Chapter Text
Ghost has got an itch that he can’t scratch.
It’s a slow day, today. It’s a slow day every goddamn day, anymore. Price hasn’t deployed any of them for weeks, now, Laswell’s line silent. Ghost knows they’re following leads, cooking up something dangerous that will get Ghost’s blood pumping again, but until then, Ghost has no choice but to sit around and wait.
The call could come at any time, and the one-four-one could be whisked away at the drop of the hat, so none of them are allowed to leave base.
Not that Ghost has anywhere else to go, he just doesn’t like being idle.
He’s already taken apart all his guns, cleaned them, put them back together. He’s sharpened his knives, snapped at a few marines for good measure, run laps around the track, pumped weights until the age old injury in his shoulder started to ache.
Rinse, repeat, rinse again.
He’s fucking antsy.
He hates this feeling, like there’s something else he needs to be doing, hates feeling like his day is wasting away.
His eyes fall shut, breath coming out harshly.
The itch grows. He knows what he wants to do. Who he wants to see.
He knows what will make him feel better, what will smooth away the sticky, groggy mood that clings to him.
He tries to rationalize the desire, tries to come up with a good reason for seeking him out, tries to keep it tactical.
There’s no mission to debrief, though, nothing crucial to relay to his sunniest sergeant, no orders to pass along.
Ghost rolls his shoulders. He feels his joint pop under his tense muscles.
His boots barely make any sound as he marches down the hallway. He looks like he has somewhere important to be, something vital to attend to, and the marines milling about scatter like flies when they see him. They don’t know that really, he’s all but wandering. He’s not sure where Soap is this time of day—it’s not like he’s his keeper—so he’s forced to check the entire base room by room.
The bugger is harder to track down than Ghost was anticipating.
Soap’s not in the gym, he’s not on the track, he’s not in the mess hall or any of the rec rooms or the gun range. He checks the canteen and the tank shed and the motor pool. He knocks on his door and is greeted by only silence.
Ghost lets out another slow huff. He pauses for only a second, feeling irritation swell in his chest, rocking his ribcage like waves around a boat, before pivoting on his heel and trying again.
He ends up finding him in the old target room. It used to be the main gun range, years ago, before they expanded to a bigger training area. The target dummies here are shot up to hell, ripped up enough to be tossed as scrap. Chunks of wood litter the floor. It’s dusty, dingy, full of equipment so beat up he can barely make out the rings of red paint on the targets. They’ve been tossing used up targets and broken equipment here for months now instead of dealing with it.
He isn’t sure what Soap is doing training here.
He’s silent as he moves through the back of the room, slowly rounding the bend of a splintered half wall, gutted with bullet holes. He crosses his arms over his chest.
Watching Soap is a habit of his that he knows will get him in trouble someday. Despite knowing this, he doesn’t stop.
Soap’s dressed down, today, his tac vest probably abandoned in his room. He’s wearing jeans and an army-green t-shirt, too casual for base, his pistol strapped to his hip. He’s not aiming a gun; instead, he’s got a knife in his hand. He raises it up, clenching his fingers around it a few times, getting ready to throw it at a crumbling slab of plywood stuck to the wall.
“You hiding from something?”
“Steamin’ bloody Jesus!” Soap almost jumps out of his skin, fumbling the knife in his hands. It’s only his raw instinct that has him catching it by the handle and not the blade. “Give me some warning, shit.” He scrubs a hand through his mohawk. It’s getting too long on the top. Distracting.
Ghost flexes his jaw to the side. “Pay attention to your surroundings, Soap.”
“Aw, haud yer weesht.”
Ghost reflexively goes to snap at him to say it in English, but he gets a better look at the knife, and it pauses his words in his throat. That’s one of his knives.
“Stealing from your commanding officer now, Sergeant?”
Soap snorts. He turns around on his heel, holding the knife up by his face. “Stealing? I earned this knife, Ghost.”
Ghost’s eyes flick over the black handle of the knife, up to the sharp, smoky edge.
Las Almas. The knife, Ghost’s knife, that Soap dug out of a dead Shadow’s neck. Ghost’s knife that gave him killing power, Ghost’s knife that helped him leave a trail of dead Shadows on the rainy streets of the ransacked neighborhood.
“You kept that thing?”
“Never did get any chest candy,” Soap replies. “Had to take something to remember our win.”
“Precious memories.” His eyes slide up the knife in Soap’s hand, linger on the bruised skin around his knuckles. “Johnny’s first guerilla warfare.”
Soap snorts. He twists the knife around in his fingers. “Besides, I wouldn’t just throw away a memento from The Ghost.”
He keeps his expression blank even behind the cover of the mask. “You keep everything I give you, Johnny?”
“Naturally, sir.” He says with that charming little lilt to his voice. There’s a challenge in his eyes as he looks up at him. “Haven’t given me anything I couldn’t handle, yet, eh Lt.?”
Ghost clicks his jaw. His skull rattles. “I don’t know,” he retorts, crossing his arms over his chest, “I haven’t seen you use the knife yet. Might be shite with it. You take that thing into the field?”
“Course I do. Between Las Almas and Hasan, I think I’ve learned my lesson about goin’ into a fight without a blade.”
