poison. “Rather it be me than you, Johnny.”
The response catches him off guard. He falters. “…What?” Ghost’s eyes are lifeless as they stare into his, and Soap wants to catch him before he crumbles into millions of little pieces.
“You think there isn’t a reason?”
“The Ghost works alone,” Soap spits.
“And you get to see another sunrise.”
“That’s not a choice you get to make for me!”
Ghost, seemingly done with the conversation, huffs out a breath and steps away from Soap.
Before he can walk far, however, Soap positions himself in front of him again. “If you’re deadset on getting yourself killed for me, at least fucking—!” Soap cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, plants both hands flat on Ghost’s chest and shoves him. “Fuckin’ say goodbye to me first.”
“That’d only make it worse, Johnny.” Ghost doesn’t look at him as he walks away.
Soap blinks at him, processing his words. He chooses not to respond to them, instead asking, “Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’?”
“Takin’ a bloody shower.” Ghost walks across the room to the attached bathroom, pushes open the door and flicks on the light. The door isn’t fully closed behind him, left cracked an inch; usually it’s shut and locked.
The curtains on the window hide Soap from the starless night sky, and the dull lamp illuminated on Ghost’s desk elongates his shadow, distorts him. Light pools out from behind the bathroom door, yellow and warm, inviting, and Soap closes his eyes as he breathes deep.
He’s still angry. It’s not the first time he’s told Ghost that taking missions solo—even when others have offered to go with him—will only end up getting him killed. The man never listens, ignores every person who volunteers their help. Once, when he had been tasked for a mission with Soap and a rookie, Ghost had left the night before without telling anyone, convincing the pilot transporting him that Laswell changed the original plan. When he had returned a few days later, he had ignored everyone—especially Soap. The only explanation he had given was that he works better alone and didn’t want others getting in his way.
It frustrates Soap to no end.
He cares for Ghost, more than he knows he should, and he doesn’t want to wake up one morning to a knock on his door, he doesn’t want to read the expression on Price’s face as he’s silently handed a set of dog tags with a name he knows all too well.
But Ghost won’t listen, he never does. He shuts Soap out and gives no explanation. The man acts as though he’d rather die than work alongside someone who trusts him completely, someone he’s shown to trust back.
The sound of water hitting the bottom of the shower stall mixes with the annoyed groan Soap lets out.
Ghost’s words ring loud in his ears, echoing in his mind. It’s the closest thing he’s gotten to a confession out of the man, and he should feel touched that he’s looking out for him, but it just makes a knot form in the pit of his stomach, tight and coiled and suffocating. Soap turns his head toward the bathroom.
As if for the first time, as if he’s truly seeing it, Soap notices the door left open. It’s so unlike Ghost, to not shut himself in, to not lock every possible entrance or exit—especially if he’s in such a vulnerable state: in the shower, bruised and bloody and beaten, exhausted from the mission.
And he knows nothing his lieutenant does is unintentional.
Water still pounds down against the shower as Soap slowly unties his boots. He takes care in setting them beside Ghost’s.
His feet follow the same path Ghost’s did as he makes his way across the room. At the door, Soap hesitates.
He taps his knuckles against the wood once, twice; gentle. There’s no response, and he’s not entirely sure if he expected one. He knocks one more time before slowly pushing the door open. It squeaks on its hinges, surely alerting the other man to his presence, but, nonetheless, Soap calls out a soft, “Ghost?”
The bathroom is small; a toilet in the far right corner and a counter and sink across from it; to his immediate left is the shower. There’s a folded towel on top of the counter, next to it are Ghost’s clothes, also folded, with his mask on top. Soap tries to forget the sight of it there, bloodstained and empty-eyed. He fully closes the door behind him.
“Johnny.” Ghost speaks from behind the ratty shower curtain, voice barely heard over the running water. It’s not often that his voice is quiet, meek—Soap hasn’t heard him speak with such vulnerability in… Ever. His mind races.
There’s no steam fogging up the mirror or pooling out from the shower stall. Soap undresses quickly.
His shirt is pulled over his head in a swift movement and dropped onto the floor in front of the counter. He peels off his socks, unbuckles his belt, kicks his pants off and to the side. Left standing in his underwear, Soap reconsiders his next move for one, two, three seconds.
He knows he should leave Ghost alone, let him fester in whatever shit mood he’s put himself in. But Ghost had spoken his name so softly, the word quiet but ringing impossibly loud in Soap’s memory. And the door had been left open, unlocked; Ghost wouldn’t have done that if he had wanted Soap to leave him alone. They’ve grown close enough where Soap is sure of that. And, sometimes, Soap fears what the man will do if left to his own devices for too long, too desolate and destructive. He’s afraid that the man behind the shower curtain will no longer be the one he knows upon exiting.
The shower stall is small and Ghost makes no move to turn around when Soap pulls the curtain back on the rod; it whines, rusted metal against rusted metal, and the sound echoes against the cramped space.
Soap is shameless, as he stands there naked. The two of them have spent too many sleepless nights together, spent too many hours comforting after nightmares and brushing knees under tables; too many stolen glances and shared moans and regretful kisses to feel any sort of self consciousness when showing or sharing their bodies. Not that Ghost is looking at him, anyway.
Despite his taller form, his broad shoulders and sturdy waist and long legs, Ghost looks small as he stands in the shower, directly under the flow of water and his back to Soap. He still doesn’t turn when Soap steps into the stall behind him, doesn’t even flinch.
Water sprays from the shower head in a constant pattern, beating down on top of Ghost’s unmasked head, turning the light, grey-like blond hair into a darker, more somber colour. The shower curtain is pulled back into place, hiding them from the world. Before Soap can even reach a hand out to touch Ghost, he notices the feel of the water against his bare feet.
