Chapter Text
Ghost has taken to joining the 141 on their trips to the pub.
It’s still somewhat new, Ghost braving public eyes with nothing but the plain black mask and hoodie. He listens more than he speaks, but speaks more than usual— and the team has now decided his presence is mandatory.
The first time had been a travesty- an event Ghost was still raging over in his bunk room at night- when he had donned his secondary mask of unaffected confidence and sat his ass down at a high top with the 141, determined to ball up and enjoy the company of his team like a fucking human being. Then promptly found himself deadlocked, his back to the packed in pool hall.
The attempt at nonchalance had dropped like lead. Paranoia had started dripping acid down his spine as the bar went painfully bright, white hot and cold sweat. The laughter and the crack of pool balls drilling into his ears in the same way screams and gunfire did.
He’d been a right fucking cunt that night.
He could see himself there, glaring into the neon sign buzzing above Soap’s head, pointedly ignoring the table and seething, Such a familiar ice spreading through his veins.
Cold heart, cold eyes, cold shoulder.
He had caught the puppy eyes Gaz threw to Price and the way Soap’s head dipped in defeat when Ghost gave in to the panic and bile bubbling up his throat and ditched the group with a growl. Not so much as a wave goodbye, nor an apology.
Cold.
Human being, his fucking arse.
He likes the veil of Ghost. The gravitas of the character works wonders in the field and with pissant recruits, and the expectation of this behavior from him makes it a perfect place to hide.
But that’s Ghost, not Simon. That’s not who he is under the mask— under the bullshit.
He doesn’t want to be, at least.
Despite the constant fist fight he’s waging against his inner demons, when it matters he can’t seem to break through the thick shell he’s made out of Ghost. He hates watching Gaz’s face sour like that, hates the glow of hope dimming down in Price, hates feeling Soap deflate in real time at his side.
That’s his fucking family. He has carried each one of them on his back through blood, shit, and fire, and he’d do it a million times over.
He would fucking die for them.
But he can’t sit at a bar with his back to the door for them. It’s all so fucking stupid.
But Ghost is healing, god damn it.
Everyone in the service wants to think they are above the circumstance of living through hell. That when a man reaches a certain level of badass he ascends above the need for anything outside of blood, guts, and glory.
Ghost learned the hard way how untrue that all is. How fear, despair, and loneliness are things you can’t opt out of. Underneath all the sludge of his past he is all marred flesh and bone and emotions, like every other soldier. He wouldn’t have survived what he did- what no one else could- without some sort of mental restructuring.
So he’s done his due diligence.
The revenge first— He’d cut down Roba, killed him slow, then hunted every other man that laid a hand on him and his family. He’d buried them in pieces, shallow.
Then he did all the other shit— If only to spit on their graves with each tiny repair to his damaged psyche. He did the therapy, learned the ropes of acute PTSD, memorized the dumbfuck breathing exercises with the same passion he practices his combat maneuvers. Ghost learned to mute the voice of his hateful father down to a dull muffle in the back of his mind, let himself forgive his mother, his brother. Himself. He learned to mourn.
Ghost has been a scrapper since the day he entered the world and that sure as shit didn’t change when he was thrown into his grave. he did whatever it took to crawl out of that hole in the ground and he will do whatever it takes to ensure the frigid hole it left in him doesn’t ice over.
Even if it is bloody fucking box breathing.
So when the next pub night came round, Ghost breathed deep— In, one, two, three, four. Hold. Out, one, two, three, four. Hold. —yanked that plain balaclava back over his head, and utilized the wide berth his batshit aura affords to wade through the crowd in search of the 141 once more. He had expected them to flat out reject his presence once he found them cramped around that booth— and maybe that would have felt better. A more fitting punishment for his piss poor attitude.
Instead, Price had stood up and clapped a welcoming hand on his shoulder. Gaz had all but leaped to his feet—
“Hell yeah, Lieutenant! Proper boys night now!”
—and pulled Ghost towards the vinyl seat Soap was slapping in invitation, grinning like a mad man.
All in all, quite the similar scene as the first time— complete with the same fondness in his heart clashing with the frantic pound of his pulse.
Unlike the last time, the rhythm began to steady before its usual attempt to tear through his chest.
He didn’t even notice the shift until he was halfway through the single whiskey ginger Price had given him, listening to Soap’s complaints on the FNG’s of the week with full clarity. Positioned far into the corner, back to the wall. Exits and entrances in clear view. The ice in his veins easing into a tolerable chill.
Ghost stayed silent but his breath kept steady, and the end of the night had seen him leaving with his teammates at his side, each quietly celebrating a win. Every pub night since has Ghost tucked away to the perimeter, 141 surrounding his peripheral, breath in his lungs.
____________
This night had started in an American pub, continued to a different American pub, and then another, and another, which lead to now.
