Chapter Text
Price was nothing if not insistent, a stubborn old bastard who never knew when to back down. Ghost ground his teeth together and tried to stem the flow of disparaging thoughts about his commanding officer as he stormed out of the office, trailed by a much lighter Soap, to break the news to their squad. They’d be on leave in two weeks’ time. Two months of leave.
Ghost had tried to argue. That was a long gap of time for a whole squad to be out, especially when those people were highly trained. Price shut him down there— highly trained didn’t mean in high demand, and they’d been working on this model of rotating leave for a while.
When that wouldn’t work, Ghost tried a different angle. He understood the benefits of leave for his men, but he would stay behind to help train the new recruits that would soon be arriving. Price stonewalled him there, too, saying it’d already been assigned to a different team, and Ghost could apply for the training billet next cycle. Bloody paperwork.
Then Soap had cut in and said it sounded like a much needed break, and Price herded them out of the office, and Ghost was facing down the impending approach of his worst enemy: idleness.
“I know you like to be in the field, but even you have to know you need a break sometimes,” Soap said to him later that night. They were in the hallway outside Ghost’s quarters, well past TAPS. The only noise aside from their conversation was the buzz of the electrical light above the doorway.
Ghost watched a grey moth slam itself into the plastic casing of the light over and over and tried to think of a way to verbalize the vulnerability, the nightmares, the boredom, the anxiety that came with being off duty. Soap waited patiently. The kindness of it rubbed at Ghost unpleasantly tonight. “Leave is for other men, Johnny,” he settled on. Soap’s mouth twisted like he wanted to disagree. Ghost had hoped he’d be disarmed by the use of his name, as he usually was, but apparently this was something he cared about enough to push past.
“I don’t do well out of the field.” Ghost added, trying to stave off a lecture. It felt like a confession. It was just the facts. “Most of these men have family or friends to return to. I don’t even have a permanent leave address. I’ll be living out of whatever shithole they assign me, bored out of my mind.”
Soap stared at him for a moment before breaking the tension with a chuckle. “Really trying to sell it, huh, Ghost? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you string that many sentences together outside a mission brief.” Soap started to move past Ghost, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll put my address on your leave form. Save you the money from the housing stipend. You’re not gettin’ outta this one, Lt.”
Ghost stared at his retreating form, feeling wrong-footed. The annoyance from earlier surged and coupled with disorientation. Johnny treated him like an equal, like someone deserving of the kindness that came so naturally to him, and so stiltingly to Ghost.
These would be an unbearable two months.
He ended up next to Soap on a military flight to Scotland. It felt odd to be in civvies, even if it was similar to the gear he’d wear in his downtime around the base. The context changed everything. He wasn’t wearing a hoodie because it was cold on the trek from his quarters to the gym, he was wearing it because it would be comfortable in Soap’s house. He wasn’t wearing a balaclava because it was more breathable for his morning runs, but because the mask would draw too much attention. Don’t get him started on the jeans— he couldn’t remember the last time he had even touched something denim.
Soap, of course, was passed out next to Ghost, adaptable as ever. His head was lolling slightly towards Ghost’s shoulder, who took a moment to consider him. A warped rectangle of sun splashed across his face through the small window on the plane. Careful not to touch Soap, Ghost leaned over and slid the window shade down.
Soap made a soft sigh in his sleep, a spot of turbulence jostling him slightly closer to Ghost. These planes weren’t built for men of their size; Soap’s knees were angled outward so they wouldn’t press against the back of the seat, which caused them to press against Ghost’s leg instead. He didn’t know if he would shove the man off or let him rest if he slumped over completely, but he had the unpleasant feeling they’d find out before the flight was over.
Ghost closed his eyes and just focused on his breathing, following one of the calming exercises he’d been taught by another sniper ages ago. It lowered the heartrate, focused the mind, and steadied the hands; off the field, it usually helped him slip into a meditative state, letting time pass by easier. Every so often he would catch the rhythm interrupted, though, his breathing unconsciously mimicking Soap’s. But a sleeping man’s breathing worked well enough, and soon the plane was hitting the tarmac, jolting Ghost awake before he’d ever realized he’d fallen asleep.
Soap was both capable and willing to fill the silence between the two of them on their ride from the airport to his house. The Uber was more spacious than the airplane, but part of Ghost missed that tiny sliver of contact he’d had with the other. When they’d stood to shuffle off the plane fifteen minutes earlier, the place where Soap had pressed against him was cold even through his jeans in the absence of the other’s warmth.
The AC in the car rattled, setting Ghost’s teeth on edge. He really was a man of few words, though he didn’t scorn those that were the opposite. It made for an easier time, he’d long since realized. If Soap would contribute a solid 85%, then Ghost would only need to account for 15% of the conversation, and that was easy enough. A few half-hearted noises of affirmation and ‘hmm’s carried him through the entirety of the car ride, until they pulled up to a one-story house just outside the city.
In all honesty, Ghost was cautiously anticipatory of seeing Soap’s home. Maybe there would be something in the timbers and joints that could tell Ghost why he’d felt so immediately at ease with the sergeant. There might be a hint in the shadowed cracks of his home that would explain their relationship to Ghost, like secrets and answers could pile up in the corners like dust.
Soap’s voice shook Ghost from his reverie. “It used to belong to my grandparents, but they left the home to me when they passed. It’s a bit old, but it’s not like we need much when we’re rarely off duty, eh Ghost?”
Ghost grunted in response, eager to stretch his legs and, admittedly, curious to see where Soap lived. He grabbed their gear from the trunk and tossed Soap’s duffle to him.