“Steamin’ Jesus, Ghost, it’s fuckin’ freezing.”
Any residual anger still clinging to his being evaporates as the cold water rushes over his feet, as he watches it shower Ghost completely. Upon closer look, he sees bumps risen along pale and scarred skin, he sees his entire body tremble as he shakes and shivers.
Ghost says nothing, does nothing. His head is bowed and Soap can’t see his expression.
“Simon?” Soap calls, and he hopes his worry isn’t evident in his tone.
It’s as if Ghost has just now noticed his company. He shifts his weight from foot to foot and mumbles a hushed, “Hm?”
Soap blinks. His feet already feel numb, after having stood in the frigid water for such a short amount of time; he can’t imagine what Ghost’s body feels like—his skin must feel as though it’s burning, cold to the touch and close to shattering like glass. “It’s… Ghost, the water is freezing.”
“Is it?”
Cold water stings his arm as Soap reaches around Ghost to fumble with the tap. Every droplet feels like a jab from a needle and, immediately, all the small hairs covering his arms, legs, the back of his neck, stand to attention. It takes everything in him to not pull his hand back from the tap, the metal freezing from the sheer temperature of the water spitting onto them.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap mutters, twisting his wrist and adjusting the temperature. “It’s as cold as it can get.”
Neither of them say anything else as the water slowly heats up. Soap wants to touch Ghost but is hesitant, afraid; he settles for watching the water run down his body in rivulets.
It starts at his hair, which the water sticks flat to his skull. Then it runs down the back of his neck, touches the silver chain of his dog tags, over his shoulders and splits off between his chest and back; Soap watches as it races down scars he’s traced his fingers over countless times. He watches as it runs down new wounds, cuts and scratches and scrapes, the shine from the bathroom light overhead reflecting off of his body and highlighting new bruises, tender skin coloured in rich purples and deep blues. The water drops over the small of his back, the curve of his ass, down his legs and to his feet, where it falls to the shower floor.
Ghost is still shivering, even as steam begins to fill the small stall and open Soap’s lungs.
With the both of them beginning to be engulfed in a desperately needed warmth, Soap tries again. “You warmin’ up, Lt.?”
Still not looking at him, Ghost responds. “Wasn’t cold.”
“Bullshit.”
The man shrugs.
“Are you serious?”
Another shrug.
“Ghost—”
“Couldn’t feel it. Wanted… Wan’ed to.”
And Soap understands.
He and Ghost have lived vastly different lives. They’ve experienced different things, loved and lost in different ways. The pain they’ve dealt with is different, but they’ve both felt it.
Soap knows what it’s like when it all comes crashing down. The weight of the world on his shoulders, the eyes of the population on his back; the stress and the adrenaline and the wounds and the ache deep within his soul. He knows how to push it to the side, how to ignore it in the heat of the moment. He knows how to ignore it in the comfort of the base, in his private room, in Ghost’s arms. He knows Ghost knows this, too.
But they can both only hide it for so long, only pretend to be whole and alive until their pasts catch up to them, their bodies betray them.
The stress makes them crack and crack and crack until something comes along to shatter them.
And Soap knows he was the battering ram, the grenade, the bullet and the fist smashing into Ghost’s glass facade until he broke into a million pieces.
He doesn’t regret his anger. To him, it’s justified: Ghost had been gone on his mission, one that Gaz and Scarecrow were tasked to join him on, for almost a week. He had gone alone, of course, and had barely kept in contact with Laswell, going completely radio silent other than to inform her of the mission being a success and a few minor wounds he’d sustained.
Soap had been kept in the dark, hadn’t known Ghost went alone until Gaz walked up to him with a dangerous expression on his face and a demand on his tongue.
So Soap doesn’t feel as though his anger is misplaced or misguided; Ghost frustrates him to no end, and he’s reached his limits. But his stomach churns at the scratch in his throat as he swallows his saliva, reminders of raising his voice and lecturing and breaching Ghost’s personal space.
It pains him, to know that Ghost is hurting, and it’s worse to know that he was the one to push him over the edge.
In the cramped space of the shower, hidden from the world and laid bare to the man in front of him, Soap reaches his hand out.
The skin stretching over Ghost’s back is still cold to the touch. Raised scar tissue ridges against Soap’s palm and he presses flat against it. He can feel the expanding of Ghost’s ribs as he breathes in, can feel the way his body shudders upon exhale. Hot water runs over the back of Soap’s hand as it makes its way down Ghost’s body. The shivering has stopped.
“Ghost.”
No response. Soap doesn’t mind. He’s familiar enough with Ghost’s body language, his mannerisms and reactions—even when he’s like this—to feel comfortable enough to keep his hand between his shoulder blades.
Still, he tries again. “Can you feel this?” He pushes into Ghost, barely noticeable, but enough.
A nod.
Soap moves his hand down, to the centre of Ghost’s back. He presses the pads of his fingers into him, rubs his thumb over a fresh wound. “This?”
Another nod.
Instead of going further down, Soap trails his hand back up, palm bumping over vertebrae until he reaches the back of Ghost’s neck. His fingers touch the ends of wet hair and the chain of his dog tags digs into his skin. “And this?”
Ghost’s exhale is shaky.
Soap takes a small step closer. His hand stays there, on the back of Ghost’s neck. “Ghost?”
A twitch.
“Look at me.”
“No.” Ghost responds quickly, breathes out the syllable as if it hurts him to say. Soap can picture the way his eyes must squeeze shut.
“Why?”
“‘Fraid of what you’ll see.”