Ghost likes that. He likes that a little piece of him is strapped to Soap’s thigh, likes that he’s always, technically, there to protect him. If he’s not the sniper scope trained on Soap as he skillfully maneuvers the battlefield, then he’s the rifle poised at his six. Now, he’s the knife sharpened on his hip, ready to be grabbed at the first sign of danger.
“Better know how to use it, then.”
Soap has more than proved himself in the field, and Ghost doesn’t have any doubts about his abilities, but he’s safe in the banter, so he keeps it up.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
Ghost, again, watches him as Soap rolls his shoulders and lifts the blade, watches the hem of his green t-shirt stretch down, exposing his neck.
“That the reason you’re hiding away back here in this shit hole?”
“I’m not too good with throwing knives, yet,” Soap admits, the faintest dusting of embarrassment in his voice. “Never spent much time learning how to use ‘em.”
“They’re handy.” It’s a sloppy pun, his joke not landing all the way. He’s off his game, stuck thinking about his knife on Soap’s thigh.
“Aye. Wanted a place that was quiet to practice for a bit.” He flicks the knife up in between his fingertips, eyes narrowing on the wooden target in front of him, and his shoulders bounce once. He throws.
The knife lodges itself into the thick plank, right between the center and the second ring, the paint faded against the scratchy wood.
“Good throw, eh, Lt.?” He’s got that charming, hopeful ring to his voice, that familiar brightness in his eyes; he’s seeking Ghost’s approval, openly goading him into telling Soap he’s good, shameless in the way he vies for Ghost’s attention and praise.
“I’ve seen better.”
“You don’t count.” Like he’s expecting it, Ghost’s guarded response doesn’t off put him in the slightest. He’s still smiling, just a little lopsided, as he walks to the other side of the room. He yanks the knife out of the target. “You know, if you want it back, that’s fine. You can have it.”
“No. Keep it.” Ghost’s lids droop, just a little bit. “You were right. You earned that, Johnny.”
Soap’s face softens. His eyes go warm and buttery, lips twitching and shoulders jumping a little as the subtle praise perks him up. He goes back to twirling the blade between his fingers again. “I’ll take good care of it.”
“You better. Let me know when it gets dull and I’ll sharpen it.”
Soap tilts his head. “I don’t have to bother you for something like that. I can always take it to the armory.”
It’s not a bother. Ghost keeps his shoulders relaxed. “I’m better with knives than some bloke who works in the armory.”
“That you are, Lt.” Soap grins at him. His eyes scan over Ghost’s face, and he can tell that he’s looking for something, but Ghost can’t pinpoint what exactly that is. “Why’d you come looking for me, anyways?”
Ghost blinks at him. “Who said I was looking for you?”
“Why else would you come to this rundown shit hole,” Soap parrots back to him, eyes glimmering. “Bet you wandered the entire base before you thought to check here. Miss me that much, Lt.?”
Despite how long Ghost has known Soap, despite how very thoroughly Soap has wormed his way into Ghost’s cold heart, it still manages to take him off guard every time Soap reads him like that, seeing through all his layers easily.
“Haven’t heard annoying Scottish rambling all day. Thought maybe you carked it. At least wanted to be able to send your tags home, Johnny.”
Soap laughs at that, shoulders shaking lightly. He shakes his head. “You’re a real sweetheart to me, Ghost. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The word snakes through him
“Keep it in your pants, Sergeant,” he chips back. “And you’d be dead, without me, if your track record is anything to go off of.”
Soap has his back turned to him, now, facing the targets again. His fingers flex around his knife. “Might be right about that one, sir.” He throws the knife again, missing the bullseye by just an inch, and then lets out a sigh. Quieter, just under his breath, he says, “Might die ‘cuz of you, too.”
Ghost tilts his head. It’s a curious little quip that twists something in his stomach. He doesn’t scrounge up a retort. Instead, he steps forward quietly, hand slipping down to the knife belt at his hip. He pulls out three more knives, gripping them between his knuckles.
Soap glances over.
“If you’re training, you might as well use more than one.”
Soap’s lips twitch up again, crooked smile lighting up his face again. “Thanks.” He nods once and slips the knives out of Ghost’s hand. “Gonna stay here and watch, Ghost?”
Ghost settles back against the wall behind Soap. He folds his arms over his chest. “Gotta have your six. Right?”
“Aye.” Soap’s voice is warm as the sun. “Always loomin’ back there like my second shadow.”
Ghost presses his lips together to stop the smile that Soap wouldn’t be able to see, anyways. “Always, Johnny.”
--
Despite his staggering reputation, and the rumors that the marines spread about him, and how Ghost himself feels on his worst days—despite all of that, at the end of the day, he’s still human.
He’s human, with all the annoying flaws and weaknesses that come with it, soft enough to kill under the skull mask and tactical gear and grease paint.
He’s human, and he can’t fucking sleep, and it’s driving him crazy.
It’s the fourth night in a row he’s spent laying in bed, staring at the dark ceiling above him, his brain chugging along, just outside the bliss of unconsciousness.
Fuzzy, blackened memories of some wispy nightmare still lick at the back of his brain. Enough cortisol has rocked through his system that he knows he’s fucked to get back to bed.
