Chapter Text
Ghost has always been aware of the eyes on him.
He accepted it as an inevitable reality. There were going to be some disadvantages to being constantly masked, but the advantages of keeping his face hidden far outweighed any. Their line of work demanded focus during highly dangerous situations, and any distraction his appearance provided fizzled out the more his company knew that Ghost wasn't there to entertain their curiosity.
Which begged the question of Soap.
Soap who usually focused on their objectives, leaving a comment or two the moment he noticed a difference, Soap who narrowed the banter to their comms, shutting up for tactical reasons when he was ordered to, and Soap who didn’t simply stare at him dumbly and turn away when he was the one who approached.
Ghost was expecting more than a quip or two. The Konni group they were dealing with in this particular mission had a captain that he was more than familiar with, knocking shoulders and missing bullets in the last few encounters had him looking forward to cementing this day as the finale. He lost good men to him and he was more than willing to return the favour, whether the mission ended in a capture or kill didn’t matter; he would make sure to avenge them.
Whenever his outfit changed, it was for camouflage reasons more often than not. He adjusted in terms of environment, comfort and whatever he was in the mood for the mission, and his instincts hadn't betrayed him yet. When he chose the outfit for the day, there was retribution to properly consider. Ghost had a collection of knives for combat, stored and restocked appropriately whenever he needed it, but combat knives weren't the only weapons with an edge that he enjoyed collecting. He prided himself over the variety in his collection — some even holding fond memories, like the khukuri he was gifted long ago by a Gurkha soldier he was stationed with who noticed his penchant for knives and extended his thanks after a gruelling mission.
The knives he had chosen for the occasion were special too, and he took the extra step to include a usable, sharp sickle to complete the outfit, truly living up to the name that he ascribed to it.
Azrael.
He didn’t overthink it. The meaning of the name was apparent to anyone who knew a thing or two about mythology and religion, and those that would live to know the tale were going to be few; it was only apt that the men who pissed him off were greeted with the visage he crafted for the day. The rest of his squad would know more than enough to not question him in the process.
Or so, he hoped the annoyance was contained within Soap if it were to exist in any capacity.
Ghost was ready to brush off his questioning and jokes too, an excuse already at the tip of his tongue when the Sergeant’s hurried steps stopped a foot or so away before they boarded the helo, watching the flare of curiosity spark in those wide, crystalline blue eyes. That curiosity, however, was doused by an unfathomable emotion when his gaze eventually rested on Ghost’s face, red tainting the top of his cheeks when he realised that he was caught staring.
“L.t.” Soap’s greeting was curt, far too formal than his norm. He nodded in his direction, not even bothering to step close enough to pat Ghost’s shoulder and turned with the tips of his ears vaguely pink — already heading towards the helo without a second glance.
That wasn’t what he was expecting.
Ghost was left there standing and staring at the space that the Sergeant previously occupied, wondering what went and died in his coffee for his demeanour to be off to this extent. Soap wasn’t the one to let an opportunity slip. He’d been mentally preparing himself for all the shitty grim reaper jokes he was bound to hear in-person and through comms for the rest of the day; his subordinate was hardly tactical-minded enough to shut up and go about his mission without being ordered to, no one could blame him for expecting more.
Then again, when has Ghost wasted his time trying to figure out a man’s intentions when they had a mission to see through?
The ordeal in Las Almas, alongside Chicago, were isolated and necessary incidents. Johnny was someone he had come to value, both as a soldier and someone who deserved more than Ghost had been willing to give. He saw the error of his ways then and things had been cordial so far, with the Sergeant pushing his luck more than a few times — getting away with it occasionally too. He might’ve gotten a tad bit soft. Just an inch, not more, not when the threat they were dealing with was capable of making John Price paler than him for once, and demanded all of their attention.
Vladimir Makarov had managed to give them the slip so far.
The way the task force organised and proceeded through various intel flooding their way, it was going to take an extended effort to track the man down. Their previous missions were full of Konni nonsense. There was some hope of getting better intel from their current hideout, but the look on Laswell’s face when she discussed the details wasn't promising. They’d have to take what they could get. Of course, dealing an equal blow to the Konni Group was a bonus for him.