The 141 had been working with a team in the US near the border of Mexico, on another cartel too big for their britches dealing in arms they shouldn’t have access to. It had been long and arduous ordeal, but fruitful in the end. Ghost had found himself nearly enjoying the company of the American troops and they got to see Alejandro and Rudy again, as a nice cherry on top. With the wrapping of the mission, the Americans took it upon themselves to start a good old fashioned bar hop, determined to outmatch the drinking power of the 141 and Los Vaqueros.
Ghost typically doesn’t drink much- too aware of his family history, too paranoid to allow himself the impairment- but Price had surreptitiously slid a second whiskey across the table after Ghost had finished nursing his first, assuring that he, Alejandro, and Rudy were all needed in an early morning briefing and would all remain staunchly sober through the night. This lead to a third and then fourth whisky, which lead to Ghost, more drunk than he has been in a long while, squashed between Soap and Gaz on a dingy booth seat, listing between their exaggerated drunken movements as they hollered across the tables.
Ghost has a rosy flush and only a light scowl, arms tight across his unarmored chest. He is enjoying the solid presence of his comrades surrounding him, enjoying their slurred voices, the laughter, the warmth— enjoying that he could enjoy it all now.
His therapist was going to have a field day in their next session.
A roar ripples through the bar and then patrons are leaping to their feet, all eyes glued to the televisions, with a concussive shout. Gaz shoots up with the crowd, arms pumping in the air.
“Gooooooaaaaalll!!!! Look at that, our team’s making a comeback!”
“It’s a touchdown on this side of the pond, Sargent!”
“Oh, fuck off, Captain America— a point is a point!” Gaz fires back at the laughing soldier sitting across their table.
The man is tall with a dark complexion. His clothes, tattoos, and dark hair all in regulation cuts. His actual call sign is Lando, Ghost knows. Good soldier, great leader— Ghost likes him. They’re friends, he’s pretty sure. They had bonded over tattoos first, then music after Ghost recognized a DragonForce shirt Lando had worn in down time, and then over books after Lando spied Ghost reading his favorite fantasy series.
Sober Ghost has wanted to ask Lando how his call sign came to be since they’d met. He’s almost positive it’s the Star Wars reference he thinks it is- what else could it be?- but he wants to know for sure. Drunk Ghost really hates Sober Ghost for not asking right now, because the question is burning on his tongue every time the call is used.
Ghost should just ask. Lando wouldn’t mind. That’s the kind of thing you can ask friends about.
Right?
Tomorrow— he’ll ask tomorrow.
Maybe.
“It’s six points, Sargent!” Lando laughs, cheeks pinked as he shakes his head into his half drained pint.
“Six points?!” Gaz huffs, collapsing down into his seat and sending Ghost swaying back into Soap. “… I knew that.”
When Ghost presses into Soap’s shoulder the Sargent abandons his previous conversation and turns, slinging an arm casually across the top of the booth behind Ghost’s back, fuckin’ hell—
“Of course, Sargent!” Wheezes another soldier packed into the edge of their table. Ghost had known his name, but it had faded into the haze of alcohol some time ago. “Given your religious following of American football that started… Aahh…” the man flicks his wrist up and checks the time— “about two hours ago, yeah?”
Gaz huffs, rolling his eyes towards Ghost. “The Americans are bullying me, LT.”
Ghost gives a grunt in acknowledgment and Soap barks laugh, then leans even further in to chastise Gaz. “You’re gettin invested far too quick, Gazzy. They’re winning, but not by much— Team might be shite!”
In an instant, nearly every operative in the bar turns to them with snarled insults and murderous glares, all of which Soap soaks up with a shit eating grin, cackling harder with each hiss hurled his way.
“What reasons could you possibly have to be cheering for the fuckin’ Cowboys anyways, Gaz?” Soap questions over the shouting.
“We’re honorary Los Vaqueros! Cowboys support Cowboys, toilet wand, who else would we cheer for?!”
“Just for the name?!”
“Vaqueros support Vaqueros! Right?!” Gaz bodily turns to Alejandro and Rudy across the table. “Am I right?”
Rudy shakes his head with an incredulous smile while Alejandro shrugs. “Don’t rope me into this, I don’t know a thing about American football, hermano.”
“Ugh. Whatever— the whole sport is rubbish anyways! I can’t wait to get back to the pubs that play proper football.”
The crowd around them surges back to life with fresh anger now directed at Gaz. Ghost huffs, letting his Sargents argue back and forth with the Americans—
“you’re only angry ‘cuz he’s right!”
“Uncultured lot, you are!”
—until the cacophony of voices starts overpowering the music playing over the speakers and civilian heads start turning.
“All right, ya twats!” Ghost growls. The group quiets around him instantly. “let’s all agree that the football on the side of the world opposite to yours is rubbish, how’s that?”