His eyes slide to the alarm at his bedside.
Two AM.
Bloody fucking hell.
He lets out a sigh and pushes to his feet, gets his black boots on with a couple strong jerks of his legs, and snags the pair of gloves from his table. He’s already got his soft skull balaclava on—because, no, he wasn’t just fucking with Soap when he said he sleeps with it on—so he yanks the hood of his jacket over his head and shoves a pack of cigarettes in his pocket before quietly sliding his door open.
It’s cold as shit outside, tonight. He’s covered from head to toe, thick black hoodie keeping the cold off his skin, but he still shivers once as he trudges along the black pavement.
There’s security milling about, of course, two privates loudly shooting the shit in front of the hangar, so he takes a hard left, snaking around the barracks until he can find a wall that isn’t in anyone’s line of sight.
He ends up slouched against the west side of the mess hall, ass on the freezing cement, facing the track. He can see someone running laps on it—wonders, briefly, what other sorry son of a bitch can’t sleep—as he pulls the pack of cigs out of his pocket.
The flame of his lighter glows in the cold air.
Ghost likes being outside at night. He likes the way the darkness wraps around him like a shroud, likes the way he can blend into the shadows like he’s made of them, nameless and soulless and immaterial. He looks up at the stars, twinkling dully through the haze of smeared clouds; oddly, he likes how small and insignificant it makes him feel, how it makes him feel like just another soldier, a worker ant mindlessly trailing it’s little path through the dirt.
He knocks his head against the wall behind him.
Fuck. The insomnia is making him stupid.
He presses the cigarette to the cloth in front of his mask, taking a long drag.
He focuses on the blur of the night, the comforting ache of smoke in his lungs.
He watches the man on the track run laps; his eyes narrow as he realizes the hazy figure is getting larger, veering off the track and jogging straight toward him.
He huffs out a breath, irritation creasing the skin above his nose.
He hopes, for their sake, that whoever the fuck that is quickly gets the message to leave him the fuck alone—
The man gets closer, though, and by the time Ghost can hear his feet hitting the cement, the glow of the light above him illuminates a mohawk on the top of his head.
“Lt.!”
Ghost blinks. His cigarette burns a steady amber between his fingers.
“Thought that might be you,” Soap breathes, smile curling onto his face. He jogs right up to Ghost and puts his hands on his hips. He’s panting from his running, chest rolling with his quick breathing. His arms are shiny with a thin sheen of sweat, the neckline of his blue shirt damp.
Soap, alone, makes Ghost feel like the dark curtains of the sky are being yanked back to let the sun shine through again. He warms the air around him, brightens everything just a little too much for Ghost’s tastes.
“Soap,” Ghost murmurs, eyes flicking up his body. “What are you doing?”
He shrugs with one bounce of his shoulders. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d use the time to do something worthwhile.”
“Makes one of us,” he grunts, pressing the cigarette back to his masked lips.
Soap’s eyes widen when he sees. “No shit,” he says with a little laugh. “You really smoke through that thing?”
Ghost arches an eyebrow that Soap can’t see. He blows a puff of smoke towards him. “I can do a lot more than smoke through it.”
Soap doesn’t wait for an invitation; he plops down right next to Ghost, resting his forearms on his bent knees.
“Yeah? Like what?” He holds his hand out for the cigarette.
Without even thinking about it, Ghost passes it to him. “I’m sure you’d like to know.”
“Tease.”
“Might be.”
Soap takes a drag of the cigarette. He lets the gray smoke spill out of his mouth for a second, curling around his lips, before puffing the rest out. “Didn’t know you were a smoker, Lt.”
“I’m not.”
“Clearly.” He hands it back to Ghost. “Smokes help you sleep?”
Ghost’s eyes snap over to him. He takes a long drag, trying to ground himself in the feeling of his chest burning. The end of the cigarette glimmers. “Who said I couldn’t sleep?”
“The time of day, mostly.” Soap rolls his shoulders. “You trying to tell me you’re nocturnal, Ghost?”
“Affirmative.”
“Guess that explains why you’re so damn cheery all day. You’re supposed to be taking a nap, hangin’ by your feet somewhere, wrapped up in your own wings.”
“Shut the fuck up, Soap.”
Soap holds his hand back out for the cig. Ghost places it between his fingers. Their fingertips brush together.
Soap does, graciously, shut the hell up, and the only sound between them is the crackle of the cigarette each time one of them takes another breath.
They smoke it down to the filter, and it gives Ghost a reason to tell Soap to fuck off; the cigarette is gone, it was his last one, enough fucking around. He can order Soap back to the barracks, wait for him to disappear into the black of night, and then smoke till his voice is raw.
He slides his hand into his pocket. He pulls out another cigarette.
The lighter clicks quietly in the night.
Soap doesn’t comment on the fact that Ghost has a whole pack in his pocket, that, if he wanted, he could easily light two cigarettes instead of sharing one.
“You like hangin’ out in the dark of night, Lt.?”
Ghost doesn’t say anything.
“Must be nice. Blendin’ into the shadows.” He puffs out a stream of smoke. “Like a true ghost, eh?”