Ghost moved when the last of the marines they were deployed with boarded the helo, finding his seat empty like it usually was. The main difference was that Soap wasn’t sitting next to him, choosing to sit across from him instead. They locked eyes when the helo took off, the usual seriousness in Soap’s expression replacing whatever was present in the interaction before. If he didn’t remember the vivid details of how the blue in his eyes contrasted with the red, he might’ve dismissed the face as a fluke.
Alas, the luxury of free time escaped them. They had a job to see through and Ghost was boiling with the need to execute everything perfectly.
-
Through sheer luck, Ghost was the one who managed to get his hands on the captain of the group. Their operation was a success, accumulating fewer casualties than they’d anticipated with the ultranationalists being taken off-guard from the start. He knew things were proceeding smoothly when Soap kept effortlessly clearing out the rooms, their banter reduced to a stray word or two thrown around due to the spiralling chaos of everything around them.
There were more than a few explosions too, and he let the Sergeant deal with most of its implementation, intent on moving closer towards the target.
By the time Ghost cornered the man, he was on his last magazines, barely holding himself together when he was effectively neutralised. Dragging him by his scruff to hand over to Price was a satisfying endeavour too, if the Captain noticed the extra splatters of blood on the edge of his uniform and the man’s broken nose, he didn’t say anything.
He liked Price for that.
The old man was well aware of what the men under his command were like. Price was among the few that Ghost was willing to hand over the benefit of the doubt to, regardless of whether the circumstance was less than ideal to do so — if their work in Mexico had anything to say about it. The task force was growing, adjusting to the scale of the oppositions, but the faces that were consistent throughout were starting to solidify in his routine. The Captain, Garrick, Laswell and Soap, not counting the multitude of regional connections Laswell and Price had whenever they needed it. Routine was something he could get used to, but there was a persistent voice in the back of his mind that nagged, reminding him of what happened the last time he was a part of a larger group.
His advice to Soap hadn’t been out of the kindness of his heart. He made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t let that incident repeat itself, that he’d steel his heart — ignoring the consequences of harbouring a cold one — and expect the worst out of every little situation and connection he had. That way, he would be prepared, even if he physically wasn’t and those he trusted managed to take him off-guard; he would be able to accept the reality of his situation and do what was needed to be done.
The world wasn’t kind, it was indifferent at best and antagonising at worst, he was sick of allowing it more control over himself than it already had. Every mission involved a mental preparation for the worst, on those nights he would imagine those faces he had grown accustomed to stabbing him in the back.
In every recreation, he did not succumb to his connections.
There was a problem, though. A glaring, persistent problem that was growing more difficult to ignore on nights when he performed that exercise, how a certain pair of eyes made him hesitate for a second before he did what was needed to be done. If Ghost could blame it on his humanity, he would. But somewhere along the mechanical exterminations of his job, he was convinced any trace of it was long stripped from his mind, body and soul.
No, it was something else, something distinctly heavy and emotional that made the seconds stretch further and further, until Johnny’s eyes seared his soul with that resolute admiration soured to an unacceptable level.
L.t. He’d whisper in his mind, his accent thick, voice cracking between the syllables.
L.t. The second utterance was more hopeful. Perhaps seeing Ghost pause to consider gave him a false sense of security, as if any other outcome could be expected from where they ended up.
Then, he would fire the bullet.
Every time, without fail. The only thing that gave him any solace; he wasn’t gone enough to completely disregard the precaution that mattered.
“L.t?” Soap’s voice materialised by his side, effectively snuffing any recollection of the memory he conjured. He took a deep, silent breath in, and then another, tipping his head to cast a wayward glance down at the man who interrupted his peace.
The Sergeant was standing there with his eyebrows slightly raised, the question he wanted to ask painted all over his face despite how adamantly he was keeping his mouth shut, making his eyes seem more alive somehow; deep blue and volatile, a storm brewing in Britain’s cold seashores, or at least, he imagined that was how it would look like if he drowned in them. Maybe he should visit Scotland to see how the sea looked there. It wouldn’t be much different, he reckoned.
