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Ghost takes in the sight in front of him. The softly tanned skin over muscles, the hair that barely leaves a trail from above his belly button and thickens as it nears his waistband. Soap shaves it, the hair cropped short, maintained. Ghost finds it hard not to stare at. Sweat is shining off Soaps heaving chest, his muscles stretching and contracting as he moves. Ghost feels his heart pick up speed as he watches a soft smile cover that face that looks back at him as he moves to pick up his shirt.
Ghost never wants to leave Soap, and wishes the man would never leave him, though those kinds of wishes only bring on guilt that bites around his heart and mixes a sick feeling in his gut. Guilt, because he was a broken thing, left in a coffin to rot and mould. That his heart was near-dead before the Scottish man came to revive it with kind words spoken in that accent and smiles that drew him out from the darkness that kept his heart in the rotting coffin of his past. That was more than Ghost could ask for, more than he deserves, so how could he ever ask for more than that?
Even though the man had restarted his abused heart, reanimated his corpse, Ghost knew he still is less than. He was always less than. He was less even when a child. He was told as much, treated so. Believed so. Then he grew, and though in the back of his mind he had hoped that something would fill that missing part of him, provide that support and love that allowed him to be more. That hope had only served to widen the hole. He became less, and less. He was beaten, tortured and buried. That darkness grew. He was less again. Of himself. Then that same darkness took his family.
Less than.
Though there is Soap. Johnny fucking MacTavish. The stupidly good looking, friendly, kind, and bloody infuriatingly stubborn man who walks into Ghosts life and demanded friendship with a hit to the arm, a smile, and a promise of a place beside him. Ghost had taken that place reluctantly that day, and every day after that. Until one day he stared to look forward to standing beside him, wanting to sit next to him and feel that warmth of his body close to him. Ghost had almost felt like he had something, like he was something. Soap had offered friendship to him, the Ghost. The monster. And he did it with that bright, loving smile. As if he was coming to make a deal with the Devil and couldn’t be happier about it.
Ghost fought it at first. Like he did every attempt a person made with him. He refused to take that chance to ask for more, to want for more, so he had pushed him back. He was not willing to let the darkness that has followed him his whole life come and snuff out the brightest thing Ghost has ever seen. The warmest person to ever reach out to him. He was so scared that his all-consuming darkness would destroy Soap, kill that light and drag him into the inky water Ghost has been drowning in since he was a child.
Somehow, even as Soap made the effort to stick to Ghost, and Ghost let it happen, silently wishing for more, he has yet to dull the man. Maybe he was thinking to of much of himself to imagine he had enough effect of anything that he could dull Johnny. After all, he was less than.
Soap was a light that Ghost has been denied his entire life. Something foreign and intoxicating and Ghost knows that in another life, he would have clung to it in seconds, and let his warmth burn through him until he was nothing but charred bones. He would have burned with a smile on his face.
Though his life was a sad, pain-filled marathon that he has never taken the effort to end early, but won’t fight the moment when it truly comes for him. He has been ready since the day his father beat his small body into a pulp for not laughing hard enough at a dying woman. As he collapsed, bloodied and broken, he wanted to go with her. Maybe one day he will see that woman again?
Ghost almost laughs out loud, as himself. Of course, he won’t. If he believed in those kinds of things, he would think that she would be in a better place. He wouldn’t have that luxury. More likely a fiery pit. With all the death and destruction in his life, even if it was for the betterment of some. He still killed for a living. He was nothing but a killer.
When death comes for him, Ghost knows he won’t find himself in a peaceful state, if there was any. He would deserve that as much as he deserves that light Soap holds in every smile. Though at times, when things are hard and Ghost wants to seek out either pain or brain-numbing nights of drinking, Soap will turn up with his warm light and draw Ghost out before he curls in on himself and destroys a little more of what human was left. He doesn’t dare touch that light, scared that he will snuff if out, but he follows it. Every time.