He sighs. Exasperated. Exhausted. Affectionate. He doesn’t know anymore.
He’s not sure which Soap hears as he hands the cigarette back to Ghost with a little smile. He shifts on the concrete, drawing his legs closer to his chest. All he’s wearing are joggers and a sweat-damp tee. He must be freezing his ass off.
Ghost should tell him to go back inside.
“You know, I always slept like shite when I was a kid.”
Ghost blinks slowly. Smoke unfurls from the bottom half of his mask.
“My Seanmhair used to come up with all these ways to get me to stop having nightmares.”
“Your what.”
“Grandmother,” Soap says, shaking his head. He snatches the cigarette back from Ghost. “She used to make me drink dew in the mornings, said it would stop the nightmares. Used to make me run until I dropped before bed, said it would make me sleep through the night.”
Ghost’s throat burns, even with the absence of smoke.
“Said I was such a wild child, always runnin’ and jumpin’ about, I must have been switched out for a changeling when I was a wean.”
“She might have been onto something.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Soap says, grinning, eyes warm where they crinkle in the corners.
Ghost takes the smoke back, because he needs something else to fill his hands and mouth and lungs other than just his words. “That’s why you still run?”
He just shrugs. “Old habits, right?”
Ghost doesn’t say anything. Fuzzy gray smoke curls around his face.
“What about you? Smokin’ one of your old habits?”
“Negative.”
“What is, then?”
“Efficiency.”
Soap snorts. “Load a shite.” He snatches the cigarette back, plucking it right from Ghost’s covered lips.
Ghost turns to him. He blows smoke into Soap’s face.
Soap’s eyes flick down, to the bottom half of his mask. His eyes droop, just a little bit, and then he licks his lips.
“There’s gotta be somethin,’Ghost.”
“Negative,” he repeats. His voice is getting gruffer, roughed up by the cigarette and the cold air and the lack of sleep. Thickened, for some reason, by the warmth radiating off of Soap sitting next to him. “I always keep it tactical.”
“You sayin’ you’re the perfect soldier?”
Ghost doesn’t give him a direct answer. “Let me know when you find a better lieutenant than me.”
Soap’s smile is easy going. “You got a bit of an ego, you know that?”
“Not the biggest thing about me.”
His teeth click immediately after he says it.
The lack of sleep is dulling his mind, smoothing it over like a fresh wax job on roughed wooden floors.
He expects Soap to laugh, or snort, or try to call his bluff. But Soap doesn’t say anything.
He just looks at him.
“Yeah, Lt.? That right?” Ghost doesn’t look over at him, eyes on the black horizon in front of him. He can still feel the burn of his gaze. “You wanna prove that?”
Ghost slides his eyes back to Soap. His face is warm under his mask, cheeks burning where the cloth rests snug. “Curious, Johnny?”
“Well,” Soap’s smile is languid, easy, just a little giddy. “You offering?”
Ghost huffs out a breath through his teeth. “Oh, bloody fucking hell, Mactavish, no. Now shut the fuck up, before I regret letting you smoke with me.”
Soap just laughs next to him, his breath puffing into the cold air. He holds his hand back out for the cigarette.
He prattles on, again, going on about the folklore from before, filling the silence. Ghost barely listens, the glow of the end of the cigarette burning a rosy hole in his vision, but he catches a few things. Soap goes on about how changelings were said to be intelligent and insightful beyond their years, that sometimes they forgot they were fairies and lived with their human family forever, that they had a ravenous appetite, that they jump around, dance when no ones watching, play instruments.
Ghost has never seen Soap play a fucking instrument.
“You know they say fairies are drawn to certain types of beauty, Lt., like blonde hair and blue eyes.”
Ghost isn’t paying attention. His eyelids are fucking heavy. He fights with himself for a moment to keep them open, and the sensation startles him so much he almost jerks.
Why the fuck is he getting sleepy?
He blinks a few times, and the draw to keep them closed is so strong his eyelashes flutter.
“Fallin’ asleep on me, sir?”
“Negative.”
Soap ignores his denial. “Can’t be too comfy on the sidewalk like this, but—” Soap fixes him with a stare that’s far too serious for comfort. “I’ll stay. Keep watch, you know, if you need to conk out.”
For a moment he doesn’t say anything. His heavy gaze is fixed on the cracked blacktop. “I’m not sleeping on the fucking pavement, Mactavish.”
“Just offerin’!” Soap holds his hands up in surrender. The teasing grin is back in his eyes, but there’s still a shadow of something serious. A real, unquestioning offer to sit outside on the cold ground all night just so Ghost can get a couple hours of sleep.
It unnerves the absolute fuck out of him.
Soap never says the obvious out loud, never reaches into Ghost’s gut and drags out all the broken tangles of emotion and rot to let them ooze out in the open. He still knows, though, reads Ghost like it’s his fucking day job, picking up things about him that Ghost thought he was doing such a good job of hiding.
The nightmares, the escaping into the dark, the fact that his presence alone makes Ghost feel safe enough to bloody fucking sleep.
He sees, he knows, but, like he always does, he gives Ghost an out. He offers a hand and then looks away.
Ghost swallows dryly. “You should get to bed, Sergeant.”