Another nugget of his preparations bewildered him whenever he reached Soap’s scenario. Those eyes, alive, eager and reverent, would disappear alongside the scene, it was like a heavy weight sat on his chest, stopping him from picturing how Johnny would look, lifeless.
His mind usually went blank after that, unable to continue the mental recreation as the heaviness settled with more frantic urgency.
Ghost didn’t know why or how it was different with Soap, but he knew trouble when he saw it. The problem was that this trouble had the face of a Scotsman who didn’t particularly mind his business, someone who was far more perceptive and clever than he was given credit for, not missing a drop in his superior’s moods without having something to say about it.
“Out with it.” He didn’t mean to make his voice pitch like he was giving a command but the quick shift in Soap’s curiosity to something more serious wasn’t horrible. He exhaled anyway, letting his voice drop to something softer, with less edge to it, “You’ve been quiet the entire op, Sergeant.”
Sergeant.
Not Johnny, not Soap, but strictly Sergeant, because that was what he was supposed to be to him. What they were supposed to be for each other; a Lieutenant and his Sergeant.
“Dressed all fancy for that guy?” Soap asked casually and yet the sharpness in his gaze when he turned to look at their captive was anything but cordial.
Soap — Johnny — brimmed with aggression under his skin. Ghost recognised that familiar tune of destruction strumming from those fingertips, the hot-headed righteousness that was reminiscent of his past self before the world took that fire and doused it with the reality of man. He came out of that metal forge sharp, soaked and vengeful, blood laced within the steel of his making. Johnny, however, had yet to see the end of that fire.
He was nowhere near the end of it.
Long ago, Ghost dismissed him in the notion of that naivety. He was sure that he would make a mistake, drag the operation down if he didn’t know better and burn everything with it. Johnny’s eagerness was sure to be tampered with when the time was right, and till then, he stood to learn a thing or two from taking orders from someone who knew what it was like on the other side. The maturity was supposed to hone him into someone worth being considered as an equal, bound to change him forever in the process, instil a sort of jaded cynicism that only war could bring a man.
The years went by and he watched with muted astonishment on how it didn’t. Soap stood, as explosive, destructive and angry as ever, his ire centred at the tips of his fingers, waiting for the confirmation to pull or push before everything was demolished within seconds to count. He was there, staring daggers at the enemy that Ghost had some beef with that he wasn’t even privy to, focusing all of his aggression on a single, productive point like the military had primed him to do.
All it would take would be a word from his superior, from Ghost, and that anger would have something to focus on, the green light to fully unleash itself in a beautiful execution of intent.
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Johnny.”
So, he didn’t.
He held the leash tight in his hands, mouth deprived of the words that would allow Johnny the solace of directing that ire somewhere.
Soap recognised it, a line of tension pulling his back tight for a second, and then it was gone, all traces of it disappearing in himself when he turned towards Ghost, that familiar, friendly smile back on his face.
He couldn’t fool him, but Ghost had a feeling that he wasn’t trying to hide it much.
“Aye, absolutely jealous of Death makin’ a personal visit.” Soap’s voice was light and teasing, that intensity in his eyes persisted, flickering to take in the rest of his outfit. He lingered on the blood that was clearly splattered on his gloves. “What did that cunt do to piss you off, Ghost?”
A joke softening the blow of what he really wanted to know, the lack of tact obvious too — he wasn’t hiding his intentions well at all.
Ghost hummed under his breath. “Looking to learn from him?”
“If it means I get to see more of what’s hidin’ in that spooky closet…”
“Don’t push your luck, Soap.” He turned away from him, briskly making his way towards exfil, unsurprised to find that he was being pursued by hurried steps from the Sergeant in question. “You don’t want to see me angry.”
Ghost caught the gaze of Price standing across the compound from them, surrounded by a bunch of marines, no doubt wrapping things up. The old man had enough time to stare with a tilt of his head apparently, asking a silent question despite the distance between them; Ghost could guess it was because of how the mission went, Price’s stare was directed at him and Soap, questioning the lack of interactions they had during the mission. The silence that persisted because of the queer sight during infill, one that Price didn't get to see.