The noise peters out, the glares finally tearing away from the 141 to go back to earlier conversations.
As the bout of chaos subsides Lando sighs, long and amused. “Yikes— you brits sure know how to rile up a room.”
Gaz folds his arms and retreats into Ghost’s side, grumbling. “Yeah, well, you Americans are aggressive.”
“Am fuckin’ Scottish.” Soap bites out.
“You’re lucky you’ve got the 141 guard dog watching out for you. Must be hell keeping these two out of trouble, Ghost.”
Ghost tries not to preen too visibly, but it’s hard with the alcohol fuzzing things up.
Lando smiles up at Ghost, then gestures to the lieutenant’s empty glass and then his own. “Another round, Sir?” He asks as he stands.
“Awa' an bile yer heid.” Soap mumbles under his breath.
“Sorry, didn’t catch that man, what’s up?” Lando says, leaning back down to hear more clearly.
“I said awa’ an—“
“Another round sounds grand, mate— put it on the captains tab.” Ghost interrupts, knocking his shoulder into Soap’s with a subtle force.
“Yessir!” Lando laughs as he backs away with their empty glasses and heads to the bar.
“Can’t go one night without sewing discontent in foreign countries, Johnny?” Ghost sighs.
Soap smirks mirthful and proud.
“Can’t help myself, Sir, yanks make it too fuckin’ easy.”
Lando comes back and they fall into small talk, the energy simmering down to a duller thrum. Ghost pulls the mask just above his lip to drink. He feels the intoxication bubbling in every part of him, almost overwhelming, but pleasantly so. Surrounded by the 141, Los Vaqueros, and none of the usual anxiety that comes with alcohol, he feels floaty— senses both dulled and heightened. His mind flits between Price and Rudy’s in depth comparison of fishing techniques, the taste of whiskey, the flashes of the TV programs, and Soap, Soap, Soap.
That’s somewhat new too.
Ghost has been hard at work tackling his aversion to touch since the 141 came together. He’d been comfortable with Price before, but he was irate the first time Soap and Gaz tried casually throwing an arm around him. He had felt repulsed, nauseous, scared…
Warm. Comforted.
It took him a few weeks to admit to himself and his therapist that physical touch was a love language he has been severely starved of.
Thankfully it’s a language that his squad is annoyingly fluent in. Through them he has started accepting his need for touch and is learning how to enjoy the sensation instead of just tolerate it. It’s going pretty well overall— More often than not he loves being close to his team now.
Only Soap has this strange ability to make him crave it, though.
Ghost tosses back the rest of his drink and the haze takes over completely. Soap is close enough that he can count the freckles the American sun has brought out across the bridge of his nose. He can smell Soap’s subtle cologne, mixed with the scent of black powder and mint that seems to cling to him through everything. He can feel each breath Soap takes. Every couple minutes Ghost has to shake himself out of the reverie of being closer to Soap than he already is. His drunk brain can’t put the brakes on the carousel of syrupy thoughts like his sober mind can. He wants it so bad he can almost feel it— Soap’s illusory hand covering his own under the table, or resting on his thigh.
It’s the strangest thing. He never has these kinds of thoughts with Gaz or Price.
It makes his heart kick in his chest.
He’s pretty sure they aren’t close enough for Soap to feel his pulse but the man seems to sense it anyways. Soap pushes deep into Ghost’s space, like it’s meant for him. He catches and holds Ghost’s eyes and the bar surrounding them goes muffled.
“Alright, LT?” Soap asks under the noise, deep and rumbling. Quiet. Private.
He tries to respond, but his mouth feels stuck around the small smile growing under his mask with Soap’s attention. Soap’s eyes flick down, as if he could see through the fabric, and his own smile spreads to match.
“Aye, you’re doing just fine,” Soap whispers, and Ghost can feel it against his skin. “Aren’t you, Simon?”
His breath leaves him in something dangerously close to an audible sigh, and Ghost is so drunk on whisky and warmth that he can’t form a coherent string of words, so he just stares. He gazes at Soap with eyes that must be so pathetically filled with yearning, but he couldn’t control it if he tried, nor is he aware enough to care. Soap’s eyes drag back up his face, slow and lidded, softened with something that Ghost can’t decipher. He never can, with Soap— he’s never been good at grasping the cues of body language, but it’s even worse with Soap’s baby blues.
Soap hums, lingering in Ghost’s space. He takes a long pull from the dark beer in his glass and when he swallows Ghost tracks the movement down his throat. He’s too numb to feel the embarrassment of staring so openly. It helps that Soap seems to relish in taking up Ghost’s attention. With Soap warming him on the right and Gaz still tucked into his left side, Ghost is happy and ready to stay in this moment forever.
After a solid twenty minutes of this blissful calm, Soap and Gaz suddenly begin to go rigid, hackles raising. Ghost tunes back in, trying to gauge his surroundings and find what they could be reacting to.