He thinks that Soap might almost look sad, just a little bit. He tells himself he’s seeing things. Tells himself it’s the insomnia pickling his brain.
“You get to sit out here and waste your night, but I still got a bed time?”
“You want to be better than me, Johnny.” His words sound heavier than he means them to.
“Thought we agreed I wouldn’t live that long.”
Ghost narrows his eyes at him.
“Jesus, alright, I’m goin,’” Soap hops up to his feet.
Another thing about Soap—he never pushes too far. He pokes at Ghost just enough to see how much he’ll budge, tries to take as much leeway as he can possibly get, but steps back as soon as he gets a feel of one of Ghost’s rigid, impenetrable boundaries.
Sometimes, Ghost wishes that Soap wasn’t so goddamn considerate. Sometimes he wishes that Soap would shove just a little harder, until he ran out of excuses.
“See ya in the morning, then, Lt.?”
“Already the morning.”
Soap shakes his head. “Shove it up your arse, sir.”
He heads back toward the barracks without another word, without anymore witty quips or simmering teasing. Ghost watches him until his figure is eaten up by the darkness.
He spends the rest of the night burning a hole into his lungs, wishing he had an insufferable Scottish lullaby rambling in his ear.
--
Ghost isn’t really able to ‘turn off’ being a soldier.
Even on base, probably the only place he should be able to feel safe and let his guard down, he’s always at least a little on edge. He hears every noise that’s just a bit too loud, sees anyone that moves in his peripheral, catalogues who is in the room and where the best exit is at all times.
His constantly tuned senses are what make him latch onto a familiar voice coming from down the hall.
“Sir!” Someone says. The voice is one part excited, one part—nervous?
“At ease, private.”
Ghost’s boots stop the second he hears the voice. Soap.
“I’ve been trying to get a chance to talk to you alone. I’m private Stevens, sir.”
“You caught me.” Soap’s voice is good-natured and easy going as always. It’s coming from one of the rec rooms, one of the double doors propped open to let their voices filter into the otherwise empty hall. “What can I do for ya?”
There’s no reason for Ghost to be nailed to the floor like he is. There’s no reason for him to want to listen to a conversation he’s not apart of.
“Well, uh, Sergeant Mactavish—”
“Soap is fine.”
“Soap,” he repeats, and there’s an infuriating little smile in his voice that twists around Soap’s name. “I was wondering if you had some time free this afternoon?”
“Depends.”
“I, uh—I wanted to ask if you’d be willing to train me this afternoon. Maybe you could help me with some sparring.”
“I don’t know,” Soap says with a light chuckle. “I think training greenies is a bit above my paygrade.”
“I’m not green, Soap.” The voice is bashful. “But it would be an honor to get tips from someone in the one-four-one. I’ve admired you for some time, so—I at least wanted to ask.”
“Trying to butter me up, Stevens?”
“Not at all, sir, it’s just the truth. I hope to be half the soldier you are, someday.”
Ghost’s teeth clack. That sounds far too familiar.
“I think someone like you…” he trails off. “You could probably teach me a lot.”
The less than subtle innuendo makes Ghost’s blood hot.
Fraternization is, of course, officially disallowed, but Ghost isn’t naïve. Throw a bunch of well-built men into close quarters without much outside exposure, hop them up on adrenaline and testosterone and the pleasant thrill of a gun in their hands—things are bound to happen. It’s not uncommon for soldiers to blow off steam with each other.
Ghost also isn’t naïve that Soap is one of the most well-liked people he’s ever met in his fucking life. Ghost doesn’t think Soap has so much as spoken to a single person who didn’t latch onto him.
Himself in-fucking-cluded.
He’s handsome, too, stupid fucking mohawk aside. He’s got thick arms and thicker thighs, skin honeyed by the sun, blue eyes and a sweet grin and freckles like someone flicked a paint brush at him.
Not that Ghost has noticed.
“I’ll have to check my schedule,” Soap appeases. “The lieutenant keeps me busy around here.”
“Oh.” Stevens’ voice drops. “Ghost. Is—” his voice drops a little. “Is he as scary as the rumors are? I mean, in the field?”
“Even scarier, mate.” His voice takes on a dark edge, but Ghost knows him well enough to know he’s being playful. “The things I’ve seen….” He trails off with a whistle.
Ghost almost rolls his eyes.
“You’re so brave.” Obnoxious flirting. “I’m not sure what would scare the shit out of me more, the terrorists or him.”
“Oh, definitely him.” He can hear the grin in Soap’s voice again. “Stuff of nightmares, I’m tellin’ ya.”
Ghost knows that Soap is full of shit. Soap is probably the only person that hasn’t been scared of him from the jump, the only person that’s always faced him head on with an undiluted openness that Ghost hasn’t received from anyone else in years. Soap has never flinched away from the way Ghost moves in the field, instead openly praising his handiwork with a knife, silky voice spilling from coms and running all the way down Ghost’s back.
He should take this as an out to walk away. Soap deserves his privacy, and the private’s shitty flirting is grating on his goddamn nerves.
The private has moved on from Ghost, though, trying to butter up Soap again.
“I’ve been wanting to ask, how did you get your callsign, anyways?”
