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It comes as a surprise to most people, but Soap hates the beach.
It's not like, a religious type of hate. He just would much rather go to the mountains, snowboard, even ski instead of the beach. It's the sand, ‘cause that shit sticks to every surface possible and gets caught in-between your toes, and won't leave your clothes, and it pisses him off. Coarse and irritating.
“You tan or burn, Lt?” Soap ducks behind another cabana, grabs a couple of bottles and tucks them in his pack.
“An impeccable bronze, Johnny.”
The image is a little funny. Ghost, at the beach, like one of the chicks laid out by the shore for a nice tan. He wonders what the man would wear, like trunks and nothing else, or maybe he'd keep the balaclava on, and sweat like hell underneath it. Soap tries not to let his mind wander too much on the thought, the idea of his trunks hung low on his hips, or his hair damp with seawater, pooling in the hollow of his neck.
Soap exhales, hands sweaty on his rifle.
“Tan lines around the eyes?” That, too, is an image. Soap saw Ghost’s face for the first time after Las Almas, but before that, all he knew was his eyes. A pretty brown, like deep brown, the kind that drag you in. Ghost has mentioned Soap’s own eyes before—some little snarky, offhandedly mentioned comment on the blue of his eyes. How they were pretty. They contrast each other well, he thinks. Blue and brown. Brown and blue.
“ Naturally ,” Ghost says, lowly.
He huffs, his breath high like a whistle. Ghost always seems to try his hardest to throw off his focus in the field—yet Soap knows it's not intentional, but surely he's aware of it. Somewhere along the way, Ghost had to be doing it purposefully. Knew exactly what to say to push his buttons, rile him up so he’d talk back.
“You are so full of shit LT,” Soap disassembles and reassembles his rifle, listens for the click of the magazine just because he can. “Pale as hell like you, bet you turn all red like a lobster.”
“Wasn’t lyin’,” Soap can hear a lazy smile underneath that damn balaclava. “Like a bronze statue.”
“This is all going in my report, boys,” Laswell says coolly. Properly exhausted of their poorly disguised, genuinely awful flirting. Always toeing that line between barely acceptable and outright fraternization.
Of course, a harmless joke about fishing is not frat. At least, Soap would assume so, but you never know what those uptight pricks high-up have to say. Just gotta suffer through your homoerotic friendships with your CO.
He's good at what he does, silently killing each of the Konni with practiced ease, maybe a knife in the neck or a silenced bullet through the brain. Quickly and efficiently.
When he gets the garage, he eyes all the different vehicles cooped up inside reverently. “Holy shit.”
Ghost almost sounds bored. It's a little funny he's assuming that Soap’s words have absolutely nothing to do with the mission. “What are you on about, Johnny?”
“The garage!” He pokes around, giving the red sports car an appreciative glance. “This shit must've cost a fucking fortune.”
“You got a thing for fancy cars?”
“Dunno what you mean by thing, sir,” Soap grumbles. A few stragglers of Konni guards are stationed by the garage's other exit-entrance door, and Soap puts them both right to sleep with a nice knock to the brain stem with the butt of his gun. “But there’s some sweet lookin’ ones crowdin’ Milena’s mansion. Maybe she could share.”
“Well,” Ghost muses, and the inflection of his voice—shit, if Soap wasn't goin’ off the deep end, he’d say the man sounds a little bitter. Jealous is pushing it. “ Marry an oligarch with an island, and this too shall be yours,”
For-fucking-real? Soap’s cheekbones flush. He's a pro so he presses the inner skin of his wrist against the warmth of his cheek, pointedly keeping his eyes on his rifle's scope.
“Not sure if oligarchs are my type, sir,” Soap turns a corner, out the garage doors, inhales when a guard immediately pops out of fuckin’ nowhere from the end of the sidewalk. Or at least, that was before Soap chucked a knife in his brain.
“Picky.”
“But not an elitist bastard.”
“ Cutting it close.”
“Pfft, don't take the piss, LT.”
“Boys,” Laswell cuts, chiding. Soap and Ghost snap their mouths shut. “Both of you, focus. John told you to be careful.”
The Captain did say that, yeah. He said watch your backs. Said it with a pointed look in both of their directions, and a pat to Ghost’s tac vest. Although, it was hard to tell if watch your back meant don’t flirt on the field, like Laswell proposes, or be careful. Probably a mix of both.
Milena talks. Not that they didn't think she would. Money makes everyone talk.
Specifically super-fucking-crazy rich bastards. Someone like Makarov’s financier would have their pockets stuffed so full they droop and drag their pantlegs to the floor. Which, ha, they were, since millions were just sittin’ in her bank account, as well as Makarov’s, and she wouldn't budge until Soap threatened her funds instead.
That’s Makarov’s future, not mine.
Ah, Laswell said. Soap could practically picture her leaning back in her chair, satisfactory with Milena’s—unintended— confession. You hear that, Soap?
“I did,” Soap says, clipped. Ghost’s chin dips towards him.
It was almost amusing to watch her freak out, elitist little piece of shit. A right prick, she was, considering how many civilians she's indirectly caused the death of. Supplying and funding chemical weapons for Makarov to get his greedy little fingers on.
“Fuck you,” Milena seethes. She trembles in her seat, fists tight.