There’s a feeling in his chest, buried deep within his rib cage and the meatiness of his heart. It feels like a stab, a bullet wound, a fist around him, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. “Not afraid of you, Lt..”
The shake of Ghost’s head is abrupt. It jostles Soap’s hand, and he adjusts by shifting it down, touching the heel of his palm to the space between his shoulder blades. “‘Fraid of how I’ll look at you,” Ghost clarifies.
Soap takes another shuffling step forward, their bodies almost touching. “How are you gonna look at me?”
“Like a dying man looks at water.”
His hand trails down; slow, methodical. “Are you dyin’, Simon?”
Ghost shivers as Soap’s hand stops just above the small of his back, right over top of a still-forming bruise. “Feels like it.”
When he takes one more step forward, his chest is centimetres away from touching Ghost’s back. The hot water from the shower head falls over both of them, now, and Soap speaks low, barely loud enough to be heard over the running water. “Are you okay with that?”
“No.”
Soap nods, even though the man can’t see it. “So, if you’re a dyin’ man, then that makes me…?”
“Water.”
He stays silent. The last thing Soap wants to do is push Ghost further than he’s willing to go; he wants to gather all of Ghost’s pieces and reassemble him the way Ghost wants to be reassembled.
Standing directly behind him, Soap wishes he could see the expressions that must be fighting over his face. He wants to see the conflict behind brown eyes—if they’re even open—and he wants to see his thin lips opening and closing as he struggles to find the right words. But he stares at his back, the way his shoulder blades move as he shuffles, fidgets.
“Water,” Ghost repeats, voice strained. “A lifeline.”
A strand of hair falls into Soap’s face, the water pushing the overgrown mess around on his head. He blinks through it.
“‘M dyin’.” Ghost takes a deep breath. “And you make me feel like I’m not.”
Soap pushes, just a little. “What d’you need?”
“To feel alive.”
“Simon.”
“Save me, Johnny.”
Pressing his hand down on the bruise it rests over, Soap vows to bring Ghost back from the brink of extinction.
The distance between them is closed.
Soap’s right hand stays on Ghost’s back, squished between their two bodies. His left starts at Ghost’s shoulder, trails over his bicep and elbow, forearm. He loosely wraps his fingers around Ghost’s wrist.
His chest presses against Ghost’s back, hips against his ass. Ghost’s form is sturdy, strong, yet Soap can feel him shudder when their skin makes contact. Soap feels it, too—that tingling feeling, spreading from the tips of his fingers and up his arms, over his shoulders and down his chest, his back. It travels through every nerve in his body, awakening every cell. He can feel it in the tips of his toes, the backs of his knees, his tailbone.
It’s always been like this, whenever he touches Ghost, whenever Ghost touches him, and he understands what Ghost means when he says he makes him feel alive. He understands what he means when Ghost asks, so carefully and gently and selfishly, for more.
Soap slides his hand over the wet skin of Ghost’s back, grabs onto his hip while still holding his wrist. He touches his chin to Ghost’s shoulder and blinks water from his eyes. “Look at me?” He tries again, voice softer, velvet.
Ghost shakes his head, and Soap doesn’t pry.
With his arm out of the way, fingers pushing hard into Ghost’s hip bone in the way he knows the man to enjoy, their bodies are flush together. Soap holds Ghost against him as though they were huddling for warmth around a fire, as though they were spending their last moments curled together before being engulfed in volcanic ash, enjoying each other as long as they can before history picks their bones bare.
And they stay like that, melded together and stitched at the seams, for too long, for not long enough. Soap holds Ghost and grounds him, never once twitches or shifts or removes his hands. He knows Ghost craves the consistency, the stability; he stands behind him and lets the water run over both of their heads, heat them to the core. Ghost has long since stopped shivering.
They stand like that until the water begins to cool off, go from scalding hot to lukewarm. It spits over them, the water pressure fluctuating between steady and sparse. Still, despite knowing they’re bound to run the base’s minimal hot water supply dry, Soap makes no move to rush Ghost.
He adjusts the position of his head, replaces where his chin had been against Ghost’s shoulder with his lips. It’s a ghostly touch, a faint kiss, but it seems to stir something within the man he holds.
Ghost’s inhale is deep. His throat bobs as he swallows and his chin twitches as though he’s about to move his head. When Soap lifts his lips and kisses him again, an inch away from where he had pressed his lips last, Ghost whispers, “Sergeant.”
“Drop the formalities, sir,” Soap speaks against his skin.
“MacTavish,” Ghost tries again. He’s still rigid, porcelain cracked at the edges. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”
Soap kisses the junction of his neck, where his shoulder begins curving upward. “No place I’d rather be than here.”
He knows what Ghost is doing—he knows a lot more about Ghost than he’d previously thought, it seems. The man is trying to push him away, not out of annoyance or disrespect, but out of fear.
Intimacy scares Ghost—years upon years of pain and isolation has driven him insane; the man craves it, Soap knows, but he fears it just as much. And here he is, perhaps the most vulnerable Soap has ever seen him. Body relaxing, sinking into Soap’s touch and lips, melting from the water and skin on skin; mind dying to follow along and play the part. He’s afraid to ask for what he wants, afraid of indulging himself. Afraid he doesn’t deserve it.
“Soap—”
“Simon.”
“Johnny.”
“What d’you need?” Soap asks again. The words are familiar on his tongue, saccharine sweet and light as air; he’ll ask over and over again, to assure Ghost that he’s here for him, that he’s doing this for him. That he wants him, in his entirety. Soap would spend hours doing it, if it’s what Ghost wants.
“It’s selfish.”
“Maybe it is.” He keeps his lips on Ghost’s neck, speaking against a vertebra.