“Afraid that’s classified.” Ghost can’t see his face, but his voice is smooth and warm and sweet like the bourbon he rarely drinks. It’s not professional, it’s not even really friendly, it’s more—
He pauses.
What the fuck.
Is Soap—flirting back?
“Aw, come on. Really?”
“One-four-one is very serious business, Private.” He’s definitely grinning.
“If I guess right, will you tell me?”
“No promises.”
Private Stevens chuckles a little. Ghost hears shuffling of boots on the floor.
His gloved fists clench.
“Is it because you’re a picky cleaner? Or because you shower a lot?”
“Interesting guess.”
“Is it because you’re too slippery for enemies to catch?”
“I like that one.”
More shuffling. “Maybe you…like dropping the soap?”
Ghost jerks. What the fuck.
Soap lets out a bark of a laugh. “That’s definitely classified.”
“You’re no fun, Soap.”
“Never been told that before, actually.”
Ghost is moving before the more rational part of his brain can tell him to stop.
It’s not his business. The sergeant can flirt with whoever he wants, he can fuck whoever he wants. Soap’s free time doesn’t concern Ghost in the slightest.
He pushes the door to the rec room open with maybe just a little too much force.
He finds Soap leaning against a counter, head tilted as he stares at Private Stevens.
“Sergeant,” Ghost snaps. “You’re needed.”
The private immediately snaps to attention—legs apart, shoulders taught, back straight and stomach in—when he hears Ghost’s voice. “Sir,” he barks.
Guess he still has some idea of who to respect. Ghost, pointedly, does not tell him at ease.
Soap’s brow furrows when he sees him. His arms fall away from where they are crossed over his chest—they look so much bigger like that—and takes a step toward him.
“Everythin’ okay?”
Ghost doesn’t say anything.
Soap shrugs once, used to Ghost’s silence, especially around other people. He claps the private on the shoulder.
Ghost grimaces under his mask.
“Sorry, Stevens. Duty calls. Sergeant Garrick might be around, if you’re still looking for someone to kick your ass.”
Private Stevens doesn’t look like he’s interested in Sergeant Garrick.
Soap steps to Ghost’s side, clicking into place.
“On me.” Ghost takes off down the hall, pushing forward with long strides. He can hear Soap’s boots clacking against the polished floor, following him obediently. He makes it to the end of the hallway before he realizes that he doesn’t have a clue in hell where he’s going. He stops. He turns.
Soap is alert behind him. “What did you need me for, Ghost?”
Ghost just stares at him.
This is why he isn’t supposed to make impulsive fucking decisions.
Soap holds his gaze, eyes blue and open, and Ghost feels like he can identify every flicker of emotion that crosses his face.
How does he do that? How does he wear his heart on his sleeve like it’s not a liability, like there’s no risk to any of it? He downright fucking beams wherever he goes, a warm, golden glow coming off of him like he’s his own slice of the sun.
He almost can’t hold it against the private for trying to get close to him.
Ghost clicks his jaw. No, he can definitely hold that against him.
“Lt.?”
“Get us a tea.”
Soap blinks at him. “What?”
Ghost just looks at him.
“Get us—you’re pulling rank to get yourself a tea?”
“Is that a problem?”
Soap doesn’t look angry, or annoyed, just perplexed. “Uh—okay, sure, I—how do—how the fuck do you take your tea?”
“Figure it out.” He turns again, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ll be in my room.”
He doesn’t have any doubts that Soap will follow through with his request and come straight to his room. He feels—rattled, almost, so fucking jarred at his own immature behavior.
He’s slipping. Ghost does not slip.
He stews in his room for only a few minutes more, sitting hunched on the side of his bed, fingers flexing nervously between his legs. He has half a mind to get up and leave when he hears something bang against the bottom of his door.
“Open up, Lt. Got my hands full over here.”
Ghost pauses. He pushes himself up from his bed, yanks his door open with more force than needed.
Soap has two styrofoam cup in his hands, thin wisps of steam rising from each. “Move over, ya big bastard, these things are getting hot.”
Ghost steps aside silently, lumbering back over to sit on the edge of his bed. Soap presses one of the cups into his hand before collapsing back on his desk chair.
“Earl Grey with…” he pauses, eyes flicking up to Ghost. “No sugar?”
“One, actually.”
“Shoulda known,” Soap grumbles, pressing his lips to the rim of the cup. “Wouldn’t be that easy to please ya.”
“Watch it, sergeant.”
The warning rolls off Soap’s back like it means nothing to him. Soap takes a sip; he immediately makes a face. “Fuckin’ Brits,” he mutters. “Don’t know how you drink this shite.”
Ghost doesn’t say anything. He slides his mask up, just enough to take a sip, the black edge hanging off the tip of his nose.
Soap’s eyes linger on the revealed sliver of his face for only a second, flicking from his mouth up to Ghost’s eyes. He keeps the cup of tea he doesn’t want to drink in front of the bottom half of his face.
The tea isn’t bad. Soap didn’t overheat the water, or steep the bag too long. He does miss the sugar, though.
“You should have the privates call you sergeant.”
Soap cocks his head to the side. “Why’s that?”
