Work Text:
Soap.
It’s his own fault that he’s in this position, and if he manages to live through it, he’s going to remain adamant about that.
Ghost will say it wasn’t Soap’s fault, that its his — and he’ll have a strong case for this, since he’s the one currently strangling Soap — but it really isn’t. There’s several strong facts to the case here, all of which Soap believes firmly prove that this is his own stupid fucking fault.
Firstly, Soap and Ghost both experience nightmares. It comes with the job, naturally, and even before they were together, they were helping each other through them. It started after Las Almas, when Soap was waking up already half on his feet, feeling the need to move, run, they’re still after you.
He’d ended up in Ghost’s room more than once, because his brain had been primed by the memories to return to that singular mission in his brain. That night in the rain, it’d simply been get to Ghost. When he wakes up from those dreams, the directive stays the same.
He found out about Ghost’s nightmares about the same time. Ghost doesn’t wake up moving like Soap does, he doesn’t sit up with scream or strangled gasp of fear. His nightmares are exactly like him, tense and covert.
They were on a mission, some easy thing that had the 141 up in a cabin in a frozen woods. Soap and Ghost were supposed to be sleeping, Price and Gaz taking watch, and because it was fucking freezing , they were laid out next to the little fire.
Soap woke up, and Ghost was blinking sluggishly up at the ceiling, disorientation clear in his eyes. There wasn’t a single noise made until Soap stupidly reached over to tap the Lt.’s shoulder, and Ghost reacted with a lightning fast punch to his stomach.
Price and Gaz ended up in the living room, thinking Soap was attacked or something, because of the strangled noise he made. Ghost punched hard. Soap had bruises all over his abdomen for the next two weeks, which made the exit of that mission particularly horrible.
Ghost had actually apologized to him then, which was nice but unnecessary. Soap should’ve said something before he touched him, seen if he reacted to that before startling a highly trained assassin.
Which leads him into the second fact — not only does Soap know about Ghost’s nightmares, he knows better than to touch Ghost during or after one. He’s literally felt the pain of that mistake before. So it was a doubly stupid thing he did a minute ago, waking up groggy to see Ghost twitching a bit in his sleep, and rolling over to wrap his arms about him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The third thing is less of a fact and more an opportunity to build his case on. The first two times that Soap and Ghost fell into bed together, they were both post mission, and both exhausted. This led to some absolutely mind blowing sex (Soap is not ashamed to say that Ghost fucked his brains out) and some of the most basic, low-effort, aftercare.
They fell asleep in the same bed. They woke up together in that bed. The third time Soap got to kiss Ghost, the third time they had sex, it was slow and it was gentle and it was so painfully intimate that Soap couldn’t bear to leave Ghost’s room. And then it was just easier for him to leave some clothes with Ghost, easier to move his shower kit into Ghost’s bathroom.
Easier for Soap to crawl back into Ghost’s bed every night they were on base, not for sex, but just to sleep, and to know that if something happened during the night, Ghost would be there for it.
Soap was the one who moved into Ghost’s room, is what he’s saying. Ghost never invited him. Soap just sort of set up shop.
So, your honor, you can see that these three reasons prove that it’s my own fault for getting killed by my partner.
It happened really quick — Soap has always known that Ghost is fast, but it’s one thing to know it abstractly in his head, and another to be on the receiving end of that speed. The time in the cabin, that was so fast that he didn’t even realize Ghost had moved until he was already curled into a ball, croaking like a frog as he tried for air. Only then did he realize that Ghost’s fist was the cause of his pain.
It’s the same sort of situation now. Ghost was twitchy, Soap’s brain wasn’t online, and he rolled over to try and take over the role of the big spoon.
And then, somehow, he was on the floor.
More specifically, as his brain was forced online and adrenaline kicked in, he was slammed onto the floor, and there was an oppressive weight on his hips, and two hands around his throat squeezing very tightly.