He nodded curtly in affirmative, they were fine.
It annoyed him that he had to confirm it like his relationship with his subordinate wasn’t functioning as it should. Things were better if they didn’t get lost in themselves to jeopardise the mission, to maintain that distance that toed the line of friendship but didn’t spill into it. Unfortunately, Soap caught the gesture and turned his head towards the Captain, noticing the briefest glance of interest before Price returned to his work.
“Think we’ll get something out of him?” Soap asked, following him to the helo.
He took a seat next to Ghost this time, keeping to himself aside from the subtle weight of his thigh leaning against Ghost’s. At least it was better than the last time, where Soap fell asleep and was completely slumped against his side for the entirety of the ride, rendering Ghost unable to move unless he wanted to wake him up.
Some wild sort of consideration had compelled him back then, he wasn’t feeling as kind today.
“Better hope so,” Ghost grunted, closing his eyes. The adrenaline of the mission was slowly wearing off, the aggression seeping out of his muscles; he craved nothing but a proper shower and drink, already planning his evening in accordance. “I’ve some ways to get ‘em out of him, if Price lets me.”
“Torture?” Soap’s spoken realisation was almost humorous, the sound of shuffling soldiers and sudden quietness surrounding them because of it.
Ghost wasn’t planning to dignify it with a response, but he couldn’t help himself. Soap made it easy to slip into that affable atmosphere without trying.
“Interrogation.”
The corners of his lips twitched, a soft smile sweeping through, hidden well underneath the bulk of his mask. How many times had he smiled unconsciously in Soap’s presence?
He hadn’t kept count and he wasn’t planning on letting him know anytime soon.
-
Ghost went his way when they arrived at the base. Debrief, shower and some much-needed alone time were what he looked forward to. He had some alcohol stashed in his room, scotch he stored for particularly irksome days. He even entertained the thought of inviting Soap over; solely to judge his taste, of course, since the Sergeant seemed to have more than a few opinions on what he considered good when it came to his personal preference.
His phone vibrated when he was drying himself off in his room, and he spared a glance at the cracked screen to discern the sender’s name.
Soap.
Ghost raised an eyebrow, suddenly interested in the message more than he expected to be. Giving his ‘number’ to the team was more or less a formal gesture, it was easier to reach with normal means of communication on base and keeping in touch was crucial when things could escalate at the drop of a hat. They had been advised to keep their communications strictly within themselves and vague; anything official was off the records.
His initial apprehension of giving Soap his number wore off when the Sergeant stuck to the rules they were given. He was pragmatic with it, rarely reaching out to Ghost unless it was about something Price or Laswell was trying to relay — usually just information about meetings and debriefs being moved around their schedule.
Soap: L.t.
Soap: Fancy a swally tonight?
Soap: The guys want a round and they’re too shit to ask you, left it to me.
Soap: Screenshotting this btw.
It was like he read Ghost’s mind. Or perhaps, the ‘guys’ that Soap was speaking for did. He hadn’t clocked who would bother including him in the equation, the marines they’d been deployed looked the same as the rest of them — he missed the socialisation part of it due to his focus being reserved for one man.
Ghost: We have work early tomorrow.
Ghost: But.
Ghost: I could use a whiskey.
Ghost: Better keep it at a round then.
He tossed the phone to his bed, sighing to no one in particular as he shrugged the towel off his shoulders. He would’ve preferred the quieter comforts of the base and less unknown, and potentially unpleasant, company but if Soap was set on going out to drink, he was hardly going to linger for some from his room.
Ghost ignored the rapid vibrations of the notification from his phone, turning away to dress himself in his usual civilian outfit. His balaclava, jacket, hoodie, jeans, gloves and boots completed the look, they were going to a pub near the base, it wasn’t going to be anywhere fancy nor was anyone going to question his mask.
By the time he picked up his phone, an assortment of messages was there — as if Soap had been waiting for this evening to text to his heart’s content.