“You’re their commanding officer, Johnny. They should treat you as such.”
Soap licks his lips. “So, you want them to treat me how I treat you?”
“No.” Ghost’s voice is quick, dark. Absolutely not.
Soap shifts in the chair. “Hardly seems fair. You sayin’ we’re an exception, or something?”
Soap has become an exception to just about everything in Ghost’s life. “One-four-one gets to play by its own rules. You know that. We’re a team.” He rubs his thumb over the squeaky material of the styrofoam. “I know I can trust you.”
The joking light in Soap’s eyes smooths over, melts into something warm and soft. “Aye, Lt. Always.”
Ghost throws more tea down his throat, as if the simple action will be enough to distract him from whatever fucking emotion it is trying to rise up his chest. He focuses on drinking, focuses on the way the air feels cool against his exposed mouth, focuses on the dust in the corner of the room—anything aside from the look on Soap’s face.
“Eh, Lt.?”
Ghost glances up at him.
“Wanna spar after this?” His eyes are warm over his cup of tea.
He takes a sip, wishing that the tea would douse the thrill in his chest at that; Soap turning down training with the private, Soap asking to spar with him. It shouldn’t be enough to make him feel so damn pleased, shouldn’t be enough to make him feel special. He shouldn’t give a bloody fuck about being special, anyways.
“Feel like getting knocked around that bad, Soap?”
“Only if it’s you, sir.”
Ghost’s whole body flashes hot, for just one second. “Stevens didn’t do it for you?”
Stupid, stupid words.
Soap just snorts. “I’d at least like a little bit of a challenge.”
“Think I’m more than just a little challenge, Johnny.”
“That’s for sure.”
Soap takes another sip. He grimaces a little, but tries not to show it. “Just don’t want to get rusty. Who knows when Price will ship us out again.”
A new mission can not come soon enough. “Hopefully soon.”
“Gettin’ bored?”
“Don’t like bein’ idle.”
“So spar with me.”
Ghost slides his gaze from the foggy surface of his tea. “Fine. Don’t bitch to me when you’re sore tomorrow.”
Soap busies his mouth with his tea, again.
They drink in silence for a couple more minutes before Soap fills it again.
“You know I was just fuckin’ with Stevens, right?”
Ghost’s eyes flick up to him.
Soap looks almost bashful. “I know you heard us talking.”
He neither confirms nor denies. “What you get up to outside of missions isn’t my concern.”
Soap looks like he disagrees. “Maybe. Just want to make sure you know.” He swirls his cup a little. “It’s funny to mess with the desperate ones.”
It doesn’t make Ghost feel better. Not at all. He doesn’t feel a trickling of relief at his words.
“Not my type, anyways.”
“What is?” Stupid fucking question.
Soap’s eyes go sharp, narrowing in on Ghost, and then he tilts his head to the side. “Classified.”
Ghost’s voice is dry. “I’m your commanding officer, sergeant. Nothing is classified from me.”
“You orderin’ me to answer the question, Lt.?”
He could. He knows Soap will do it, probably won’t even mind that much, and god does Ghost want to know. He could so easily find out, so easily scope out which members on the base fit his description and scare them to the deepest corners of the compound, but—it will look strange, for him to make an order out of something that shouldn’t matter a lick.
Ghost can’t remember the last time he genuinely pulled rank on Soap. Soap is obedient in the field, falling into step behind Ghost in perfect rhythm; the rare times when he pushes back against orders, Ghost considers what he has to say, because Soap has proven himself to be a damn good sergeant, and Ghost trusts his perspective.
“Sometimes, Mactavish, it seems like you enjoy it when I order you around.”
“You’re just so good at it. Can’t say it doesn’t do anything for me,” he jokes, voice a notch too deep, rougher than Ghost thinks it needs to be.
Ghost just watches him.
Soap’s eyes are bright over the brim of his cup. He doesn’t let Ghost’s dark glare dampen his mirth. “But Stevens is—eh, too scrawny, too green. Not confident enough, too desperate to get thrown a bone.”
“Bein’ that eager to please isn’t a good look on him.”
“Is it a good look on anyone?”
“You.” He says without thinking.
It’s infuriating, his steadily slipping control, the way his brain spits up the first thing that comes to mind before logic can shoot it dead. It’s humiliating, the way Soap’s grin and thick arms and stupid fucking accent have wound their way into Ghost’s heart and brain like a truth serum.
“You just like it when I stroke your ego.” He’s grinning. “Thought you had enough scared little marines gossiping about the big bad Ghost to satisfy you.”
“That why you said I’m scarier than the terrorists?”
Soap chuckles, shifting in the chair. “Not gonna tarnish what you have going on. Know how important it is to you.”
Ghost stays quiet. He never really tried to play up the persona he’s known for so much, but it still flutters around in his stomach that Soap takes it as seriously as he does.
“Ya know, some of em aren’t just scared of you.”
Ghost doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really take the time to notice how random marines react to him.
“You ever…” Soap trails off, fidgeting a little in his chair. He diverts his eyes from Ghost.
“Spit it out, Soap.”
“Ya know—throw one of the desperate marines a bone.”
“No,” Ghost deadpans.