He doesn’t even have the room to squeak out Ghost’s name. It’s not like the movies, where the person being choked can manage pleas and calls for help. This is an instantaneous affect of no more voice. Nothing.
It feels like his lungs are going to explode, and the sensation seems to swallow up all of his training. He supposes he should add that to his list of evidence towards his case. He knows how to get out of this. He should be able to get out of this.
Ghost showed him how to get out of a situation like this. But it seems that, when combined with the fact that it’s Ghost who’s strangling him, all those moves go out the window.
In fact, he’d like his grave to spell out how pathetic he was, his hands batting uselessly at Ghost’s chest and shoulders. He manages a few scratches down Ghost’s forearms, and that’s just, that’s it, he can’t do anything.
He can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed, the room was so dark and then his vision started being obscured with static, so he’s unable to see Ghost’s face anymore.
And it was Ghost that he was looking at. There was no trace of his Simon in the cold, unrecognizing, empty gaze that looked down at him.
It’s better, probably. This is better. He won’t be able to see the look on Ghost’s face when he fully wakes up and realizes what he’s done.
Soap’s last thought as everything fades is that he should count himself lucky.
At least with Ghost’s speed, his experience with dying was relatively quick.
.
.
Price .
Price has known Simon Riley for a long time. A lot longer than either of them want to remember.
He’s never, ever heard his Lieutenant sound like that. He hopes to whatever higher power exists that he will never have to again.
He hesitates to think that it was lucky that he was dealing with a bout of insomnia. Hesitates even more to think that Soap was lucky, that the necklace of bruises he has around his neck is the result of luck. That makes it sound like things were left to chance.
They were not. Saying so would imply that what happened tonight was a coherent plan of action, something that required thought put into it.
This wasn’t— there wasn’t any kind of coherency in Ghost’s actions. This was a reflex, an aggressive stimuli response while under the influence of whatever fresh hell Ghost’s brain conjured up in his sleep.
Ghost doesn’t understand that. Probably never will. If Price had to guess, there wouldn’t be a day that Simon Riley was alive and not guilty about what he did to John McTavish.
That guilt is made useful tonight at least, because it’s kept Simon within Price’s sights. Shit, leveraging Soap’s pain against Simon — you owe him this, at least — worked better than threat of suspension from service.
Thus, they sit on either side of their sergeants bed, Price watching the door, Ghost unable to take his gaze away from the black and purple marks on Soap’s skin.
Lucky, the doctors said. A good thing that Ghost knew what he was doing.
A rather poor choice of words — probably the worst ones to say to Simon, who at that point hadn’t even gone back to his room to put on a mask.
So not lucky, not to Price, but a good thing, maybe, if he had to choose one, that Ghost did know what he was doing. His muscles did, anyway, and that meant that Soap didn’t get his trachea crushed completely. If he had, there wouldn't have been anything the med staff could’ve done for him.
It went quite simply.
Price couldn’t sleep. He stared up at the ceiling after forcing himself away from the paperwork at two AM, and when it became clear that his brain had no intentions of shutting up, he put on his ratty trainers, the most comfortable jumper he had and padded out into the hall without a care that he was in his flannel pajama pants.
If there was anyone up who he couldn’t boss around, well, they would be smart enough not to say anything. Everyone else who was below his rank shouldn’t be up in the first place.
He’d walked around the barracks for a while, just doing a basic bed check of the rooks and finding that, for once, they were all where they were supposed to be. That, or they’d gotten better at molding human-like shapes out of various materials under blankets.
By the time he got back to the officers quarters, he wasn’t feeling nearly as wound up, and thought that he’d check on his boys quickly and finally get to bed.
Gaz was returning from the bathroom, scrubbing at his face and clearly not awake. He’d blinked once or twice at Price and then seemed to decide that what he was seeing was a sleep induced hallucination, because he’d just shrugged and went back into his room.