Soap cocks an eyebrow.
And maybe it was a little fun to threaten cutting off her hands. Just a bit. To be fair, he did tell the truth—it's not his forte to chop people’s limbs off during an interrogation, and Ghost doesn't do that often, either. But when he does, it's usually after they don't comply with Ghost or Soap whatsoever. You've gotta poke the beast to make it bite.
So yeah, sometimes Ghost’ll get a little mean. Slice off a finger or two, here and there. He usually doesn't have to go any further than towering over them, directing them with a nasty glare that'll make you piss your trousers if you're not careful. Then he asks them what he wants and they drop it immediately.
It's a little sexy. Kinda. You know. Walking around like that, a hand loosely gripping his rifle. Has anyone ever told the guy he has a great ass?
Soap doesn't know perfect Russian, just a few words here and there, but he knows enough to understand Milena was swearing at them on he and Ghost’s way out. Gritted her way through her words, how Makarov will lose his shit knowin' she cracked.
“Nice work,” Laswell praised. “Head your way back to the boat, and the bird will pick you up when you're far enough out.”
“Rog, out here.”
The chopper ride back is just them, sat in the back, knee to knee. Soap’s boot taps insistently on the aluminum floor, Milena’s laptop sat on his thighs.
He's still high on the adrenaline. If it weren't for the time budget, he’d stayed a bit longer to bash some Russian heads in. Ghost, across from him, lifts the toe of his boot on top of his own to stop his tapping.
Ghost eyes him, ever silent. “Good work.”
His lone sentence startles the silence away. Soap blinks in surprise.
“High praise from you, LT.”
Soap’s mouth tastes like sawdust. There's something so personal in the way Ghost sits, leaned back with his arms crossed. Ghost peers at him in amusement, and even if he doesn't mean to show it, Soap can totally see it ‘cause his eyes crinkle. “What's up with you.”
“Nothing, sir,” Soap nudges Ghost’s boot with a click of his heel. He grins a little when Ghost taps him back. “Just wonderin'.”
Honest to Christ, the guy rolls his eyes. “Penny for your thoughts, then.”
Bloody hell. They’re grown fucking men. Soap might as well kiss Ghost through the mask if that'll make any of this move faster.
And that's.. an idea.
Soap purses his lips. Ghost is still watching, perhaps waiting for an answer, even. Soap shifts in place, gently clawing at the fabric of his fatigues nervously. Sitting up, he leans forward intently, slowly reaching a hand up to Ghost’s face.
Ghost’s shoulders slacken. But he doesn't gasp, doesn’t show any sign of shock. Nor does he recoil from Soap’s approaching touch.
He cups Ghost’s masked cheek. Closes his eyes and presses a small, close-mouthed kiss on top of where—relatively— Ghost’s lips would be. It's actually quite chaste, compared to their flirting and their embarrassing quips. But Soap has toed that line— fuck, really, he's actually catapulted ten kilometers past it. This is not platonic mates being mates anymore.
Ghost does not move away. But he does cock his head enticingly. Then it’s Soap’s turn to be frozen in time, as Ghost peels back the bottom half of the balaclava and hooks the excess onto his nose. (A very fucking nice one, by the way. Broad with a bump on the bridge. Handsome.)
Tilting his head downwards, their lips skim each other. Not much of a kiss, but they're so close they're sharing breaths. He can barely hear the whir of the engine. This bloody plane could fall and crash and burn right now and Soap wouldn't notice a thing.
God, this is absolute torture. Soap huffs into Ghost’s mouth, and kisses him proper. His hand sears Ghost’s pale pink cheek, warm with the pound of his heart.
Their foreheads meet, noses touching.
Ghost’s chest heaves with his breathing, although they haven't gone anywhere. “You should've done that earlier,” his voice pitches low— certainly unknowingly so, as that is just Ghost’s natural timbre. But Ghost’s voice is already low, but not this low. More suggestive if anything.
Soap tells him so. “Your voice sounds hot,”
Ghost chokes on a small laugh, but cuts himself off to lean forward and press his mouth against the dip of Soap’s cheekbone.
They’re interrupted by their pilot telling them they're only a few klicks out from their base. Assumably Price and Gaz will be waiting for them.
“What a cockblock,” Soap grumbles, leaning away from Ghost and leaning against the padded wall.
“Right,” Ghost says dryly. Ever the professional as he drags the damn mask back down, his pretty face disappearing from view. Soap sighs inwardly. “Tell that to the boss, then.”
“Ach, no. I don't want him to give me that fuckin’ look o’ his.”
“The disappointed face.”
“That's the one.”
There are a patch of freckles that dot up and down Simon’s cheekbones. Although they trickle up underneath his mask, there's enough of them that Soap can still admire in silence. At least, before Ghost decided to pull the thing back up.
His boot bounces with the aftershocks. Soap makes himself comfortable, but his hands still rest on his knees and his fingers twitch in Ghost’s direction. Unfortunately, Soap isn't stupid and likes having hands, so he doesn't bother to reach for Ghost’s gloved fingers.
A beat. Soap rhythmically taps his knee against the whirr of the engine.
A slow squint tells Soap everything he needs to know. Like a giant rousing from a thousand year sleep, Ghost reaches with faux patience and sets a hand on top of Soap’s. His skin prickles with it.