His brain is moving through honey, sights and sounds bleeding together at the edges. Gaz peaks over his shoulder at an adjacent group talking amongst themselves in tones that would be hushed, if it weren’t for the drunken lilt each of them possessed. Ghost follows the hint, and wills his ears to try and catch the words.
—
“So… you think big boy in the mask actually pulls?”
“I don’t know, I feel like that would be a tough sell— I haven’t seen that mask come off once.”
“Yeah, but that’s part of the allure.”
“And what, you just never see his face? No kissing, no mouth stuff?”
“Exaaactly— just you and your guts getting rearranged from behind. Fucking hot!”
—
Ghost’s eyes go wide, his brow drawing down harshly. He leans forward to peer over Gaz. The table is just far enough and angled away that they must not have realized how close the 141 was.
—
“I dunno… seems a little too edgelord for me. He’s like a comic book vigilante or something.”
“Uuuhhh, yeah— comic book vigilantes are hot, have you seen the Punisher?!”
“With a skull mask and skeleton gloves though? That’s so… emo.”
“So? He’s got commitment to the look! I wonder how much My Chemical Romance he listens to…”
—
Ghost is not emo.
Yeah, he’s done his rounds in a fair amount of mosh pits. Sure, he was pissed as hell when the Isle of Wight Festival starting going way to fucking mainstream— and okay, he might have a few too many ratty black band tees in his wardrobe… but he’s not fucking emo.
The getup is half practical, half scare tactic, and it fucking works.
He heavily resents the comparison.
—
“As the token female of the group, I’d let him fuck me to My Chemical Romance.”
“Jesus Christ, Connie.”
—
Price, Rudy, and Alejandro, are all watching in horror. Their eyes lock on Ghost the same way they would lock onto a live grenade. Lando sits off to the side, looking between them all in trepidation.
—
“I would! I’d climb him like a tree in the middle of a Hot Topic.”
“Honestly? Same.”
“Dave, you have a wife.”
“I think she’d approve.”
“Do you think he’d actually be any good in bed though? You can’t get much action on base anyways, let alone masked the fuck up.”
“He’s 8 feet tall, British, and could carry six of us up a hill for miles. Brother gets more pussy than anyone on base, guaranteed.”
—
Ghost can’t help it in his drink-addled state. His back and shoulders go taught. His arms begin to clench at his sides and his abdomen is growing tight with strain.
The whole table is ready for him to explode.
—
“He’s totally in the scene too. Probably a mean as fuck Dom. Like, full on leather daddy shit. I know his type.”
“Oh absolutely— that brick shithouse is most definitely a brutal dominant bull.”
—
What the fuck?
A dominant bull?
That’s what finally does him in.
Ghost begins to quake. The tension in ramps up. Gaz and Soap go deathly still beside him. Everyone is holding thier breath, ready to snap into action. The hostility is crackling around the team like a static electricity as they wait for the pin to drop, keeping everyone locked in their seats, frozen between fight and flight— and then the silence is broken by a single choked off laugh.
Ghost’s hand flies up to his mouth, trying to catch the sound as it leaves him. Price, Rudy, and Alejandro’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
Soap and Gaz look incredulously at each other with slack jaws. Price breaks, lets out a small snort and the dam cracks further, another stilted laugh spilling from behind the mask.
—
“Do you think it’s a chains n’ whips kind of thing, or more of a tied up n’ gagged sort of thing?”
“Chains and whips and floggers and probably one of the 18 knives he’s got hidden in his mattress, if I had to guess, but I don’t know— honestly the man seems capable of anything!”
—
A new wave ripples through Ghost and he bows forward in an effort to stop the sound from escaping.
It’s like an out of body experience, watching himself convulse, giggling like a school girl. Soap and Gaz break out of the shock and begin to howl.
“Well that’s just two many mattress knives, You gotta consolidate, Ghostie!” Gaz barely gets out between breaths.
Soap wipes at his watering eyes, voice strained and high.
“Do not tell me you’re actually an MCR fan, LT…”
Ghost sputters and rears into the back rest with a gasp, trying to catch his breath.
“Absolutely not… but don’t go through my playlist to check.”
They all break into a new round of cackles.
—
“Someone should go for it. See if he’ll take you to bed. Gather intel and bring it back to the group.”
“Obviously it’s going to be me— Im the only one with BDSM experience. And I’m a masochist, it’s a match made in heaven!”
“No way Connie! You’re like, four feet tall, he’d break you in half!”
“Well I’d sure fucking hope so! Regardless, I’m also the only viable option— Unless any of you boys are hiding a better rack than mine under your uniforms? Honestly, who else are you thinking would have a chance here? Dave?”
—
The air is punched out of him, and Ghost’s next breathless laugh ends in a small squeak.