It was a small place, maybe two bedrooms and a bath, guessing from the outside, but well maintained. The door was painted red. Not obnoxious, not blood-red, just a rich, warm colour. Soap swung it open and traipsed inside with little fanfare.
The entryway was tiled in small, dark hexagons. A bit dated, but useful—Ghost could imagine the mud and mess that would come with spring rains. As he stepped inside, he couldn’t miss the faint smell of citrus beneath the stale air of a home left empty for too long.
Ghost followed Soap’s lead and knelt to unlace his boots, while the sergeant dropped his bag on a low wooden bench that looked like it doubled as shoe storage. He was struck by the reasonable domesticity of it. Was it something his grandparents had owned, or something Soap had installed? The fact that Soap was a homeowner at all was admittedly shocking to Ghost, who’d expected something closer to a bare flat, maybe with a long-dead houseplant on one windowsill.
The open kitchen caught Ghost’s eye first, situated to the left. It reminded him of the kitchen his mother used to have. They used to bake together when his father was away for work, when the house was as quiet and close to peaceful as any place with that many ghosts could be. Simon swallowed around the knot of memories in his throat, blinking away the phantoms of long-dead recollections.
The living room had a decently sized television, a stuffed bookshelf opposite the fireplace, a pullout sofa, and a dinner table.
He caught his reflection in the blank screen of the living room television. A spectre, looking for ghosts even in someone else’s home. He looked away guiltily, moving further into the house under the pretense of looking for the restroom. The living room rug was plush beneath his socked feet, a nice contrast to the coolness of the wood flooring that spanned the rest of the visible parts of the house. He stooped to inspect the stuffed bookshelf that faced across from the dormant fireplace. Lots of history books, war books. The lower shelves were crammed with sci-fi and fantasy, titles both familiar and foreign; an eclectic mash of leather-bound books and ones with a simple paper spine, so creased and rubbed down that the title was no longer discernible. He’d never really given thought to how Soap may spend his free time. It was easy to assume, from his excitable nature, that the man would be unable to sit still for a moment. But then Ghost reflected on the times he’d seen him go quiet and contemplative, the intense focus he could hold when faced with something intriguing. The fact that the most intriguing thing to Soap was typically a ticking bomb was just a disguising factor.
“I’ll be taking the couch,” Soap said from behind Ghost, as if it wasn’t his house. Ghost dropped his kit on the sofa in defiance and turned to the other man, daring him to say something. “Or not,” the Scotsman muttered, rolling his eyes and saying something unintelligible under his breath. Ghost hated how fond he was of the foul mouth and sarcastic attitude that was always directed towards him whenever he did something Soap didn’t like. Hated how he was even fonder of the fact that, despite all his grumbling, Soap always deferred to his decisions anyway.
“Bathroom’s on the left, down the hall. Take the first shower while I make us a quick lunch. I asked the neighbours to bring some groceries by for us before we got home.” Soap was already moving toward the kitchen, opening cabinets with familiar ease, clearly glad to be home once more.
Ghost watched him for a moment longer, drinking in the domesticity of the scene, before he found his way to the bathroom with a set of fresh clothes in hand. The counter was occupied with an organized array of products, as was the shower. Ghost smirked as he recalled Soap telling him not to worry about bringing toiletries. This explained it.
Ghost could appreciate the sensation of washing the airport off of himself, even if that was replaced by the smell of shampoo that was overwhelmingly Johnny in nature. He was no fool, and had no business lying to himself about the fact that his sergeant was an attractive man. Doesn’t mean he has to feel any way about it, he reminded himself firmly. He sighed heavily. He’d anticipated leave being difficult for him, but not like this. Not like trying to find a way to decipher every glimpse of insight into his sergeant’s personal life, the softer sides that were, by necessity, hidden away during their missions.
Ghost towelled off and pulled on his clothes, weighing the balaclava in his hand before deciding against it. Soap had seen his face before, and it would only draw attention in public. It felt odd, going without, but Ghost could always pull it on later. Besides—it had never been only about hiding his face. It was about distancing himself from the world when he needed to stay distanced; about being a symbol when he didn’t have the strength to be a person. He didn’t need to keep Soap at an arm’s length, nor did he need to represent anything other than a man trying to make room for himself to breathe.
Ghost folded the mask carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his sweats.
The door creaked as he swung it open, the character of old hinges; a wooden floorboard protested his tread. Soap was clearly attuned to the tells of the house, turning to face Ghost before he’d even appeared at the mouth of the hallway. Ghost smirked at the way Soap almost did a double take before he visibly caught himself.
“Soup’ll be ready in a minute. Find everything alright?” His voice had a bit of a waver to it. Charming.
Ghost hummed in amused agreement, enjoying the way Johnny was visibly flustered. He didn’t know if his sergeant had imagined Ghost would stay masked the entire time, or if he simply hadn’t considered that inviting Simon into his home bred a certain level of intimacy. Either way, he was certainly enjoying the internal struggle as the other fought between playing it cool and drinking in the sight of the normally closed-off man who now lounged, bare-faced and barefoot in a tank top and sweats, against the surface of the kitchen island.
“Cool. Great. Yeah, well, um, there’s a plate of sandwiches if you could take them out to the table in the living room. I’ll join you in a moment,” Soap rambled. Ghost grinned, knowing the other was turned firmly away from him and wouldn’t see— though Ghost had full view of the flush splashed across the back of his neck.
Teasing Johnny had always been fun, knowing he could give as good as he got, but this was more than simple fun. It was satisfying, the way that he could rile Johnny up so easily just by the simple act of not wearing a mask.
Maybe Ghost could have a bit of fun with this leave, after all.