Ghost takes a few breaths before responding. “You’re being selfish, MacTavish.”
“Aye, Lt..”
“Take more.”
So he does.
Soap gives Ghost’s hip one final squeeze before sliding his hand along his body, along his front. He touches his abdomen, stills. Keeping hold of his wrist, Soap feels around for Ghost’s pulse. When he finds it, he presses down, slight, with his fingers. “Feelin’ more alive, aye, Ghost?”
Ghost’s hand flexes into a fist and then relaxes. He drops his chin to his chest. “Not enough.”
Moving slow, Soap trails his hand over the expanse of Ghost’s stomach. He feels raised skin, scars he’s familiar with, scars he could spend hours tracing over, kissing, asking about their origin. He knows there are more there, too, more that haven’t built enough scar tissue for him to notice as he continues moving his hand further down, past Ghost’s navel.
Right as the tips of his fingers touch the top of Ghost’s pelvis, feeling the start of coarse wet hair trailing further down, Soap stops. “Better?”
He can picture the look on Ghost’s face, frustration mixed with desire, nothing short of a war being waged across hidden features. He can picture the way his eyes are squeezed shut, the way the black paint he wears under his mask thins and runs, drips down his skin as the water continues to soak into him. Soap can feel the heavy rise and fall of Ghost’s chest as he breathes, can feel his elevated pulse under his fingers.
“Better.”
“Good enough?” Soap kisses the top of his spine and then moves to the other shoulder. “Or more?” Another kiss, a small nip from his teeth.
Ghost’s breath hitches. “Please.”
“C’mon, Lt..” Soap grins against his shoulder. “You know better than that.”
“MacTavish.”
Ever so slight, Soap moves his hand down. Just an inch, less, but enough. “Ask for what you want, Simon.”
The noise Ghost makes resembles a growl. His body tenses up and he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He raises his head and stares at the shower wall. “You’re pushin’ it, Johnny.”
Another kiss. Another slight movement of his hand. “D’you want me to stop?”
“Don’t.”
Soak tsks. “Ask nicely. That’s not very polite.”
Ghost huffs out a laugh, a quiet thing, easily mistaken for a grunt or a bark or a sigh if Soap hadn’t stowed the sound away in his memory the first time he’d heard it; if Soap hadn’t spent hours, days, weeks waiting to hear it again. “Never was good with manners.”
It’s a taunt. A smug attempt. Never one to back down or leave the last laugh to the other; it’s Ghost’s way of asking for what he wants without having to actually ask. He’s on his knees in front of Soap, eyes begging, hands clasped in front of him, pleas dripping from his lips like honey—all without moving a muscle.
“That so?” Soap asks. Ghost has set a trap and he’s fallen into it—jumped into it. Headfirst. Fearless. Eager.
Giving one final squeeze to Ghost’s wrist, Soap lets go and trails his hand up the back of Ghost’s arm, feeling over muscle and sinew and skin, dragging his palm through water droplets. He feels the strength in Ghost’s shoulder, traces over each rib. His hand dips under the arm he had just been holding, palm flat against Ghost’s side. The water makes it easy, fluid, as he feels up the man in front of him, grabs at his chest and squishes his pectoral briefly. Finally, Soap’s hand settles, still, over Ghost’s heart.
The feeling of Ghost’s heart thumping under his touch is intoxicating, more so when he feels it speed up as he shifts his other hand down and to the side, touches the front of his thigh, just below his sharp hip bone. Having Ghost like this, pliant and ready under his touch, leaning into his every movement and breathing heavy, makes Soap press his hips harder against the curve of Ghost’s ass.
Maybe, just maybe, Soap really is a little selfish. Maybe seeing Ghost crumble under the weight of his own desire sparks something he’d rather not think about in his chest. Maybe it makes his heart skip a beat, his head spin and vision swim; maybe it makes him feel soft, delicate. Maybe it makes him want Ghost like this always, only for him. Something special, something earned.
And Soap will be damned if he doesn’t earn it right here, right now.
He bites at the side of Ghost’s neck, still careful, still gentle, still doing this for Ghost and not himself. When he speaks, he does so directly into Ghost’s ear; he’d deny it if asked if he made his voice an octave lower on purpose. “What’re we gonna do about that, then? Hm, Simon?”
Ghost’s muscles twitch, strain. His breaths are heavy and long—he tries to keep himself calm, to Soap’s amusement, and fights the fact that he knows he’s failing. “More.”
“Always a man of so few words.” When Soap sinks his teeth into the flesh of Ghost’s neck again, he laves his tongue over the indents of his teeth, kisses atop the mark once he’s done. “We both know that’s not good enough.”
“Don’t know what you mean, MacTavish.”
Digging his nails into the meat of Ghost’s thigh, Soap sighs. “Gettin’ nowhere.”
Both of Ghost’s hands reach up to cover Soap’s, left over the one on his heart, right over the one on his thigh. He grips with intensity, the strength of a man hardened by scars inside and out. Ghost tries to move Soap’s hand from his thigh toward his crotch. “Then move faster, Soap.”
In an act of mercy, Soap lets Ghost move his hands for him, lets Ghost guide his palm over his thigh, his calloused fingers scraping over flesh he’s been deemed important enough to grow familiar with. Ghost’s heart thump, thump, thumps under their stacked hands, steady but turning erratic and deadly quicker than Soap is able to comprehend.