Soap: What if it goes past that? 🤨
He sent an attachment right underneath that message, a screenshot of a group chat with the names obscured. A flurry of text revealed itself when Ghost tapped the image, including ones that went:
???: SCOOOOORE!
???: Score? This is BUZZKILL.
???: !!!!!!
???: 🍆🍆🍆🍆
There definitely was going to be more than a few unpleasant companies around.
Soap: Look at how happy you made them.
Soap: Sorry you aren’t included.
Soap: For obvious reasons.
He waited for a ‘spooky bastard’ or an allusion to their earlier banter but nothing came, Soap had enough wits in him to not outrightly insult his superior on something that could be recorded, he supposed.
Ghost: No need.
Ghost: Wouldn’t have joined anyway.
Ghost: Told your friends you’re sharing messages with me too, Sergeant?
He was already typing up the next message before he could stop himself.
Ghost: There’s a difference between you going over the limit and me, Johnny.
Ghost: I can hold my liquor quite well.
There was a pause. Then, the ‘typing’ bubble popped up and disappeared, it happened a couple of times, enough for Ghost to shake his head and move out of his room, locking it behind him.
Soap: And how would you know my tolerance level? Surprised you’re even joining us for once! Finally making it a real celebration with the whole team.
Soap: That’ll stay between the two of us. They won’t care - they begged to see your reply, right?
Soap: Only fair if I give something in exchange.
Soap: Right, L.t?
Rebellious little thing. Ghost huffed out a breath of amusement. Who was he to say no if Soap was willing to provide some mindless entertainment for free?
Ghost: Right.
Ghost: Didn’t take a whole lot of begging from my side, Soap.
Ghost: Better not let your ‘friends’ know.
His next set of messages were quick, sent in rapid succession, it felt like he was waiting for Ghost to loosen up enough to pounce.
Soap: Aww
Soap: Concerned about your sergeant?
Soap: MWI alr? We haven’t even left yet, L.t.
Soap: Slow down.
Like hell he would.
Ghost didn’t care about the rest of them catching much as much as he cared about getting a drink for himself, and maybe Soap’s company if he wasn’t planning on asking for more than he deserved, and from the looks of it, that wasn’t the plan for the evening.
Ghost: Quite the opposite.
Ghost: Running your mouth without a drink.
Ghost: Don’t make me regret accepting, Sergeant.
He might.
If he did, he was going to make the evening worthwhile, even if it was entertaining himself by watching how the rest of them — how Soap — would act.
Soap: I do that a lot. Pretending you didn’t know?
Soap: You don’t regret it yet.
Soap: Good! So when are you leaving? I’m omw.
Asking, pushing, always seeking more. Ghost might’ve indulged him if he was in a better mood, and as things stood, the night was dragging on without a drink in sight.
He needed to amend that with or without Soap in his company.
Ghost: Negative.
Ghost: I’ll be there.
Soap didn’t text until he was well out of the base, he knew where they were planning to crash. There weren’t many options if they wanted to go on a night out without crashing the day after.
Soap: No set time. Got it.
It was too bad Ghost wasn’t there to see the pout on his face.
Ghost: You won’t need to know.
The silence stretched, far more than it had before. Ghost was already stepping into the establishment, nodding his head in the direction of the bartender as usual when his phone vibrated for the final message. He didn’t open his phone until there was a glass of whiskey in his hand, the smooth, rich taste of it lingering warmly in his mouth.
Soap: K.
Short, sweet, completely unlike the Sergeant he knew. It was fine; Soap needed to learn that his stubbornness, the subtle line he skirted between intrigue and begging, wouldn’t go unpunished.
-
It was almost comical how Soap acted the exact way he was expecting him to.
He stumbled in with the marines, talking heartily with one of their arms draped around his shoulders, the jokes and laughter making their speech incomprehensible from a distance. The sight might’ve irked Ghost if he didn’t immediately start looking for him. Soap tried to be subtle with his search too, swaying in line with the group while his eyes swept from one side of the room to the other, scrunching his brows the more he searched.
He finally settled on the darkest corner of the bar, face fully turned towards Ghost.