What in the—
“Fuckin’ hell— was that me?!”
Ghost grasps at his own collar, distressed.
“Did you fucking hear that?!” Ghost gasps out, looking incredulously around the group only to find them in hysterics.
Soap is laughing so hard he’s doubled over, grasping onto Ghost’s bicep to keep himself on the seat, and even through the uncontrollable laughter the touch feels like sunlight.
Amidst the hysterics Lando pulls himself together and marches over to the lecherous soldiers table.
“Hey! Dipshits! Shut the fuck up! What is wrong with you?! You are in public!”
“Oh, fuuuck no— we’re so dead!” One of the soldiers— Dave, Ghost’s fuzzy brain so helpfully supplies— squeals, accompanied by the screech his chair against the floor.
“Oh look at that! It’s about that time, huh fellas? Let’s uh, skedaddle on out of here why don’t we? Like, fucking immediately!”
“Skedaddle my ass, you fucking drunks! I aught to send you off to permanent latrine duty— don’t fucking run from me, Connie!”
Ghost buckles as Lando breaks into a sprint after the deserters. He buries his face in his hands, scrubbing at watering eyes, thankful there is no grease paint there to smudge across his palms.
“I think the Americans are bullying me, Gaz.”
“Bloody fuckin’ hell— I thought you were about to start a third world war! Glad they found the back end of your funny bone rather than your trigger finger,” Gaz wipes at his own eyes, his breath finally catching. “I’ve never seen you laugh like that, Lieutenant!”
“This why you cannae drink more than a single, LT? Dinnae want us catchin’ ya giggle like a wee toddler?” Soap teases.
Gaz hums. “Maybe we need to start inviting more Americans to pub nights…”
“No, absolutely not. I’ve had enough of the lot of em— throw the whole country away.” Ghost’s voice is raspy and muffled, his face still hiding in his hands.
“If it means we get to hear you like that more often, I think we could put up with it,” Price says, Rudy and Alejandro nodding along.
Ghost finally pulls his hands away from his burning face, cheeks aching and abdomen sore.
“Eh, no need. Not with this goofy fuckin lot.” Ghost feels a wave of bone deep satisfaction roll over him and he mumbles, mostly to himself, “It’s easier every time.”
Ghost’s drunk mind can’t parse out why, but he thinks his whole team is glowing.
____________
Ghost can walk on his own- in a straight enough line to get him back on base, at least- but Price keeps a guiding hand on him regardless. He appreciates the touch, the confirmation of eyes watching his six when he can’t watch it himself.
Soap, heavy-weight that he is, has sobered up and carries half of Gaz’s bulk a few paces ahead of them.
“Christ, ya hefty bastard! what’ve they been feedin ya in the mess, Garrick?”
“Oi! Don’t body shame me, window wash!”
They see Alejandro and Rudy off then make their way to the quarters on loan to them in the foreign base.
Soap dumps Gaz into a bunk and starts forcing the man’s shoes off while Price fills a water glass to leave at the side table. Ghost wobbles to a blanket at the foot of the bed and chucks it into Garrick’s face when he asks for a kiss goodnight.
As they approach Soap’s room, the hand at Ghost’s shoulder squeezes, and Price’s hushed voice asks, “How are you feeling, son?”
He still feels quite drunk, but otherwise fine. Price had bee sure to order food and keep a full glass of water in front of each of the 141 all night long like the mother hen he is.
Before he can get his mouth to cooperate, Price continues, “You still seem pretty impaired to me. Maybe you aught to stay with Soap for the night. He’s sobered up enough to keep an eye on you— right, Soap?”
Ghost blinks, long and confused, eyebrows drawing together. Ghost might be moving a little slow, but his motor functions are still intact— definitely not impaired enough to need a babysitter.
Soap throws a smile over his shoulder as he fiddles to unlock his door. “Aye Captain, I’m right as rain!”
“The room they assigned you is on the opposite side of the base anyways, you’d be half asleep by the time you get there.”
Ghost is pretty sure his room is right next to Price’s.
Nonetheless, he doesn’t argue. He gives a grunt in understanding, and Price tips his hat and bids them goodnight.
____________
“Go on, get comfy, ya big bastard.”
Soap pushes Ghost gently towards the bed and he drops, swaying at the edge of the mattress. His fingers fumble with the laces on his boots, the zip of his jacket, then the button of his jeans. He hesitates there for a moment before the allure of comfort wins out against his awkwardness and he pushes his jeans down, leaving him in boxers and a thin tee shirt. Exposing his skin sends a brisk wave through his system and he starts to shiver lightly. Soap catches the little shake of his shoulders out of the corner of his eye.
“Cold, LT?”
It hadn’t been particularly cold outside, but a phantom chill clings to him all the same. He nods, and Soap laughs, shedding his own jacket.