It drives Soap crazy, how sensitive Ghost is; the man has spent the majority of his life living under a mask, shrouded in privacy and covered head to toe in layer upon layer of thermal undergarments, shirts and pants and jackets, tactical gear. Any touch sends him over the edge and he’s become an addict—once Soap starts touching him, it seems as though he can never get enough. And Soap feels drunk whenever Ghost gets like this, gets needy; he feels power hungry, wanting nothing more than for The Ghost to feel good because of his hands or his mouth or his body.
Soap chuckles, low and drowned out by the sound of the water, against Ghost’s skin. The man’s outright eagerness makes his head spin, and he shakes off Ghost’s hand. Palm pressed in the centre of his hips, fingers reaching. “Ask.”
Ghost groans, squeezes Soap’s left hand hard enough to hurt—harder. “Such a tease, MacTavish.”
“What I want is simple.”
He can practically feel Ghost’s resolve shatter. Everything has brought him to a breaking point—the solo mission, Soap’s anger and frustration, the wounds littering his skin, the softness in which he’s touched with. It all combines, brews together and smashes down the last wall Ghost had held onto. “Fucking touch me, you bastard.”
Soap smiles against Ghost’s skin, moving back to the top of his spine. The silver chain looped through Ghost’s dog tags is kissed, picked up between his teeth. “Wasn’t so hard, aye?”
Ghost damn near collapses when Soap finally wraps his hand around his semi-hard cock. He lets out a breathy noise, shaky, and Soap can feel the muscles in his abdomen clench. His hand grips onto Soap’s like a lifeline, the other matching the strength as he holds his forearm.
Giving a few lazy strokes, coaxing Ghost’s cock to full attention, Soap keeps the chain in his teeth. His fingers squeeze Ghost’s pectoral and he blinks more water out of his eyes.
“There we go,” Soap speaks around the silver. His hand still moves, languid, from the base of Ghost’s cock to the head—he keeps his fingers together, for now, waiting until Ghost gets more worked up. “Good boy, Lt..”
And worked up Ghost gets.
Now fully hard and breathing heavy, Ghost’s skin is hot despite the water pouring over them slowly cooling off. Soap can’t see his face, but he knows the man is flushed bright red from forehead to chin, colour creeping down his throat and onto his shoulders; he wishes he could see the way he looks, scars vivid and usually-hidden freckles standing out against the hue.
Ghost bites his tongue against moans and sighs, keeps quiet, and Soap notices quickly. He drops the chain and begins mouthing along Ghost’s shoulder, sucking and biting and leaving marks that will have faded by the next time he’s able to get his hands on him. He speeds up the movement of his hand, swipes his thumb over the head on every upstroke.
He knows Ghost won’t talk, he never does in situations like this. The man goes silent, either unable or unwilling to form words—Soap isn’t sure which. He communicates with shakes of his head, grabbing with his hands, whining high in his throat, rolling his hips, squishing Soap’s head between his thighs. It had been a bit of a learning curve, Soap scared of hurting Ghost, or going too far or too fast or too hard. Eventually, he had learned.
Soap is acutely aware of everything Ghost does. His hand keeps stroking, slowing down to a teasing pace; he pushes his thumb under the head of Ghost’s cock, waiting for the reaction. When Ghost sucks in a sharp breath, digs his nails into Soap’s arm, Soap takes it one step further.
He brushes over the slit, runs his nail along it. Ghost shudders, a low whine escaping his mouth.
“You like that, eh, Lt.?” Soap kisses along Ghost’s jugular, teases his teeth against it, quickening his hand’s movements once again.
A fire burns hot within his own stomach, knotting in his core and sparking, crackling; dangerous, deadly. Pulling his hand free from underneath his lieutenant’s, Soap snakes it around and under Ghost’s arm at the same time he rubs the heel of his palm over the head of Ghost’s cock, drops his hand lower to tease his fingers over the skin of his inner thigh, his balls.
The base’s hot water tank has officially run dry as the water that the shower head spits over them is cool—far from the freezing temperature it was when Soap first joined Ghost in the cramped stall, but impossible to call warm, too. Still, Soap touches Ghost, pulls breathy sounds and choked moans from lips he wishes he could kiss, wishes he could see.
He sucks another mark into Ghost’s neck as his left hand smooths over the expanse of Ghost’s back, slipping between their bodies. Strong fingers touch the base of his spine, dip down further; Soap feels Ghost up, grabbing at his ass, spreading him open and pulling off of the hickey he was licking over to ask, gentle, “Can I?”
All of his movements have stopped, giving Ghost ample time to register the question, consider, answer.
Ghost’s head shake is small. Soap sees it, though, and immediately pulls both hands away.
He takes the opportunity to run a hand over his head, push the wet mop of hair out of his face. “Want me to keep goin’?”
A nod.
“But no fuckin’ you.”
Another shake of his head. Impatient, Ghost huffs out a breath.
“Alright, alright,” Soap laughs, low in his throat. He hooks both arms back under Ghost’s and plants his palm firm on the centre of his chest, goes back to stroking his cock.
Immediately, Ghost melts back into his hold. His head tips back, chin knocking into Soap’s temple.
Soap takes advantage of how much more skin is in his reach, latching his lips onto the side of Ghost’s throat, sucking another mark and pretending that, for the time being, Ghost belongs to him.
He’s aware of his own erection pressing against Ghost’s back; the pressure is nice—not enough, but nice. Soap wants to focus on Ghost, help him unwind after his mission and destress after his own yelling. But when Ghost starts thrusting his hips into Soap’s fist, it becomes too much for Soap to ignore any longer.
Adjusting his stance so his feet are staggered between Ghost’s, Soap grinds his own hips into the man in front of him, the movement small and barely satisfying, but something. “This okay?” Soap, again, doesn’t move as he waits for Ghost’s response.
