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Ghost was the classic lone wolf—cold, methodical, didn’t do attachments. He believed emotions were a burden in the field. The whole soulmate idea? Just romantic propaganda.
Soap was the complete opposite: affectionate, the kind who believed people were meant to find each other.
They were paired for missions by command due to compatible scent and instinct profiles—something used in hybrid warfare to boost operational effectiveness.
It wasn’t the first time Ghost had worked with a dog hybrid. For some reason, they always ended up with this intense energy, that overly extroverted canine characteristic. He was used to brushing off their social nature, keeping things tactical and professional. Complete the mission, move on.
But this time was different.
This new dog hybrid had the same kind of energy as the others, sure—but there was something else. Something in the way he talked to Ghost. It was hard to describe. He could say the most disrespectful shit and still make it sound respectful—sometimes even funny.
And even if Ghost didn’t want to admit it, after their first mission together, he’d already sensed they had good chemistry in the field.
It had been a long time since he’d felt that kind of connection with anyone.
As missions passed, their bond only grew stronger. Each time, it became clearer how well they moved together in combat. Their synced instincts made them a terrifying duo.
They moved together with an ease that couldn’t be trained—like they anticipated each other’s next move before it happened. Covering angles without needing to speak. Trusting each other’s judgment without question.
Outside of combat, it was the same. Their sense of humor aligned in a strange, effortless way—dry, sharp, kind of silly, sometimes dark.
And they shared more than just instincts. Like their morals. A quiet belief in protecting the people who couldn’t protect themselves. A mutual hatred for cruelty. Loyalty, not to the system, but to the people who’d earned it.
And then there was the way Soap treated him. Ghost was used to people keeping their distance, but Soap didn’t flinch around him. Didn’t try to get closer than allowed, but didn’t walk on eggshells either.
During exfil on one op, they sat side by side in the back of the helicopter. There was plenty of space to sit elsewhere, but no—they were on the same bench, knees almost touching. Ghost wasn’t sure when he’d gotten comfortable having him around, but it felt right, so he didn’t overthink it.
Soap was rambling about how he couldn’t wait to shower and sleep in a real bed and whatnot. Ghost listened, thinking the same thing—he was equally tired.
“Christ, ma back’s gonna snap in half if I sleep on another slab of concrete,” Soap said, stretching with a wince. “And honestly, if it weren’t for all this blood, I’d go straight to bed,” he added, glancing down at his clothes. “Look at me. Look like a fuckin’ extra fae a zombie film.”
Ghost hummed, eyes scanning the bloodied fabric. “I’d say more like a slasher’s dream date.”
Soap laughed. “You’re a real romantic, eh?” That earned him a nudge to the side, Ghost’s elbow catching him in the ribs, making him laugh harder. “You’ve got a twisted sense o’ humour. Not that I’m complainin’, it’s kinda funny. Y’know? Maybe we’re soulmates, mate. Hate to break it to ye.”
Ghost turned his head, giving him a sidelong look through the mask. “Don’t tell me you actually believe in that shite.”
Soap shrugged, still grinning. “Don’t get so defensive, LT. I’m just messing with ye.”
He leaned back, resting his head against the wall with a little sigh. “Although... that’d be interesting,” he said so quietly he wasn’t even sure he’d said it out loud.
He let the silence settle after that, not pushing it. The hum of the chopper filled the space between them, blades beating a steady rhythm overhead.
And that was the beginning of the whole “soulmates” idea getting stuck in their heads.
Soap knew something inside him had shifted. He became more aware of the wolf—how much he liked his scent, how terrific he looked when he was working, killing and whatnot, how naturally they complemented each other. He tried to play it off, blaming it on “his stupid joke.”
He suddenly was more conscious of just how close they’d gotten. Spending time together even outside of missions, eating side by side in the mess hall, communicating without words, a mutual understanding.
It was like Ghost was always there—orbiting his space without ever quite stepping fully into it.
And yet, Soap didn’t want to assume too much. Didn’t want to ruin it all by thinking the wrong thing.
Soap was chatting with a recruit in the rec room, mostly about the last op, sprinkled with dumb jokes and light teasing. He was relaxed, tail flicking lazily behind him.
His hand rested on the soldier’s shoulder as he laughed at something the other said but the laugh slowly decreased when he felt the body under his hand tense. He turned his head a bit and saw him.
Ghost was walking toward them, boots heavy, presence heavier. Wordlessly positioned himself beside Soap, a bit too close, his eyes locked on the point of contact between the two men.
The recruit looked at Ghost, then followed his gaze to Soap’s hand… then up to Soap himself.