Gaz was — is , hopefully — still sleeping. Still fine and okay. Price didn’t have it in him to wake him up to tell him what happened. He’s sure Gaz will be absolutely raging at him for this, but Price will take it if it means that Gaz gets a few more hours of decent sleep.
One of them ought to, anyway. Besides, he had to deal with Ghost and making sure he didn’t run, because the only thing that could hurt Soap worse than being attacked by his own boyfriend is if said boyfriend never came and saw him afterwards.
The clue for Price had been that Soap’s door was locked.
After seeing Gaz, he’d gone to check on Soap, who was right down the hall. On a whim, he’d tried the handle only to find that it didn’t budge.
Soap only ever locked his door if he wasn’t in there. It’s the strangest omnition of basic personal safety that Price has ever seen, but then again, this is the guy who enjoys being in the presence of bombs.
Also, Soap and Ghost had been sleeping together for at least half a year. Price had no doubt about where Soap went, but he thought that if he didn’t find Soap in Ghost’s room, then he’d be alarmed.
The higher ranking officers have slightly bigger amenities and in a different part of the barracks. Mostly, and if Price were to say, more importantly, they got their own bathrooms.
And, if one of those officers were to come back to themselves only to find that in the throws of their nightmare they’d nearly killed the person they loved, the location means that their scream of terror wouldn’t be heard all through the barracks, but likely be contained only to that floor.
A lovely perk that Ghost decided to test out, apparently.
Price was only in the main hall, he’d just open popped out of the stairwell and was making his way down the long U shape to find his Lieutenant’s room when he heard it.
He doesn’t think he’d ever run so fast in his life.
He got to Ghost’s door in what felt like only a few seconds, scrambling for the right key on his lanyard. All the boys gave him keys to their rooms once they were assigned, one eagerly (Soap) and one with confused impassiveness (Gaz). Ghost never changed rooms after being assigned to the 141, so Price never had to ask for a new key.
That image, the one that first greeted him when he flung the door open and smacked at the first light switch his hand could find, is forever going to be seared into his brain. Right along with the sound of Simon’s screams and the haunting cadence of his wails that followed.
Price stares at the door of their little infirmary room, guarding it carefully, and he thinks of how it truly is that simple.
Price couldn’t sleep so he went for a walk. Checked on his boys. Ghost had a nightmare, choked the life out of Soap, and Price walked in on the tail end of it.
Simple steps, like that. One led to two, two to three. Easy to follow.
Yet he’s still sitting here, wondering how a basic, boring night ended up with them here.
He blinks away the memory of Ghost holding Soap’s limp, unresponsive body and sits up as the nurse comes in. She’s careful, quietly describing what she’s doing and why she’s doing it, almost as if she’s talking to herself, and not trying to stave off the overprotective instincts of two grown men.
Price likes her. He liked her when they first met, after she rolled her eyes behind the doctors back for his shitty wording. He likes here even more now, not just because she treats them with respect, but because she does so while treating them as human.
He supposes she’s done this a few times, worked on soldiers whose teams were there in the room, who were so on edge they might snap if she so much as breathed wrong. She must’ve, because the talking things helps. He likes that he can follow what she’s saying, what she’s checking with her hands and what she’s writing on a chart.
Price clears his throat when it’s clear that Ghost won’t move for her to change the IV. “Is he doing okay?”
”Doing just fine,” She says, opting to carefully move behind the bed, avoiding the various wires and things to reach for the IV bag. “The swelling isn’t too bad; the ice packs are managing it well along with the anti-inflammatory we gave him. He’s maintaining his oxygen levels without too much effort.”
A shiver slides down his spine as he thinks about the other option, were that not the case. If Soap’s throat starts swelling so much that he can’t breathe, then normal intubation wouldn’t be helpful. They’d attempt a tracheotomy.
Price doesn’t know if he could handle that.
”Right,” Price shifts in his seat, fingers tapping against the arms of his chair. “And he’s sleeping still, because of— because of what happened? Nothing with his brain, right?”
