Chapter Text
It’s been going on for weeks. Months, even. It’s never really anything – stupid banter, dumb jokes between mates. Flirting the way men in the military flirt with each other. It’s normal. It’s not anything, no more than bonding and the lack of opportunities to get laid. It’s the way they communicate. Soap knows this, has done this, has been doing this for years.
It’s never anything.
The most it usually led to was teasing remarks from his mates – I’ll start to think ya mean it, Tav, if ya keep goin’ like that. The worst it has led to was hatred and fear, it was slurs smeared on his door and shit in his bed. Shoves and elbows in the locker room that bruised, a cracked rib and no one to help him. Dirty looks, always in places the higher-ups won’t see. Not that they would have done anything about it.
It’s been years since Soap has let it escalate like that, though, he’s learned from his experiences. Doesn’t try anything with military men, not anymore, because it’s never been safe, and he’s been sold out for a laugh one too many times to risk it.
Instead, every once in a while, he finds himself a nice bloke to fuck when he’s on leave, always a one-and-done deal, never more, never longer. He doesn’t want anybody crying for him when he doesn’t make it back.
Soap doesn’t think too hard on the fact that he hasn’t found anyone in months. Hasn’t had the desire to. Hasn’t gone out to meet anbody, hasn’t even kissed another person… Not since he joined the 141. Not since-
It’s never anything.
“ Johnny, ” the hushed whisper in his ear rips him from his musings. Soap scoffs to himself. Fuckin’ perfect timing this one has, always. Like he fucking knows when Soap is-
Christ, shut up. Shut up.
His own mic crackles to life when Soap clears his throat.
“Aye, what’s the matter then, LT?”
“ You gonna move your arse some time today? Gonna start to think you’re squattin’ just to give me somethin’ nice to look at, eh? ”
(It’s never anything.)
“Fuck off, LT, I was readin’!” Soap defends himself. With a guilty pang, he waves the stack of papers he has gathered in the air as if to prove it. He knows Ghost can see him, knows the building has been cleared, which is why Soap allowed himself to get so fucking distracted in the first place.
Stupid, MacTavish. So fucking stupid. One of these days it’ll get ye fuckin’ killed.
“ Slow reader, are ya? Always took ya for faster than that.”
“Och, away an’- brain goes too fast, cannae keep the words straight,” Soap mumbles, more to himself. He doesn’t owe Ghost a fucking explanation, the wanker. Certainly won’t explain that he was actually distracted by the thought of what it might feel like to roll up that mask, kiss the scars that hide under there, kiss the-
“ Straight, huh? Unlike- ”
A gurgling scream cuts Ghost off mid-word. All of a sudden it’s so fucking quiet on the other end.
Soap bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood. Surely this is just Ghost fucking with him (he has never done this before, would be against regulations). Surely, this is just Ghost dicking around; his voice will crackle to life in Soap’s ear again, rough and beautiful like always and Soap will call him a bastard and Ghost will call him a wanker, and Soap will make a joke about wanking and-
(It’s never anything.)
A few seconds pass. The line stays quiet.
“Ghost?” Soap isn’t panicking. He is too good for that. But he is worried, can hear it in his own voice, can feel his heartbeat thunder in his ears. “LT, request ye check in.”
Nothing. Silence on Ghost’s end, deadly and dripping in violence.
“Fuck. Fuck ,” Soap whispers to himself.
Decides to just take the stack of papers, shoves them all in his pack. He can sort through them later. The others are too far away, it was supposed to be just him and Ghost, and Ghost wasn’t even supposed to get involved. A silent takedown, this was meant to be, a quick slitting of throats, one guard killed by Ghost’s fatal trigger finger and two more when Soap snapped their necks. Nobody was ever supposed to know they were here. Nobody did know.
“LT, how copy?” he repeats, just to make sure.
There is nothing, then-
A crackle, a groan, the huff of someone whose air is getting pressed out their lungs, then shrill feedback that nearly blows Soap’s eardrums out and then – silence again. Cursed fucking silence, which means nothing good, nothing fucking good has ever come of silence.
Soap’s blood roars.
Fuck. FUCK!
Soap books it. He’s out the door in seconds, out the buildings within the minute, sprinting full speed to where he knows Ghost’s vantage point was.
Can’t be too late, can’t be too late , he’s never been too late, Ghost is good, he’s so fucking good at what he does, he’s fine, he has to be-
All Soap hears is the cracking of dry wood beneath his soles as he slows down, approaching the nest Ghost had built to keep Johnny safe from afar. Not a single sound in the air, not a fucking bird singing.
“LT,” Soap hisses through his teeth. “LT, ye hear me?”
A quiet groan rips through the silence, there is the barely audible stir of metal against metal, and then-
“Johnny?”
“Fuck!”