For a moment, Soap didn’t move from his spot. His body was still, gaze fixated and displeasure plastered clearer than ever. Ghost took the opportunity to take in the rest of him, and noted how the shirt he wore looked a bit too fancy and tight, the shapely curves down his body that were fitted in casual, stylised jeans. His mohawk looked fresh, properly slicked back, and if he were close, he would’ve probably smelt the clean scent of his hygiene products alongside his cologne.
Soap certainly looked like he was out there to have a great time.
One that involved having another body, warm and fresh, present to accompany him through the night. Unfortunately for him, women were sorely absent on the premises and Soap’s options were reduced to the rest of the lot. Military personnel, his group included, and something told him that Soap wasn’t entirely interested in his company, if the blatant stare directed towards him while ignoring everyone else said anything.
Ghost had taken a seat at the furthest table in the bar, languidly letting his thighs cover most of the booth, the small table and sofa would have been fine for a company of four but his frame alone took most of the booth from his side. That left the seat opposite to him. It’d fit Soap and one of his friends, if they bothered to squeeze in. He made his intentions clear with the choice of seating. Without outwardly stating it, of course.
Ghost tipped his glass up, relishing the deepening, disgruntled look on Soap’s face as he pushed his balaclava and took a sip of his drink. He was offering a glimpse of himself from afar knowing how much Johnny hungered for one. Like a piece of fresh meat stored behind glass displays, far away from the mouths of salivating strays; existing solely for torment.
He wasn’t sure why the obsession existed, but it served its purpose for the day.
Ghost pulled the mask down again.
Johnny had a choice to make and from the way the rest of them followed his gaze, almost flinching at Ghost’s casual stance, he knew neither of the options was going to be pleasant. Ditch the group for Ghost or leave him alone, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to join in with whatever they’d plan to do for the evening.
He was a man of his word; he was going to drink enough to satisfy that silent ache and nothing more.
Johnny ended up sitting with the marines, his eyes never leaving Ghost’s spot regardless of how the conversation carried off with drinks and laughter that made the pub’s atmosphere livelier than ever. Moments where a stray touch, an overtly invasive joke or sharing of food would take his attention away, but it’d faithfully return to Ghost mere seconds after, as if the thought of him never truly left his mind.
To say he was amused was an understatement.
He tested the Sergeant’s interest by bringing his glass up to his lips whenever the noise got a bit too loud. Not disappointed when Soap’s eyes turned sharply towards him, his chest pulling tight, engrossed by the mere motion of his hand. Time stood lax between them, the noise and presence of everyone else filtering out in the grim, warmly lit room, leaving just a Sergeant and a Lieutenant to indulge themselves.
Neither made a move, neither could. The evening went on, seconds passing between stolen glances and listless stares, drinks steadily being drowned before Ghost was at his third and last.
Soap managed to disentangle himself from the rest of the group, some knowing instinct sensing that he was ready to move, heading towards Ghost as he took a slow sip, finishing his drink. Soap stopped in front of his table. He wasn’t hiding his interest in the slightest, focused completely on the point that Ghost’s lips were meeting the glass’s edge.
He lowered his drink to the table, purposefully knocking the glass to the surface to make a loud noise to direct Soap’s attention elsewhere.
Ghost watched, rolling the balaclava down as Soap sucked his cheeks in, having enough grace to look momentarily ashamed but with the haze of alcohol blurring the edge of his blue eyes, the mildly flushed state of his face, something told Ghost it wasn’t enough to stop him from opening his mouth.
“Not gonna join us?”
He wasn’t asking what he wanted to ask, skirting around his intentions; his first mistake.
“Did,” Ghost answered, tipping his head to the side. He kept his gaze nonchalant, a challenge subtly imposed, one that his Sergeant caught on the moment he did — he was quick on the uptake.
“But I thought ye were—” Soap started, his mouth twisting shut for a moment as frustration contorted his features. “Thought you were gonna sit ‘n drink with us.”
Still avoiding what you want to say.