“I can tell. You’ve got goosebumps. Need a space heater? Like in Budapest?”
Ghost flushes all over at the memory, the swirl of embarrassment and excitement he’d felt that first encounter- and every encounter since- reigniting.
He’d really hoped Soap would say that.
He nods emphatically, and Soap smiles at him before going to turn off the ceiling light.
Ghost falls into the bed, scoots until his back almost hits the wall, just how he likes it. It leaves a considerable amount of room for Soap to slide in next to him, and once Soap reaches to turn off the bedside light, Ghost rolls the balaclava up his face and off, stuffing it under the pillow. He watches Soap’s profile while the man settles in, tries to memorize the shapes of him as best as he can through the dark. High cheek bones, strong nose, softness around his eyes. He wants so badly to reach out, wants to feel how hot Soap would be under his palms.
Ghost is always so cold. He can never seem to shake the chill of his grave, the industrial AC on base, the shivers through brisk nights on missions. He had damn near shook the floor boards of that tiny pigeon hole in Budapest. Soap has fallen victim to Ghost’s inability to self-insulate a fair few times since then and is always a good sport about lending his body heat.
It’s what any good soldier would do, and Soap is a good soldier. Even now, Soap is dutiful— seamlessly adapting to the needs of his squad, even for something as frivolous as the chilly drunken aftermath of a bar crawl.
Ghost doesn’t reach out, of course.
He never does. He could never insist upon Soap’s kindness like that. He does sigh in relief when Soap automatically crowds into Ghost like the tactile creature that he is, though. Soap slides his arm beneath Ghost’s head, and Ghost is nuzzling into the crook of his bicep on instinct. A hand drops onto Ghost’s waist and- Fucking hell, yes- Soap’s heat is starting to seep into him now, thawing the tension in his body limb by limb.
“Bar hop was fun today, aye LT? Still cannae believe those mangey gossipers, Christ almighty! Gave us a proper laugh though, didn’t they?”
Soap’s words are quiet, but so close Ghost can feel them on his bared skin. He wonders how much Soap can see of him, face to face in the darkness like this.
Ghost huffs. “Hope Lando gave em a firm talking to.”
“Hmph. I’m sure he did.”
“…You don’t like him.”
Soap sighs. “What gave me away?”
“ ‘Away and bile your head’ ,” Ghost quotes, accented with incredible inaccuracy. Soap’s chuckle vibrates the small amount of space between them.
“Cannae help it. Yank rubs me the wrong way. He’s… too nice.”
“Smooth talker.” Ghost grunts. “Full Calrissian. It’s gotta be a Star Wars thing.”
“Yeah…” Soap’s hand slides down to grip at Ghost’s hip and hauls him in closer with a tug. His stomach fills with fucking butterflies. “Too smooth. Don’t trust it. He might hand us over to the Empire.”
The hand stays on his side, and Ghost can’t tell if it’s a trick of his sleep-soft drunken mind or if Soap’s fingers really do slip under his shirt and splay against his skin.
“Mmmm… we’d kill him before he got the chance…” Ghost rumbles. He wants to cling to the last dregs consciousness. He doesn’t want this day to end— but the chill has been chased away, and he is sinking into the heat of Soap’s body with a groan.
“You’re so warm, Johnny…”
Soap smiles, takes a moment to enjoy watching Ghost fight his drooping eyelids, before he brings his hand to rest against Ghost’s face. His thumb starts drawing a soothing pattern into Ghost’s skin— a soft line under his eye and over his cheekbone, back and forth.
“Simon,” Soap whispers, ever so softly, “Close your eyes.”
Ghost does, and then melts into Soap completely as he falls asleep.
____________
“I’d see to it that you never go cold again, Simon. If you’d let me.”
____________
Lando found the 141 in the mess that morning with formal apologies, assuring Ghost that the gossiping Staff from the night before had been thoroughly disciplined. Ghost is happy to find that he truly could not care less. if anything, he feels the mask served its purpose. It’s meant to be the unknown entity, the facilitator for rumors. Ghost can admit that the Americans took this principle in an unforeseen direction, but it did its job all the same.
And beyond that it gave him and the 141 a good laugh.
The memory is hazy but fully intact. As much as Ghost is discomforted with having laughed himself to tears in front of his squad, he can’t help the warm excitement building along his spine right next to the embarrassment. It had felt good. Normal. He had fun, even being at the butt of the joke.
Ghost added a giant, neon tally to his side of the proverbial scoreboard between him and the world.
“Apologies accepted— be sure my reputation as the Queen’s spookiest soldier keeps intact and we’ll have no problems.”
“Of course, Sir.” Lando says with a smirk. “You’ll haunt them for the rest of their days, I’ll see to it.”
Ghost can feel the eye roll from Soap even though he doesn’t see it.