A nod, quick and frantic and excited. Ghost holds onto Soap’s forearm as he strokes him, reaches down behind him to grab onto the back of his thigh with his other hand.
Soap wastes no time in rutting against Ghost’s lower back, his ass. The friction is heavenly, his cock sliding across Ghost’s skin with the ease of the water pouring over them. He sees stars, pushes hard against Ghost’s chest to press them closer. His own grunts and moans, heavy breaths, join Ghost’s, and soon, the shower stall—the whole bathroom—is full of their joint noises, the lewd sound of Soap’s fist going up and down Ghost’s cock with the aid of the water, the slap of skin on skin as Soap pushes his hips against his lieutenant.
Breathing heavy into the crook of Ghost’s neck, Soap shifts his hand to grab at the dog tags hanging from the shiny silver chain. He wraps them in his fist, closes his fingers around them, squeezes his eyes shut.
It’s a small act of rebellion, of defiance, surely meaning nothing to Ghost. But to Soap, gripping those dog tags and holding them in his palm, pressing hard enough where he hopes, upon unclenching his fingers, he sees the words Simon Riley imprinted into his skin—it means more to him than he knows it should. It means that, for a moment, for a brief and selfish and pathetic moment, Ghost is his. Entirely and wholly and completely his.
It helps him forget that, after they’re done, Ghost will go back to being cold, closed off. Forbidden.
He’ll go back to being Soap’s lieutenant, giving orders and expecting them to be followed without conversation. He’ll go back to taking on solo missions and not caring if he dies.
He’ll go back to not saying goodbye to Soap before leaving.
But for this moment, for this night, he can pretend he and Ghost live different lives; their day to day worries are no longer theirs to hold onto—rather, Soap pretends, the only thing he needs to hold onto is Ghost himself. For this moment, everything is okay. For this moment, Ghost cares about him.
Soap tugs on the chain, ruts his hips, moves his fist. Ghost lets out a garbled moan that makes Soap want to wrap his fingers around the man’s throat instead of his identification, squeeze against his windpipe instead of the metal.
He wants to kiss him, actually kiss him, when Ghost’s whole body begins to tremble, shake. He wants to see the look on his face as his blunt nails leave crescent moon shapes along the back of his thigh and the meat of his forearm. He wants to be laying down on his bed rather than be standing in the shower when Ghost’s voice cracks on a loud moan, when he touches his chin to Soap’s temple, when he juts his hips into his fist.
Ghost’s orgasm comes quick, shaking through his whole body. The man tenses, all his muscles spasming as Soap keeps his hand movements steady to work him through it.
Soap follows as Ghost takes a slight step forward, lets go of his arm and pushes his hand flat against the shower wall. He’s standing outside the flow of water, Soap the only one getting sprayed, and he leans forward to press his forehead against the wall, too.
Words of encouragement get caught in Soap’s throat as he loses himself in the feel of Ghost trembling in his hold, the sound of his broken moans and whines and laboured breaths, the pleasure shooting through his veins every time he fucks himself against Ghost’s back.
He keeps stroking Ghost’s cock even after he’s came, trusting the man enough to tell him when to stop; he knows Ghost craves the pain of being overstimulated, knows he yearns for it—Soap struggles with watching him claw at the shower wall, scratch into the back of his thigh, as the stimulation overwhelms him.
But he keeps going, bites down on the curve of Ghost’s shoulder as he finishes over his back, rides himself through his own orgasm.
Breathing heavy, Soap stills his hips, supports himself against Ghost as much as Ghost is supporting himself against the wall. There’s still a hand on the back of his thigh, grip tight enough to leave bruises. Ghost still hasn’t pushed him off, shaken his head, given any sort of indication that he wants Soap to back off. The man moans, whines, practically mewls—Soap isn’t entirely sure he ever stops shaking.
He’s still holding Ghost’s dog tags when a choked sob leaves the lips of his lieutenant. He hasn’t been told to stop yet, and he swipes his thumb over the sensitive head of Ghost’s cock as another cry fills the air of the shower, drowning out the sound of the now-freezing water spitting over Soap’s head.
It’s only when Ghost lets go of his thigh, braces both forearms against the wall and presses his forehead against it, sobs never stopping, that Soap drops the dog tags, pulls both of his hands away from Ghost’s body.
Ghost still cries, but a muffled grunt, a frustrated huff, hits Soap’s ears at the same time the man pulls a hand away from the wall to fasten a vice-like grip around his wrist.
Soap pulls away with force. “Ghost.”
A whine—pleading, begging.
“Not tonight. I can’t…” Soap trails off. He can’t listen to Ghost sob and cry as he works his hand over him, can’t listen to the pained sounds he makes as he refuses to get Soap to stop. “Please, Simon.”
Ghost, of course, says nothing.
The room is practically dark as the two sit on Ghost’s bed. No overhead light, and the desk lamp had been turned off, too. The only glow comes from the bathroom light, the off-orange haze neither of them had bothered to turn off after exiting the room; it seeps through the crack in the door, left pushed open not unlike how Ghost had invited Soap in earlier.
It’s silent, spare for the harmony of their mismatched breaths, chests rising and falling out of sync.
Soap sits with his back propped up on Ghost’s pillows, legs stretched out flat in front of him. Ghost sits between his thighs, back pressed to his chest in a way that’s too similar to how they had been before, in the shower.
After Soap had refused to keep touching Ghost, he had offered to help him clean up—wash his hair, lather his body, clean whatever remained of the black paint off his face. He had been shunned, pushed out of the shower blindly as Ghost refused to look at him. Soap hadn’t even tried to fight back.