She tilts her head, having hung a new bag of fluids and managed to get out from behind Soap’s bed. “We think so, yes, but it’s impossible to tell. We’ve got no idea how long his brain was deprived of oxygen, and so we won’t know if there’s any effects until he wakes up. We’ve got nothing to suspect that he won’t .“ she says quickly. “Just that we have no way of testing for any damage until he’s awake.”
If Simon gets any paler, he’s going to end up in a bed right next to Soap. “Okay,” He nods, “Okay that’s good. That’s— I mean it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, I was giving him rescue breathing almost immediately.”
“Then thats even better for him,” She says kindly, not at all pointing out that they have no idea how long Ghost was strangling him before he woke up. “The only other thing is his voice, and I know the doctor talked to you about that.”
”Yeah,” Price groans, rubbing at his forehead. “Fuck, we have to keep him quiet for a week.”
”Doc’s probably going to want two.” She says, wincing. “His vocal chords could be severely damaged if he tries talking too soon.”
That’s almost going to be a bigger challenge than getting Ghost to forgive himself. So much of Soap’s personality is his voice, and his ability to use it. He’s absolutely the key to getting Ghost back to an operable state, but Price doesn’t know how Soap can do it without being able to talk.
He knows both of them differently but intimately. He knows, without Soap having to say it, without Soap having to be conscious afterwards, that Soap does not blame Simon for this. He knows that Soap’s first order of business, if he remembers what happened, will be to try and convince Price that it wasn’t Ghost’s fault, but a product of something Soap did.
And then he’ll panic, because Price will be trying to tell him to shut the fuck up before he hurts himself worse, but he’ll think that Price blames Ghost, and he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
He knows that for whatever fresh hell Simon’s brain conjured up for him in that nightmare, that this is worse. This is so much worse.
This is one of Simon’s biggest fears, hurting the ones he loves. Perhaps his only true fear. And now it’s come true, in the most direct sense. There is no one else that Simon can find fault with; it was his own hands that did this damage to Soap. This wasn’t a betrayal he didn’t see coming, this wasn’t a terrorist that Ghost didn’t kill fast enough.
This was Simon. Only Simon. It’s his hands that are printed with bruises on Soap’s neck. His hands that have taken away Soap’s ability to speak. Even though it won’t be for that long, Price knows that’s how Simon sees it.
Simon has always hated being out of control, and right along with it was his hatred for anyone seeing him in a remotely vulnerable position. Such as sleeping.
Which is why it surprised Price so much that Soap actually got Simon to let him in. He supposes he ought to try and soften him up now, before Soap wakes up and they have to make sure he doesn’t have any brain damage. It’s not exactly a restful set of tests, and Soap’s bound to be confused when he wakes up.
He should at least get some meddling time in. Remind Simon who, exactly, he’s dating.
“How long have you two been…?”
Simon answering him immediately is more unnerving than if he hadn’t answered at all. “Eight months since the first time.”
Price does some mental math. “After you bruised up his abdomen then.”
Simon flinches at the mention, but nods. Price remembers that mission, because he was torn between laughing at Soap and reprimanding him for being stupid enough to try and touch Ghost while he was sleeping. Ghost didn’t seem to know how to react, so it ended up being the three of them standing around Soap who was curled into a ball gasping like a fish out of water.
Gaz, he thinks, did end up laughing.
He hums, picking at a bit of dirt under his nail. “And he still slept with you after that?”
Simon stares at the fresh icepacks the nurse left, the ones that nearly cover the coloring skin of Soap’s neck. “What’s your point, captain.”
“My point, Lieutenant , is that he is more than capable of making his own decisions. He chose to be with you, to be next to you, even knowing the potential danger.”
“He didn’t ask me to kill him.” Simon whispers.
“No,” Price agrees. “But when he wakes up, and he asks you to stay, you better fucking listen to him.”
(Perhaps for the first time ever, Simon listens to Price, because later, when Soap
does
wake up, and he
does
remember everything, Simon chooses to stay.)