“I’m glad I was able to catch you all before you left— I want to thank you again for all you’ve done. This operation would have been a blowout if not for the 141. You saved me a lot of men, and I am grateful.” Lando addresses the group with a sincerity that has Gaz beaming and Soap grumbling down at his feet. “If you ever need anything, you’ve got it. No questions asked.”
Gaz stands, pulling Soap up with him, and offers a hand to shake.
“It was a pleasure working with you! And we’re always grateful for new allies, aren’t we Soap?”
After a moment of reluctance, Soap follows suit with a handshake.
As Ghost goes for his, he pauses. He breathes out and steels himself— then stands, determined.
“The callsign. How did you get it?” Ghost asks. It comes out far more harsh than he’d wanted and it makes him cringe internally.
It doesn’t seem to phase Lando in the slightest though, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.
“Ahaa… well… I was a hobby mechanic before enlisting. Lost a classic cruiser in a bet my first year, to a call sign ‘Solo,’ the bastard. Have yet to win her back— not for lack of trying.”
Ghost relaxes and gives an amused grunt, finally sated.
“Sick sense of humor the universe has, huh?”
“She was my millennium falcon,” Lando sighs wistfully. “Odds are I’ll get her back one of these days.”
“Never tell me the odds.”
Lando rolls his eyes at that, but laughs whole heartedly as he offers his hand. Ghost takes it with a steady grip.
“It’s been a pleasure, Ghost.” Lando’s soft eyes stare up at him, and then he’s bringing his free hand up, cradling Ghost’s one hand in both of his for a quick moment. “Stay in contact, yeah?”
The gentle gesture feels nearly paralyzing, but warms Ghost all the same. He tries not to school his reaction— he wants to let Lando know it means something to him. He isn’t sure how well it comes across when he gives a lame squeeze back, but the man seems to accept the small reciprocation for what it is.
Lando releases his hand and gives one final nod before turning to leave the mess. Ghost silently thanks him as he goes; for meshing so well with Simon, rather than Ghost.
Making a friend and engaging in a meaningful physical touch with said new friend?
Two more tallies for Ghost.
Eat your fucking heart out, anxious attachment.
“Soap, Mate, fix your face.” Gaz says under his breath, and Ghost turns in time to catch Soap glaring so sharply at Lando’s back he’s surprised his uniform hasn’t torn.
“Christ, Johnny. These Americans really do light you up, don’t they?”
“Naw, LT. just that one.” Soap falls back into his chair with a huff, arms crossed tight over his chest.
“Too nice for you- I know.” Ghost rolls his eyes. “I found him pleasant enough.”
Soap darkens, sinking even lower in his chair.
“I like him.” Gaz lounges back, his long legs stretching to invade Soap’s leg room. “Can see why you like him too, LT. He’s a big ‘ole nerd, just like you— bit more transparent about it, of course. Price seems partial to him as well.” He levels Soap with a patronizing grin and starts nudging at the man’s leg repeatedly with his boot.
“Seems you’re the odd one out, hand sanitizer! How weird is that?”
Soap shifts his scowl, ready to sneer back, but his mouth snaps shut when he meets the insufferable smile on Gaz’s face. Instead, he kicks harshly at the leg of Gaz’s chair, making him snicker.
Ghost wonders if there’s some sort of silent conversation happening there that he’s missing out on.
They start quietly bickering, and it keeps up until Ghost’s jaw starts to tighten, ready to throttle them both until they fucking croak— or at least until one of them spills what they’re fighting about, because it’s been twenty minutes and Ghost still has no clue.
The Sargents are spared by the arrival of their captain, who is swift to corral them onto a plane back to home base. They’d had a successful mission and a fun stay, but the 141 is ready to get back to their own shitty mattresses.
It makes only the slightest of difference to Ghost. His bunk at ‘home’ is familiar enough that it feels safe, his body able to decompress into the rickety springs. He sleeps longer, definitely.
Better?
Not so much.
The nightmares come and go regardless. He’s learned to deal with them. He still wakes up sweating and shivering often enough, but it’s no longer the world-bending event they once were.
The only real remedy he has found for a deep, nightmare-less sleep is company. Ghost hates it. It’s the antithesis of what he typically prefers, but he can’t really deny it. He almost feels more well rested on missions, with the team often in such forced proximity theyre sprawled across each other in whatever shithole cover they can find.
He wonders, sometimes, if it’s a product of being a soldier, of his trauma, or a creature comfort he still seeks from his youth. Whether he has a tactical intrinsic need to feel someone watching his back in his most vulnerable state or if he wants a living and breathing reminder that he’s is not snuggling up to a corpse in his own grave— or if his body simply falls asleep and returns to when he was a boy, to when he’d slept only steps away from his brother in the room they shared growing up.
Ghost likes to think it’s the last one. That the good memories of his childhood stick to him better than the twisted parts of his past.