“Well, I need to do some things, so I’ll leave you guys be. Catch ya later,” the soldier said as he was already backing away, giving Soap no chance to argue.
Soap, resigned now that his chatting partner had abandoned him, accepted his fate and turned to his LT.
“Can I help you with someth—”
“What was so funny, Sergeant? I wanna laugh too” Ghost’s voice cut in, solid. Arms crossed, he stood facing him with eyes Soap couldn’t quite read—or maybe just didn’t want to believe what he thought he saw.
Soap raised a brow, amused. "Jealous, LT?"
Ghost didn’t answer. He just stepped in that inch closer, enough that Soap could feel the heat of him, his scent. And then, almost casually, Ghost’s gloved hand brushed over his shoulder, fingers trailing just a little too slow before falling away. Barely a touch.
Soap’s ears twitched.
He knew what that was. Knew exactly what it meant.
And Ghost knew he knew, because when Soap turned to look at him, the man was already walking off.
Ghost's scent lingered. Very subtle, very territorial.
Soap's eyes followed him as he walked away, tail flicking once.
“No fair…” he breathed in a whisper, a tangle of thoughts crisscrossing his head, the same thoughts he’d tried so hard not to think about all this time.
Days passed, Soap debating whether or not to bring up the fact that he was, essentially, marked. He wondered if Ghost had done it out of jealousy or not.
But then it hit him.
There was a simple way to prove it without actually having to talk to Ghost about it. And the opportunity came to him as if the universe had taken his side.
In the training room, a fellow soldier asked Soap to help him train, to practice a few moves. He happily agreed—good way to burn off some energy.
They were sparring, tossing and shoving each other onto the mat. Laughter slipped out between hits, though neither of them fully let go of the seriousness of the training. Soap threw the soldier with ease, offering tips in between moves.
During one of the throws, he caught a glimpse of Ghost watching from the sidelines—arms crossed, jaw tight. Without breaking rhythm, he kept sparring, now with a new purpose in mind: being as touchy as possible. Friendly, of course. Nothing out of line… just enough.
After some time, both men were sweaty and agreed it was time for a break. While the recruit went to grab some water, Soap walked straight over to Ghost, planting himself in front of him.
“What’re you thinking about so seriously? Jealousy doesn’t suit you, LT. Makes your ears twitch,” Soap teased, a grin on his face as he passed a towel around his neck to wipe the sweat.
“Just thinking about how quick I could break his arm,” Ghost replied, tail flicking back and forth with sharp movements, eyes shifting toward the recruit in the distance, already chatting with someone else.
“Romantic.”
“You said I was once. Don’t make me prove it.”
Their eyes locked, heavy with everything left unsaid. A conversation in silence—loud, desperate, and afraid to fully admit what it meant.
“Then let’s spar together,” Soap said after a pause that felt like it lasted a lifetime. “So no one else touches your dear soulmate.” His voice was light, teasing. His feet stayed planted, held there by the weight of the moment.
Ghost only rolled his eyes before standing and getting ready to spar. Soap couldn’t help the wag of his tail as he followed happily behind.
Even though Ghost appeared calm, his tail didn’t cooperate. The fur along it was slightly puffed up, projecting an irritation he was trying not to show.
It was unlike him, not being able to keep his emotions under control, not burying them so deep that no one, not even himself, could notice. He was fully aware of what his untamed tail was doing, but he chose to ignore it. There was something more important on his mind.
Something about the way Soap was all smiley and touchy, how the recruit’s eyes were filled with admiration—as if they were in their own world—it twisted something in Ghost’s gut.
He had to pull himself together. He needed to regain control.
The tension between them was palpable as they squared off. The first few exchanges were typical—Ghost’s quick, controlled strikes against Soap’s more fluid, unpredictable movements. They danced around each other, a constant back-and-forth.
Then, suddenly, the rhythm broke—Soap hesitated, and it was all Ghost needed. Ghost took advantage of the opening, his body moving without thinking, instinct guiding his every action. Before Soap could react, Ghost had him pinned against the mat, his forearm pressing against Soap’s chest, his weight fully on top of him.
There was an intense, charged pause. Ghost’s breath was hot against Soap’s skin, his body pressing down in a position that was hard to ignore, the proximity more intimate than either of them was prepared for. Soap’s heart was pounding, Ghost’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, his hand gripping Soap’s wrist with just enough force to make it impossible to move.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.
Their eyes locked into each other’s.
Something flickered in Ghost’s eyes—something soft, desperate—but quickly faded away. Neither of them acknowledged it. Neither of them could. Not yet.
Slowly, Ghost released his hold, standing up with a muttered, "You’re too slow, Johnny."
