Work Text:
There are things they don’t talk about.
There are things they just don’t talk about. Not with strangers. Not with their families. Not with their friends. Not with their fellow soldiers. Not even with themselves.
They don’t talk about Price standing at the door to the helos or the planes that carry his people to and from their missions, tapping each and every one of their helmets when they board and when they disembark. They don’t talk about how Price trusts his officers completely yet still does a head count wherever they go to make sure everyone is accounted for.
Some of the new bloods comment out loud now and again, not in a joking or disrespectful way but curiously: does he always do that?
Gaz is always quick to tell them, “Focus up.”
They don’t think about whose bed they are slipping into at night, they just do. Sometimes it will be the same bed for multiple nights in a row or a different bed every night. Sometimes there isn’t another bed at all. Sometimes when they are in their own backyard, they go off base - Soap’s bed is the most comfortable but Price’s flat is much closer than the Scottish Cottage and has a bed big enough for the four of them.
Hands are gentle along arms, fingers trace ribs and the bones of their spines. Knees split legs, cold feet dance with warm ones. Noses nuzzle into the crooks of necks and along hairlines. Lips press soft kisses across chins, cheeks, and temples.
They don’t turn each other away, it’s almost like they can’t; the solid warmth of another body is a welcomed reminder that they’re here. They’re alive.
They don’t mention that Ghost is noticeably nicer when one of them is around. If the rookies are acting out or need to improve on their times, it’s not unheard of that Ghost grinds them (and perhaps their wills) into the ground with repetition until they are nothing but boneless heaps scattered across the training field.
This is usually when Soap magically appears with a fresh tea or Gaz comes bounding across the track asking if he’s done so they can spar or a booming “Lieutenant!” echoes as Price walks from one side of the compound to the other.
Ghost will ignore the salute Soap gives to them. Ghost will ignore the slap of hands between Gaz and one of the nameless piles like they’re handing Ghost off. Ghost will also ignore the wave of dismissal Price throws back when one of the recruit’s voices cracks with thanks.
They don’t discuss how Soap can get into these intense conversations with himself about a demolition project he’s working on. The cheers of success or the rage of failure as he builds. How he has to be careful of the reactions of the ingredients and how he has to double, triple, quadruple check the placement of the components to make sure that he doesn’t accidentally blow himself or the base up. When the frustration reaches a peak Soap will make sure every item in the research lab is carefully stored and locked away before he storms off to clear his head.
The kitchen is where he releases the majority of his pent-up energy.
It’s Gaz, legs up underneath him on a chair, PSP in hand, who stops when someone wanders too close looking for a midnight snack. “Vending machines-” he points in the opposite direction of the doors he guards without looking up from his game, “Left, 10 paces, and a right.”
It’s Ghost, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest who scares the shit outta’ the newbies who don’t even realize he’s standing there until he flips the knife in his hand. There is always an awkward silence before there’s some sort of crash in the kitchen and neither of them move so they mutter some sort of excuse, the sole of the boots squeaking as they scurry away from Ghost and the kitchen.
It’s Price sitting in the chair, chin down, legs out, book held to his stomach by his hand but magically knows when someone reaches for the door handle, no matter how quiet they try to be. “You don’t wanna’ do that son.” He warns with a grumble. He only had to lift his head (and an expectant eyebrow) to three people before the word spread that the kitchen was off limits when one of the three were outside the doors.
They don’t argue when Gaz makes them take breaks from work throughout the days when they’re on base. Dragging Price out of his office because the paperwork will still be there. Having Ghost set aside the training schedules for the rookies who needed work because what if one day they get assigned to the one four one - they need to be ready. Gaz is also the bravest one of them, who either brings food to Soap or brings Soap to food when he’s lost in research.
They absolutely don’t mess with movie nights either. Those are extra special. Those are the rare nights where they have the base to themselves, only a few essential personnel around to maintain the basic functions. Where Gaz and Soap take over one of the smaller conference rooms, dragging in mattresses and blankets and pillows to create one large plush area. Soap will hook up his laptop to the projector, Gaz will procure snacks and drinks from the mess, and Price and Ghost will finish up whatever official business they have before they all crash.
It can be a hit or miss if they actually pay attention to the movie. Sometimes they’re actively engaged in the cinema or sometimes it’s background noise and they just lay there. Together. Enjoying each other’s presence. If hands wander, they just roll with it. Their fingers press into lingering bruises, not to hurt but to lick at the gasps that escape. Another reminder that they’re here.
They don’t speak about the nightmares that haunt their minds, awake and asleep. When they return home, they’re covered in all sorts of questionable substances: dirt, grime, blood - theirs, but mostly the enemy’s - other bodily fluids, chemicals, leaves, and twigs stuck here and there in their gear.
How they scrub themselves in the showers until skin is rubbed raw. The heat never does manage to melt their thoughts away and the cold never numbs the pain. At first, they paused to give each other an out. Who wants to waste their time for a nonverbal, nearly non-responsive companionship when they could seek another? They learned quickly that it was just one of their quirks, refusing to leave if they needed each other.
And they needed each other.
They don’t say ‘I love you’. At least not out loud. The battlefields of war are far too unforgiving to be jinxed by the superstition of three not-so-simple words. Not when the threat of a sniper glinting in the distance tracks their movements or a well-timed air strike could demolish whatever building they use for cover, or an ambush could take them out. Instead, they improvise:
“You broken?”
“No sir.”
“You solid?”
“Solid.”
“Copy?”
“Rog.”
“You with me?”
“Always.”