The last time Soap shone that kind light on Ghost, he had almost reached out to it, weak to the power of it. The man was something else with him. Ghost could see the kindness, the smiles of friendship and care when the Scot looked at others. Gaz often getting hugs from him, arms around shoulders or sometimes they would simply rest close together, sleeping in each other’s company on mission, resting on base together or looking at things on a phone while they had time to relax. Price even gets a few hugs on high-adrenaline moments that were laced in relief and joy. Ghost even witnessed Soap kissing Prices cheek once in an almost violent show of appreciation when Price and Ghost had bailed him out of a dicey situation. He didn’t move to kiss Ghost and his chest squeezed in a heavy disappointment at that. Though relief flooded it out, glad that Soap didn’t taint his lips with Ghosts darkness.
Ghost almost never got touched, hugged... He didn’t allow it. He didn’t deserve it.
There once was pain behind those bright blue-grey eyes each time Ghost took that step backwards, refusing his touch, or the soft knocking away of his hands, preventing contact. Once Ghost had felt the little sting of regret at the sight. The difference now is that Ghost felt the heavy weight of a jealous sadness as the man doesn’t even try anymore, while reaching to others without a thought. Though this is what he wanted. He was pathetic. To mourn the touches he never allowed himself to have.
The only chance he got to feeling Soap’s touch was in moment like these. Sparring matches, or the far less wanted time where they ran through gunfire and battlefields. Of course, Ghost would take the punches and kicks over the pulling the man from a hail of bullets any day. Ghost hates himself for enjoying the moments when he can grab Soap with violent hands, hitting him and pushing him down. He hates that he loved Soaps violent hands on him, burning him.
Self-loathing is not a new feeling for Ghost, if anything, it was the feeling he knows best. A state he has existed in for almost his entire life and a state that when the moment he lost his mother, he could never pull himself out of. He lost the only one who valued him. He lost it, and he was left as less again. Never again had he felt someone pull him out of it, draw him mind from that pit…
Not until Soap turned that smile on him on this one particular morning, and Ghost will never forget the almost crippling emotions that took him in that moment, when he realised that he needs Soap.
They were on location, a small shadow company base, hidden in thick woods somewhere in South Carolina. They were there for a stealth mission, trying to locate more intel on where Shepherd might have disappeared to.
Ghost watched the man, looking wild as he held up a detonator, linked to his charges. His eyes were bright, excited and with a wide, toothy grin that would melt anyone’s heart, he called his name. “Simon! I’m about to rock yer world.” He’d said, his smile turning lopsided as he hit the button and the building they’d just been inside, ending lives and stealing information, blew up and the flash of heat that rolled over them only paled in comparison to the wave that hit Ghost in that moment, as Soap gleamed at him. Soap had done it.
He’d broken that wall that surrounded what was left of Simon, the mans withered, broken body trying to keep it up against the force that was John MacTavish. Though like that building, and with the ease of hitting a button, Soap knocked it down with one last hit. The wall that shielded his black, moulded heart from the world, hiding Simon with all his shame and anguish, fell.
Ghost had looked away, into the flames that spewed from the demolished building and let the fire consume him. Though as always, Soap was there, in his mind. The flames in front of him had only added to the heat the man beside him provoked. Ghost had felt sick, scared and lost. His chest had felt like it was collapsing, his mind had reeled, and his breathing broken. He didn’t deserve him. He was nothing… Less than deserving of his warm gaze. He can barely keep his crouch, his legs shaking. So he doesn’t. His knees buckle and his gloved hands catch him before his face hits the ground.
It had taken only a few seconds before Soap had touched him. Hands, even though covered in gloves, had still burned Ghosts arms, his neck, everywhere that they touched him. As if those hands that blew up the building and Simon’s coffin within Ghosts chest, was as hot at the explosions they themselves has set off.
Ghost let himself burn on that ground, for as long as he could stand, until his breathing evened out and Soap hands finally moved away. The Sergeant offered another smile, wry but as kind as always. Ghost didn’t deserve it. Though he still devoured it, his eyes taking in the details of Soaps face like it would serve to save him. Ghost wished it could, though after that last wall, it only served a fodder for his demons to use to torture him further. He was raw now, no defences left to hide behind.