He had stepped out of the freezing shower, legs still unsteady from his orgasm; he dried his body with the towel Ghost had set out for himself, walked back into the room in search of clothes. And he had sat, dressed in a pair of boxers and one of Ghost’s t-shirts, on the bed, back against the pillows, waiting.
When Ghost had stepped out of the shower with the towel around his waist, Soap couldn’t help but feel a pang of loneliness inside his chest at being shut out. The man still refused to make eye contact with him as he walked around the room, dug through drawers and moved all of his gear from the bed to its proper position.
Finally, when he had pulled on a long sleeved thermal, a pair of old sweatpants, he looked at Soap. It was brief, a raised-eyebrow glance—and Soap had folded. Of course, he had.
He had shifted his legs, opened his arms, gestured.
And here the two sit.
Ghost’s hands are folded in his lap and he rubs the pad of his finger along a scar slicing across the back of his knuckles; Soap had never gotten the story of that one, had never asked. Something tells him that Ghost won’t share regardless. The man’s sturdy frame still looks small. Closed off.
The tension that sits heavy in the room weighs on Soap’s shoulders, crawls down his throat and chokes him. He fiddles with Ghost’s dog tags again, rubbing his thumb over the indents, feeling the letters and numbers that he’s long since memorized.
Ghost’s weight against him is welcoming amidst the chill that seems to linger over his skin, left from the shower, left from the coldness he’s shown by his lieutenant. He knows he should say something—anything. Words seem to get stuck in his throat, taste bitter on his tongue.
So he sits there, holding Ghost’s dog tags like he had before, holding Ghost like he had before—the touch somehow more and less intimate.
Time moves slowly. Ghost’s hand movements still, until he’s left merely leaning on Soap, the back of his head against his collarbone, shoulders relaxed; his eyes are closed, lips parted ever so. His chest moves up and down, steady, as he breathes.
Soap drops the metal tags and reaches up. Both hands rest on Ghost’s shoulders, thumbs pushing into the muscle. It’s a hesitant touch, Soap not entirely sure if he’s allowed. But Ghost doesn’t move, doesn’t make a noise of protest—he still hasn’t spoken a word, and Soap isn’t all too surprised. Oftentimes, he doesn’t speak again until hours after.
He decides to test his luck more, slides his hands up the side of Ghost’s neck, over his ears. His pinky fingers catch on a strong jawline.
Having dried completely, Ghost’s hair is soft under Soap’s calloused palms. He cards his fingers through it delicately, starting at the front and making his way to the back; he scratches at Ghost’s scalp with his nails, rubs his thumbs against his temples, ghosts his fingers over the skin behind his ear. Still, he’s not pushed away—he knows Ghost isn’t sleeping, the soldier never falls asleep first.
Soap takes a deep breath. “Ghost.”
No response. Ghost breathes in, breathes out.
And Soap is a coward. “The mission… It went well?”
When Ghost nods, Soap sees the shitty light shine on the side of his face, sees the skin pulled taut over a menacing looking bruise, deep purple over his cheekbone. Without thinking, he takes a hand out of his hair to touch it. Ghost winces, and he feels a knot tie itself in his stomach.
“Got a lil’ beat up, aye, Lt.?” He keeps his voice light despite the sinking feeling in his chest. Against his better judgement, he can’t help but feel protective, worried about Ghost. Soap knows he shouldn’t.
Ghost shrugs, nonchalant.
“Did you go to the infirmary? Get a physical?”
A shake of his head. It pushes Soap’s hand away from his face.
Soap sighs. “Tomorrow mornin’, alright?”
No movement, no response. Ghost sits, still, body pressed against Soap’s and eyes staying closed.
“Ghost—” Soap cuts himself off when the man in question makes a hand motion, a short and dismissive wave-like movement, annoyed, telling Soap to shut up. He scoffs, spits out, “Fuck you.”
That laugh again—huffed, quick, rough.
“I know you’re not used to people carin’, Lt., but I do.”
“Always knew you were a fuckin’ idiot, Johnny.” He speaks softly, the malice on his tongue evaporating in the darkness of the room.
Soap rolls his eyes. “Not a very nice thing to say, Ghost.”
“You didn’t seem to care ‘bout niceties earlier.”
He isn’t sure what he’s referring to—the yelling, the teasing, the refusal to keep fucking him with his fist after he cried out in pain. Nonetheless, the statement is like a stab to the chest, a punch to the gut. Soap squeezes his eyes shut, breathes through his nose. “Ghost…”
“Go back to yellin’, Johnny. Anger suits you.”
Soap pulls his hand from Ghost’s hair, rests both on his shoulders as he had done before. His fingers dig into the muscle. “Stop tryin’ to push me away. It’s not goin’ to work.”
“Better for you if it does.” Ghost’s words are hushed. What should be a jab, an anger-filled response, sounds more like a confession spoken at an altar, spoken with hands clasped in front of a chest and head bowed. He sounds as though he’s pleading, hoping and wishing and praying that Soap will forget him in his entirety.
“Stop it! You’re not gettin’ rid of me.”
Ghost’s hands are clasped tight in his lap, knuckles turned white from the force. His breaths are heavy. “Wish I could.”
And it hits Soap right in the chest, buries deep within his skin and roots itself in his bones; his veins are full of poison and he burns. “Keep goin’ on those fuckin’ solo missions then! Get yourself fuckin’ killed if you think you’re so much better off alone.”
His entire body is tense, yet Ghost stays still. He makes no effort to move, no attempt to. His voice is strained as he speaks. “Watch your words, MacTavish.”