“Figured.” Soap snickers a little, swirling his cup of tea. “Sure plenty of ‘em would love to get their hands on you, though.”
“Do you think I’m the type of person to want my subordinates’ hands on me,” he asks dryly.
A light flickers off in Soap’s eyes. Something dims in his smile. “Nah. I know you’re not.”
It feels like—it feels like Ghost chose a wrong answer, said the wrong thing, triggered an off switch in Soap that he didn’t mean to press. Soap falls silent, but it’s not the good kind of silent.
The sudden shift leaves a feeling of unease on him, like grease against his skin, and he wants to get Soap talking again, wants to pry back open whatever it is he’s chosen to close off.
He throws back the rest of his tea. “Finished, sergeant?” He shoves up from the bed.
“Aye,” he says, setting the nearly full cup of tea down on Ghost’s desk. “Had enough piss water for today.”
Ghost slaps the back of his head. “Watch it. Get up.”
“Fuck off!” Soap’s smiling again as he runs his fingers across his head. “Where are we going?”
Ghost sighs. “You were the one who said you wanted to spar.”
Soap hops to his feet. “Just dyin’ to get my ass handed to me, sir.”
“Always here for you in that regard, Johnny.”
“Countin’ on it, Ghost.”
--
Yearning, Ghost realizes, aches even deeper than a bullet wound.
It’s an unfamiliar feeling, foreign and gnawing like a burrow stuck in his heel, rattling his composure with every step he takes.
He’s trained himself not to desire, the same way he’s trained his body to sprint while in full tactical gear, the same way he’s trained his eyes to focus through a sniper scope for hours on end.
There’s lots he’s learned to resist—he doesn’t let hunger rot in his belly when he’s on a long mission without a proper meal, he doesn’t give into the desperate need to sleep even when nightmares have kept him up for days on end, he doesn’t let the ache of his muscles from being overloaded with weapons keep him from focusing.
He thought that he’s also learned to resist the desire for companionship.
But he’s never wanted someone—anything—like he wants Soap.
He wants Soap at his side almost all the time, anymore, just so he can hear his accent, thick when it spills over his curses. He wants him close enough to see the sparkle in his eyes when he laughs, to feel his body heat that spills off of him in waves.
He wants Soap to touch him, more, to leave his hand on his shoulder when he reaches out to punch it, to press against his side when they stand side by side, to throw his legs over his lap when they’re sitting next to each other.
He wants to feel the way Soap’s waist fits into his broad hand.
He wants to know what Soap’s skin feels like, how warm it would be against his bare palm.
He wants to know how he would react if Ghost buried his hand in his stupid fucking mohawk and yanked.
The wires are getting crossed in his head; he doesn’t know what to do with all this sudden tenderness, and sometimes he wants to pull Soap apart limb from limb, if only to leave his fingerprints in the seams when he puts him back together.
The flood of wants drowns out every piece of common sense in his head, and for the first time in a long time, Ghost starts to feel unsure of who he is anymore.
Ghost is both sides of an immaculately sharpened blade.
Ghost likes being a lieutenant, likes that he still has a decent amount of brass over his head. It’s why he’s crisply turned down even the suggestion of a promotion; he’s too good at following orders.
A command filters through his earpiece, and he follows it without needing to be told twice. A set of mission objectives are placed in front of him, and he executes them flawlessly. He’s told to jump, and his intuition and skill figure out how high without even needing to ask.
He’s also good at giving orders. He knows how to command a squad, knows the calls to make to ensure everyone gets back to base, knows how to speak to his soldiers in a way that doesn’t leave any room for disobedience.
He knows when he’s a commander, and when he’s an obedient soldier.
But with Soap, for some reason, he’s both.
He likes having Soap under his command. He likes knowing that Soap is under his watch, because he knows that he will make the calls to keep Soap safe. He likes having Soap in his sights, likes that he can rumble a command into his coms and hear his familiar ‘yes, sir’ echo back at him, likes that Soap follows at his heels without Ghost even having to say ‘on me.’
Soap is obedient to him, follows the lines that separate their rankings—but, somehow, Ghost is just as obedient to him.
Soap grins at him, and his shoulders relax. Soap kicks at his boots under the table to get his attention, and his eyes snap up to look at him. Soap nudges at his shoulder, and he lets out the breath he’s been holding. Soap asks him to spar, and Ghost gets up to follow him to the training grounds, he asks him to eat with him and Ghost is shoving up the bottom part of his mask in the noisy mess hall, he scoots over during exfil and Ghost sits right next to him.
Soap moves across the battlefield, and Ghost slides his sniper scope to follow him.
Soap eggs him on with banter, and Ghost tosses it right back. He looks at Ghost with hopeful, seeking eyes, and Ghost’s mouth fills with praise.
Soap calls, and Ghost answers.
It’s become such an indelible part of his being, the way Soap pushes and pulls at him like the moon on the tides. He doesn’t know where one part of him stops and the other begins, anymore, doesn’t know how to untangle good soldier Ghost and this new side that wants, that gravitates around Soap like a light-starved moth to flame.
And the warmth feels good, and the craving doesn’t ebb the closer he gets to the fire, but he can’t help but wonder when it’s going to burn him.