And now, so many months later, Ghost was still raw.
Today, as they finished some team sparring practice, Gaz and Price now taking their turn to beat each other into the mat, Soap is moving to sit next to him, his smile as earth-shattering as the day he first offered one to him.
Ghost only stares, like a sick dog that refuses to lose sight of his abusive master. Shame leaves a painful coating over his chest. He blinks, ignoring the hurt. Being the monster of a man that he is…he deserves the hurt.
With a groan that expressed just how exhausted he was, one that sent heat through Ghost like a hot dagger through the heart, Soap reclines close beside him. Ghost hasn’t fought the man off once since that day he blew him up with that building, and Soap hadn’t made the move to touch him again. Though like now, he would occupy any space big enough to fit himself next to Ghost. If it be either beside him as they stand, in a seat on transport, in a meeting. Even when training, Soap was close. Always close. Never touching.
Ghost hasn’t spoken a word of what that day did, and he never will. He was less than worthy to be a friend of the man beside him, though this wasn’t much… Maybe he is allowed this… just to be close.
As Ghost fights with his inter-demons, trying to argue for this small piece of comfort, a hand touches him.
He flinches from the touch, like the hand would burn him. His insides cowering and his demons taunting his fearfulness as they pull him from the warmth the touch offers, clawing and dragging him into that pit inside him.
“Ghost?” Soaps voice rings out softly, deep voice in that earthy accent drawing Ghost back out, like it always does. Ghost turns his eyes on Soap, taking the opportunity to steal more lines of his features and colours of his skin and locking them away in a shameful place for later.
Soap is watching Ghost carefully, smile cautious. “You know I’m no’ gonnae hurt ye…” His hand tightens softly, his smile even softer.
Ghost snorts. The absurdness of Soap being able to hurt him bringing out the harsh sound. Though, as being the damaged Englishman he is, he resorted to the ever-popular defence mechanism. Sarcasm.
“I believe you were present for our fight, Soap…and the punch to my mouth.” Ghost licks his bottom lip, still tasting the coppery evidence Soap left, feeling the sharp sting of opened flesh. He is grateful for anything the man gave him, even bruises and busted lips. The punch was a good one. It brought a smile to his lips thinking of hostiles coming into contact with it.
Soap rolls his eyes, his smile widening, and it warms Ghost further. “You ken what I mean…” He lets more of his Scottishness out sometimes, and though Ghost often complains about it, he truly enjoyed every word out of the mans mouth. Even when didn’t understand it.
Ghost understood perfectly what the man meant just now. And though that hand was missing from his arm now, it still left that warmth there. Ghost wishes to tell him that it was fine if he touched him. He wishes that was true. Though instead, he clenches his jaw, turns his eyes away and lets those demons gnaw at him again.
Soap doesn’t stop. Ever the stubborn man. Ghost would have been pissed had it been anyone else. “I am trying to…I mean, I just hope we’re…friends, Ghost.” Soap shrugs, Ghost catching the movement out the corner of his eye. “I thought we were, really… right? We’re friends?”
Ghost doesn’t have friends. His mind kicks him over a year back, into that horrid night where he waited for Soap in that church, listening as the man fought for his life. He’d said something similar that night.
“Friendship’s not in the field manual…” Ghost answered, as he recalled his cold words, and his chest pinches with guilt. He didn’t deserve Soaps friendship. He would only cause the man suffering, and he too, would suffer. Ghost can’t take any more on himself, subject more pain onto whatever is left of Simon.