“Don’t recall promising that, Sergeant.” Ghost shrugged, pushing his glass away to stand up, he spared a nod at the bartender. He had paid before he took each glass, the rounds he was promised downed when Johnny didn’t take the chance he was given. “I’m done for the night.”
Ghost kept him in his peripherals, interest raising when he tensed, and again, his emotions were wiped clean when Soap turned towards him. He was aware it was a bit cruel, testing Johnny when they’d been through hell together, but he couldn’t help question the intentions behind his repression.
Whether it was friendship or something else he craved, he wasn’t being honest about it and there was nothing in the world that Ghost despised more than liars.
“Yer just leavin’, then.” Soap’s accent grew thicker, unable to hide how he felt about the situation.
He didn’t stop him when he stepped out of the booth. Didn’t stop him when he moved to make his way towards the exit either. Every step Ghost took was an opportunity wasted, the door stood within a metre’s grasp and he turned his head for a moment, some sentiment pulling his focus away from the marines who averted their gazes the moment he noticed the figure of the Sergeant who was frowning at him.
His eyes creased fondly. “See you tomorrow, Johnny.”
He turned and stepped out without looking back.
-
Ghost was drifting off to sleep when his phone buzzed again, lighting the darkened room and subsequently waking him up in an instant. He was a light sleeper, courtesy of his time in the military and other events that permanently changed the way he slept, or rather, took his ability to sleep deeply away.
Thinking it was important, he rolled over to his side and reached for his phone, squinting his eyes to glance at the screen.
Soap.
He glanced at the time.
02:15.
“For fuck’s sake, Johnny,” Ghost groaned, swiping his phone to open the messaging app as he pulled his phone closer to his tired face.
Soap: hey
Soap: clatty fcuk what was the point kf coming if you wree going to levea lik ethat??
Ghost exhaled.
Drunk texting. The exact reason he’d been apprehensive of giving him his number in the first place; he thought Johnny could be trusted after weeks of proper, work-appropriate conversations, only to be blindsided the moment Ghost indulged him.
Ghost: Sergeant.
He thought a reminder of his station would snap him out of it but it did nothing to deter him.
Soap: boo
The urge was there. To turn his phone off, toss it to the side and let the Sergeant brew in messages that weren’t read so he could hastily delete them when he returned to his senses. The Ghost from a few months ago would’ve done so too, not a second of sleep wasted on someone who wasn’t worth the time or effort. But Johnny was worth his time, some of it anyway, and that gnawing itch in him returned with vengeance.
An itch that wanted to use the opportunity to fully discern Soap’s intentions, not giving a damn about how compromised he was, pissed off his head.
Ghost: You’re drunk.
It was an out, extended solely as a courtesy to their camaraderie. Ghost might’ve toyed with his interest in the bar earlier, taking into account how roundabout he was being, but Soap was a fellow soldier, a teammate that he had grown to trust and appreciate — he deserved some level of consideration.
Soap: u
Soap: =
Soap: annoying
Soap’s response was instantaneous, albeit foolish. He threw the ball to Ghost’s court with how brash he was being, not caring about the consequences of his words. The structure of the task force was a-typical in many ways but if Ghost wanted to instil discipline within his subordinates, no one was going to stop him.
Ghost: Mactavish.
His final warning.
It seemed like it worked too. Without a message popping up instantly, he lowered his phone to his chest, staring at his ceiling in silent wonder. He was stuck texting someone late at night for absolutely no reason other than to satisfy his curiosity, the absurdity of his action stayed with him when the phone vibrated again. It stayed ever-present as Ghost flipped the screen, Soap’s nonsensical message making him pause in consideration.
He has been doing that a lot, recently.
Pausing, considering, letting Soap consume more of his thoughts by the day. He should stop.
Soap: 🍆 ✨
Subtly wasn’t Soap’s forte, but he was starting to wish it was. He wasn’t old enough to not know what it meant, the implications clearer and cruder than day. Not that he knew it. For all his ‘ole boy’ jokes, Ghost wondered if it would work, if the acknowledgement of something he previously ignored could be spun to his favour.
Ghost: What’s that supposed to mean?