But Soap has opened the floodgates and there is nothing to stop him now; words spill from his mouth with more intensity than they had earlier—he feels split open, sliced at the chest and flayed, carved. All of his thoughts and emotions are on display. “So afraid to have somebody care for you—to care for somebody. You think you’re subtle, Ghost, but your heart’s on display, mate. You’ve grown soft. Weak. Try to save what you’ve got, aye? Before you tear it apart, recognize how good you have it.”
“Sergeant MacTavish.”
“You’re a bloody coward, Simon Riley.” The grip Soap has on Ghost’s shoulders is bruising—almost ironic, Soap thinks, as he pushes his fingertips between hickeys he had left not too long ago.
Ghost’s eyes are still closed, but his lips are pressed into a thin line. His jaw is set, eyebrows furrowed, fists still in his lap. “For once in your goddamn life, Sergeant, think before you fucking speak.”
And Soap has never been particularly good at taking orders, especially if Ghost is involved, especially if the order comes from Ghost. His mouth opens and before he even knows what he’s saying, he’s torn down everything he has worked so hard to create. “Would it scare you if I told you I loved you?”
It’s a mistake as soon as the words touch his tongue.
Everything goes silent.
Soap isn’t sure that love is even the right word. He finds comfort in Ghost, prays that, one day, Ghost will admit to finding comfort in him, too. He admires him for all the reasons he despises him; solitude takes hold of the masked man and he retreats into himself at any opportunity. Soap likes that he can fix him. He hates that Ghost makes him feel like he has to.
So love isn’t the right word, perhaps not by a long shot. But it’s all he has, and he clings to it desperately.
It’s the best thing he can say to try and get Ghost to understand the push and pull he feels toward him; he’s caught, endlessly, in Ghost’s gravity. It’s not love, no, but it’s more than it was before he had gotten to know him, gotten to see behind the mask and feel under the clothes and touch what is considered untouchable.
And he knows it’s unfair. Knows it’s bordering on manipulative and needy and selfish. Knows the guilt of the lie will keep him from sleeping at night in the future.
But for right now, he needs Ghost to stay. And that need, that primal need, overrides everything else.
“Don’t say that, Johnny.” Ghost’s voice comes out in a whisper. “Please, don’t… Not right now.”
Soap hates how meek he sounds, hates the tremble in his own voice. “Does it scare you?”
“More than you know.”
A deep breath. “Will you stay?”
The silence eats away at Soap. He chews on his bottom lip until he tastes the metallic tang of blood, switches to gnawing on the inside of his cheek. His hands shake as he roams over Ghost’s chest, back down to his dog tags.
Metal cold against his palm, Soap holds them tight once more, as though they will bring Ghost back to him, as though they will fix everything he has ruined. He wishes he could take the words back.
It should worry Soap, how quickly Ghost gave up on arguing; he can see the sentences swirling behind his closed eyes, can feel the tension and anger and resentment in his hardened body. He knows Ghost itches to say something drastic, something sure to pierce Soap through the heart and leave him bloodied on the floor.
But he remains silent, almost shrinking into himself.
Soap starts counting his own breaths. One on the inhale, two on the exhale. Three and then four and then five. Every breath in, he runs his thumb over the Simon Riley pushed into the small piece of metal. Every breath out, he touches the information underneath—Ghost’s blood type, identification number, religious preference.
He has all the information memorized, but he finds himself repeating it over and over in his head.
S - I - M - O - N - R - I - L - E - Y
Each letter feels so familiar to his thumb that he’s sure he was born with the intention of knowing them, of spelling them out, of existing with them.
He gets so caught up in recalling Ghost’s identification number that he almost misses the way the man in his lap relaxes all of his muscles again. His fists unclench and he goes back to rubbing over the scar on his knuckles. His lips part, his breathing slows.
And if Soap hadn’t trained himself to be tuned in to every move Ghost makes, every word he says, he would have missed it.
“Yeah.”
When Soap wakes the next morning, the other side of the bed is cold. He thinks nothing of it.
The curtains are still pulled over the window, but the holes in them allow light to spill through—it appears to be early morning, given the greyness of it all. None of the lights are on, not even the bathroom light he had forgotten about before they had gone to sleep; Soap knows Ghost hates total darkness and, though he would never admit to it, prefers sleeping with some sort of light source.
The pillows are in their correct positions, the blanket loose and jumbled around Soap’s waist. His t-shirt smells like gunpowder and cigarette smoke, a scent shared with the entirety of the room.
His muscles burn when he stretches. His throat scratchy when he swallows. His hands yearn for the touch of those familiar letters, that scarred skin and too-soft hair.
Soap lays on his back and stares up at the ceiling. He blinks and he blinks and he blinks and he hates himself for what he said the night before.
Something in him, deep down, doesn’t regret it.
He thinks nothing of the empty room, of the missing pair of boots beside his own.
He thinks nothing of the cleared off desk, of the bathroom door wide open. The water damage on the ceiling or the crack in the wall. The jacket missing from the back of the chair. The half empty bottle of bourbon by the bedpost. The scuffed floor.
He thinks nothing of anything until something catches his eye, hung from the doorknob and glinting in the dim sunlight.
Ghost carries his dog tags with him everywhere he goes—they all do, as soldiers. Only supposed to remove them upon death.
He knows what the item on the doorknob is, knows that the metal will burn him upon touch. He knows what words and numbers he will read on it. He knows there’s a man—a soldier, a lieutenant—walking around without identification.
A fire sparks within him, ignites and catches and spreads. It feeds on the thought of the man shot and killed, unable to be recognized due to spending a lifetime behind a mask. Due to making a foolish promise and breaking it. Due to leaving his dog tags hung on the door of his room, left as a vile parting gift to the man he can’t hide his feelings for.
Soap does nothing to douse the flames.