Soap scoffs, the sound just as harsh as Ghosts, though somehow pleasant to Ghosts ears. He is sure the man could make any sound and Ghost would welcome it over silence. “Had a feelin’ yer gonnae say tha’…” With a stretch, Soap falls back, arms coming back to fashion a pillow for his head. “I’ll get ye soon.” Soap lets out and Ghost turns on him, eyes locked onto the man laying beside him. Ghost notes how close they are, that their thighs are not three inches apart, if that. Get him? Does he not know that the man has had him for a while now…
Soap never flinches under Ghosts gaze, not like most people do, and once that had irritated Ghost. Though the more he worked with Soap, the more he felt that addictive warmth, the more impressed he was with his resolve. Ghost turns at the waist, his tattooed arm moving back to brace himself there as he looks down at Soap and their locked gaze only solidifies, as if they are both fighting to be the last man standing…staring. He watches the smile stretch on the Scots face and Ghosts heart beats harder, the hot blood forcing back that gnawing hate for himself.
“You have no idea how much you have…” Ghost mutters, almost a whisper. He feels his throat close off, his chest tightens and mind spirals. How did he not filter that. He was always so careful. Always weighing his words before he speaks. How did he let that out?
Soap’s smile faulters for a moment, though his eyes still hold Ghosts gaze with that same determination he always has. With one last flash of a smile, Soap knocks his thigh into Ghosts. “So, you do like me?”
Ghost closes his eyes, drawing in the words, thick with accent, into his soul and letting it warm the chill there. “Johnny…”
“Ghost.”
Ghost wants to speak again, but after what he spouted out, he was resolved to keeping quite. He will pay for his words later, in the dark of night, alone in his quarters, when there is no light or warmth anymore to fight off the darkness inside him. When his demons play and he hides in the deepest recesses of his battered soul, but never hidden enough from the pain. Never.
He closes his eyes, not wanting to think about the night to come, when he falls into that same self-hating routine he always finds himself in. He feels the man before him still, the warmth of his presence still thawing him out as his body tries to ice over again.
He wants it. He wants the warm touch and the bright light to chase away the demons and he has spent so many days wanting it… too many. So many that in this moment, after slipping up, after feeling that touch for the first time in months, he decides to change.
He is hurting and he knows he is going to hurt either way. So, with a slow, careful breath, Ghost decided that today was the day. He was going to set himself up for more pain, in hopes that he can have just a moment of calm. Let himself touch that fire and if he burns up and dies, maybe he really will die with a smile on his face.
Neither talk as they watch Gaz and Price circle each other, fists and legs used as weapons. Neither talk as Ghost moves his leg, covering that tiny space that felt no less than a mile, until his knee touches the burning light and warms Simons broken bones and pulls him that little further from the dark.
Soap doesn’t speak as he watches the man who holds so many scars and pain in those brown eyes. He smiles softly, watching Ghost closes his eyes the moment Soaps fingers brush over his knuckles, curling around his hand and hiding it between their connected legs.
“Let me in, Simon…”
Ghost keeps his eyes closed, and tears sting them from behind his lids. He nods softly, his own fingers curling up and taking that little more from Soap, risking the destruction of the man for the promise of a moment of safety, of warmth. Maybe he can let this man burn him, burn his demons away...
To say he is scared is a gross understatement. He was fucking terrified. Though with that warm grip around his hand, the touch of Soaps leg against his, and those softly spoken words that asked for more of Ghost. Of Simon…
How could he deny Johnny that.
“I’m…” Ghost opens his eyes slowly, meeting Soaps again. They are soft but so bright, like he was experiencing emotions barely containable behind them. Ghost wonders what his own bleak eyes look like in return. Wonders how the man could look at them when his own are so beautiful. “…scared.”
Soap sits up somehow a little closer than he was before. He leans closer again, until their shoulders touch. Ghost feels his breath catch in his throat when Soaps fingers move to thread between his. “I’m here…I’ll always be here.”
Ghost nods, his body feeling like he was both being relieved of so much, while simultaneously being crushed with so much more. He dares another look at Soap, who is still smiling at him. It's soft and kind, and Ghost knows he doesn't deserve it, but he has already stepped over that line and there was no point in trying to step back over it.
With his breathing heavy, his eyes almost dropping tears, Ghost holds onto his friends hand harder -because they are friends, even though Ghost had been denying it this whole time- and whispered a thank you that stretches Soaps smile wider, warming Ghost to his core.