He was getting used to toying with him.
Ghost: Eggplant’s not on base.
It was too easy.
Soap: yuo checked?
Soap made it too easy.
Ghost: Right, sure.
Ghost: I checked.
Sleep was long forgotten when the typing status kept popping up, Soap’s persistence compelling him to step over the line between them; and linger for moments more.
Soap: good ol boy
Soap: haha
Soap: stupd
Ghost wasn’t someone who tolerated insubordination entirely, there were exceptions, of course, and things weren’t always as black and white as people wanted them to be, but this was entirely new to him.
The casual violation of rank, their chain of command and rules, all of it was new to him solely because no one as close to him, as Soap was, had the balls to speak this freely. The fact that he was humouring any of it was new too. He’ll blame it on the drinks, and maybe the tiredness that was weighing steadily over his body, making his reasoning blur together in a cosy haze.
Ghost: That’s enough out of you.
Ghost: Go sleep.
Both of them needed to sleep. Laswell wasn’t going to tolerate late appearances on the account of tomfoolery when they were likely going to be shipped out to another mission. Ghost had drank more than he thought he would but it wasn’t to the extent Soap had.
Soap: i dont take ordera rn
To the extent of texting him drunk, out of everyone else on the base.
Ghost: Too bad, you will.
Soap: ???
Soap sent him a blurry photo of himself, his face almost indiscernible due to how unstable in focus was. Ghost could make out some details of his background, it seemed like he was in his room, just down the hallway to his own.
At least he wasn’t drunkenly messing around out of base.
Ghost: Save yourself from being mortified in the morning, Sergeant. Sleep.
Ghost: Last chance.
His last extension of grace before deeming it an official, professional shitshow.
Soap: before what
Soap: u doin smtg??
There are so many things I want to do, Johnny.
He didn’t text that stray thought, taking a screenshot of the conversation as evidence instead. Just in case he deleted everything later.
Ghost: I am.
Ghost: You don’t want to find out.
Yet, like every message before, Johnny ignored his warning.
Soap: spill
Soap: finally talkin
There it was.
A semblance of Soap’s true self, the one he had been hiding underneath omission and silent glares — the truth that was suppressed deeper in the Sergeant than he expected it to be.
Ghost: That why you’re like this?
Ghost: Because I didn’t talk?
He’d forgive him if he admitted to it.
Right there, drunken or not, if he admitted that he had wanted something out of Ghost that evening; if he admitted that the salivating trail wasn’t something Ghost imagined underneath words unsaid, that there was intent, need and desire present; they could go back to how they were.
Unfortunately, he didn’t take the out.
Soap: no
Soap: annoying
Lies, lies.
Soap: Lt
Soap: I’m sleeping
He wouldn’t keep him, then.
Soap needed to get his arse into bed before they completely missed the meeting in the morning. There would be other times they could deal with… whatever Soap was hiding. Until then, Ghost would wait.
He was a patient man, and as far as he knew, he was more patient than Soap claimed to be.
Ghost: Go.
Ghost: Should’ve watched your liquor, Johnny.
It was supposed to be the end of it.
Ghost was going to toss his phone to the side, and he was going to forget about the conversation for the night, deal with the consequences and his subordinate’s mortification in the morning, or whenever it was relevant.
But of course, Soap wasn’t going to leave things that easily; hungry, panting little thing, he wanted the last word, the last bite before they slept, almost predictably so.
Soap: 🖕
The corner of his lips twitched.
Well, who was Ghost to deny a man when he was so intent on digging a deeper grave for himself? The response didn’t deserve to be acknowledged, so he left it on a dull, obvious read.
He slept soundly for the rest of the night, ignoring his phone in the morning until he was fully dressed and ready to get his day started.
Soap: I suppose a “I didn’t know it was you” won’t do well here?
Soap: I apologise for my brashness, L.t. I should have taken your warnings.
Soap: I’ll see you soon.
He turned the screen off without responding. The read could haunt him for a bit more, they were going to be face-to-face soon enough.
For once in his life, he was looking forward to seeing how shameless a man could be.