Around the tree, just steps away from Soap, Ghost is propped up, a man curled over him in a weird position, leaking red from a smile that’s too low to be his mouth. Ghost’s one hand is curled in the man’s hair, fist so tight it must be white underneath the dark fabric of his glove.
His other hand holds the knife, dripping blood, fingers curled loosely around the hilt. The moment Ghost’s dark eyes meet Soap’s, the knife clatters to the ground.
Johnny is by his side in no time at all, is cradling his head in his own bloodied hands, is staring at him, trying to gauge how bad it is.
“He get ye, LT?”
Ghost just groans in response, shoves the dead body off his lap as he nods in sluggish motions.
“Fucker came from the back, had a knife in my fuckin’ side before I knew what was what- cut my fuckin’ mic off-”
Soap’s fingers search frantically for the wound, find it, press down on it, down on the hot blood like he could keep it inside if he tried hard enough.
“Yer so fuckin’ pale I couldnae tell if ye were bleedin’ oot, LT,” he jokes weakly.
“Be fine, Sergeant.” Ghost stares at him with intent eyes, something in there Soap can’t quite place. “Be alright. You’re here now, aren’t ya?”
Soap nods, still pressing down on the wound.
“I go’ ye, Ghost. I’ve got ye now. Even have what we came for,’s all right here.”
“Well done, sweet’eart.” Ghost’s eyes are slipping shut as he says it, and Soap’s heart skips a beat – skips two beats, only to make up for it after. Blood soaks Soap’s hands but all he can hear is Ghost’s gritty voice. Sweet’eart.
It’s never anything.
But Soap is weak, he’s so fucking weak for this man, and words push their way past his lips before he can hold them back, bottle them up like he has done for months, like he does every time Ghost opens his damn mouth, and now he’s bleeding and-
“Don’t- fuckin’ say tha’ if ye don’t mean it, LT,” Johnny chokes out, his voice rough.
“Mmm.”
The sound Ghost makes is barely a sound at all. His eyes don’t open when Soap taps his cheek, and suddenly, Soap’s heart is racing for a different reason entirely.
“Oy- OY ! Stay with me now, LT, come on- come on , I’ll call for help, we’ll fix ye right up, won’t we- Ghost- Simon! ” Soap is definitely not panicking. He’s too good for that. His fingers are not shaking when he calls it in, his voice does not break when he hears Price confirm they are just two minutes out. Soap’s eyes are dry as he keeps talking to Ghost – taling to Simon –, as he patches up the wound as best he can, and keeps talking and talking and talking.
“Come on, doll. Come on, ye cannae die on me now, I fuckin’ refuse tae let ye. Ye will die when I fuckin’ say so an’ no’ a day before tha’, do ye hear me, Simon? Ye do nae get tae call me sweetheart an’ then just pass tae fuck oot so ye don’ have tae talk aboot it, who do ye think ye are, ye absolute rocket-”
Brown eyes blink awake, just for a moment, to stare at Soap from far away, clouded and tired with pain.
“You’re no better, Sergeant, are you? You and those fuckin’...” Ghost drifts off, mumbles something incoherent. Soap slaps his cheek, and Simon’s eyes slowly open again. “Mm, those… those bloody… fuck-me eyes ya make at me...”
What?
Soap’s hand comes down again, harder and harder, slaps Simon awake again when his eyes – his beautiful eyes, framed by the whitest lashes Johnny has ever seen – threaten to close again.
“The fuck are ye on aboot, Ghost? Think all tha’ blood loss is gettin’ to ye, aye? Come on, hold on fer me just a little while longer, the Captain will be right there and we’ll get ye oot, come now, love-”
“ Love .” Johnny can hear Simon smile through the mask, can see the crinkles of his skin and the corners of his eyes lift. “Gotta die for you to call me that, Johnny?”
“I’ll call ye tha’ whenever ye fuckin’ like if ye stay alive fer me, love.” Soap is not panicking. It’ll all be fine. Surely it will all be fine, God would not be so cruel-
“MacTavish!”
Price’s hand on his shoulder, just as Ghost sags down again, eyes fluttering closed. Impossibly white lashes against the stark, dead black of his greasepaint, covering the freckles Soap knows he hides there. Soap stares at him, presses the hands that cradled his face to Simon’s neck now, can feel a pulse, just barely.
Price is shaking him by the shoulder, impatient, worried.
“Come, Sergeant. Exfil point five minutes out, gotta carry this heavy fucker there somehow.”
“I’ll take him,” Soap says numbly, bats Price’s hand away when he offers to help him up. “Come on, Cap, I said I’ll fuckin’ take him.”
God fuck, Ghost is so heavy. Don’t call him dead weight, just don’t, he’s not- he can’t- he won’t be- he’ll be fine, just fine.
They make it. Just barely, just so, but they make it.