All to say that in normal circumstances Ghost would be asleep by now— surrounded by his team that seems to prefer invading Ghost’s space for their unofficial debriefs rather than making use of the ample room within their transport planes.
Instead, Ghost is wide awake, well rested, watching Price and Gaz play an awfully heated round of hangman.
Bald eagles are lame, he’s already figured out, but he’s enjoying Price’s growing annoyance far too much to ruin Gaz’s game.
Ghost shivers, the last dregs of his peaceful morning fading away in the frigid air of the hangar. A shame, after he’d woken up so thoroughly heated by Soap. Ghost’s fingers and toes lament the wasting of the Scot’s warmth. He flexes his hands, curls them into fists, flexes again, trying to get the blood circulating quicker.
Ghost feels eyes on him, and catches Soap’s gaze trained on his movement. He’s not quite glaring, but he is intently staring with some hard emotion playing across his face that Ghost couldn’t dream to decipher. He clenches again, fists tight, and then falters under the attention, opting to fold his arms and tuck his hands away into the sides of his vest.
Soap’s eyes don’t waver.
Ghost isn’t one to be intimidated, but Soap has that way of seeing through all the buff bravado straight to Simon, flipping Ghost’s role from predator to prey in an instant. He tries to ignore it for all of twenty seconds before the awkward tension gets the better of him.
“Alright, Sargent?”
Soap finally lifts his gaze and the intense look shifts into a sheepish smile.
“Och— ‘Course. Am right as rain, LT!”
Ghost feels like there is a signal he’s seeing but not understanding— Soap’s expression doesn’t quite match his words.
A wave of self consciousness rolls over Ghost, his hands tighten around the edges of his tac vest.
“You get enough rest last night, Soap?” Ghost asks, watching intently, hoping to god that’s not what this is.
Soap softens, melts into a sweeter smile that fits his face better than the previous one.
“Yeah, LT… Best sleep I’ve had in a long while, actually.”
Ghost releases his breath. He knows the alcohol contributes more to that than their shared space, but it makes Ghost’s heart kick all the same.
“Just got a lot on my mind this morning. It’s nothi—“
“Lysol’s preoccupied! He’s pondering the assumptions of those numpties at the bar last night!” Gaz interrupts. “Can’t help but wonder if anything rings true, huh?”
Soap sputters, face tinging pink.
“Steamin’ Jesus! No, that’s not at all what I was thinking!—“
“Ahh, come on, bruv, we’re all in the inner circle! You’ve heard tales of our kinky escapades—“
“Speak for your fuckin’ self, Garrick, ye bloody slag!—“
“But we never get to hear about yours! Tell us LT! Would Connie have had a decent shot last night?”
Gaz has a dangerous spark in his eye and Soap looks ready to jump out the nearest hatch opening. Price is quiet, looking far too amused and far too expecting towards Ghost, who is currently weighing the pros and cons of putting a dirty shiv through his Sargent’s hand.
“First of all.” Ghost’s voice is a growl. Gaz leans in, and Ghost likens him to a fox nosing around a trap. “Everything I know about your sex life I have learned against my will, Garrick, and it’s all lackluster at best.”
Gaz has the decency to flush, bashful and sputtering.
“Second, even if I had escapades to speak of, I sure as hell would not be spilling them to you.”
“Awe, come on Scream Queen! little locker room talk never hurt anyone—“
“Third… Contrary to popular belief, I… I don’t like pain. For me or for anyone else. I think we see enough of that shit in our day job. It’s the last thing I’d want in my bed. So no. Connie had no shot.”
Gaz halts, mouth stalling around a response. It’s honest, real, and way more than he actually thought he’d get from Ghost. They have all gotten so much closer— Gaz knows he would be dead and buried if he was anyone but himself in this moment.
“Neither did Dave, for the record,” Ghost says after a beat.
Of course Gaz can’t leave things where they lie. He has to take one more crack at stirring the pot, his eyes darting between Ghost and Soap lighting quick and cunning, before asking,
“What about Lando?”
Ghost stills, tilts his head. Where Lando comes into this, he isn’t sure. He doesn’t get to think about it for long, as Soap is suddenly lunging out of his seat.
“Oh, fuck right off, Garrick you cunt!—“
Soap knocks his full body weight into Gaz, pulling him out of the seat and onto the floor in the process, trying to get him in a headlock.
“OW! Tav, ya Mutt, did you learn that from the WWE?”
“I learned it from your fuckin’ MA!”
Ghost throws up his hands in defeat and resolves to pushing past his Sargent’s with a rough shove before settling on the far side of Price. The Captain laughs, light and joyous, and settles in to watch the brawl.
“Enjoy it while you can, Lieutenant Riley. Missions that end like this are few and far between.”
Ghost growls under his breath.
Relaxes.
Lets the annoyance bleed into fondness, because he knows the Captain is right.