Soap stayed down a moment longer than necessary, breathing heavily, as if trying to shake the moment from his mind. When he finally stood, his eyes flicked toward Ghost once more. But there was no teasing remark, no usual banter. Just the faintest tilt of his head—a subtle recognition of the shift in the air.
He nodded, more to himself than to anyone else. "Right," Soap said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Next round?"
Ghost just nodded back, his gaze unreadable. But the tension hadn’t dissipated. It was still there, simmering between them like a quiet storm waiting to break.
From then on, each day made it harder for Ghost to pretend nothing was happening inside him—to keep rejecting everything that desperately wanted to flourish, but that he refused to nourish.
He caught himself doing things he wouldn’t normally do—watching Soap whenever he napped, his relaxed face while sleeping, noticing the sound of his laugh, being protective... sometimes even possessive.
He found comfort in Soap’s scent. He could be stressed, but the moment Soap got close, it was enough to calm him.
“It means we trained too long together. It’s just instinct,” he tried desperately to convince himself.
They were alone in the rec room—Ghost reading something on the couch, Soap sitting beside him, brushing his own tail. Once he finished, he let out a dramatic sigh and dropped onto the couch like a sack of sand.
For a couple of minutes, he just watched as the Brit turned pages now and then, the soft rustle the only sound echoing in the room.
Even though they sat in silence, it was a comfortable one—both of them quietly enjoying each other’s company.
Soap shifted closer and leaned into Ghost, resting his chin on his shoulder. Ghost was mid-page turn but froze at the contact.
“Relax, LT. I’m just keeping warm.”
“We’re indoors,” Ghost protested, continuing the motion of his hand.
“Still cold. You’re like a big heated wall. A grumpy one.”
“You’re lucky I don’t bite.” Despite the threat in his words, his voice was soft, amused.
“What if I’m into that?” Soap smirked.
Soap’s words hung in the air, the smirk on his face playful, but his eyes searched Ghost’s, looking for something.
Ghost didn’t answer.
He turned the page, even though he hadn’t read a single word on the last one.
Soap let out a short breath, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. “You ever think maybe I’m not joking when I say stuff like that?”
Ghost stiffened. Soap didn’t push, just waited, keeping the position, tail swinging slowly with patience.
“Don’t start,” Ghost muttered, quiet but firm.
“I’m serious,” Soap said, sitting up straighter, backing just enough to be able to be face to face. “Maybe not all the time. But sometimes I mean it. The whole soulmates thing. The way I stick around. Maybe, deep down, it’s not just for laughs.”
Ghost finally looked at him, something unreadable in his gaze.
He was afraid.
Afraid of losing control. Afraid of what it meant to be bonded—of what it meant to let someone see all of him. He’d always believed he was too dangerous to have a mate, too unstable to risk letting someone in.
What if they really bonded, and Soap saw the parts of him he kept buried? What if he realized Ghost was too much to handle and walked away?
Or worse—what if they did bond, and then Soap was taken from him? Ghost didn’t know which was worse.
He couldn’t take that.
“You don’t get it,” he said after a long pause, his voice low. “This bond, it’s not a joke. It’s not just flirting. Once you start down that road, there’s no turning back.”
Soap blinked. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That we’ll bond and I’ll… What, leave? Regret it?”
Ghost didn’t answer.
“Ghost—Simon—” Soap’s voice softened, almost hesitant. "D’you feel anythin’? Or am I just makin’ a total arse of myself here?”
Ghost stood suddenly, the book slipping shut in his hand. He didn’t look at Soap as he said, “Don’t dwell on it. That kind of distraction’ll get you killed out there.”
Soap’s jaw tightened. “Right,” he muttered, his voice duller than usual. “Of course.”
He didn’t follow when Ghost left the room.
As Ghost walked away the silence that followed stuck to him long after. He’d said what he needed to say. He told himself it was for both their safety.
But the next morning, something was off.
Soap still greeted him like usual—sharp smile, teasing glint—but it didn’t reach his eyes. His tail barely moved. No nudge of the shoulder, no casual touch as they passed in the hallway.
He was holding back.
Ghost noticed it immediately, and it hit him like a bruise that kept getting pressed.
At first, he told himself it was for the best. That maybe Soap had finally gotten the message. But the longer it went on, the less convincing that lie became.
Soap laughed with the others, joked and spent time with Gaz, trained like nothing had changed—but when Ghost was near, the air was quieter.
Ghost watched it all unfold in silence, that creeping distance widening between them with every passing day. And the worst part?
He missed him. Missed the stupid banter, the calming effect of his scent, the physical closeness, the soft touches that used to settle something restless inside him.
And he hated himself for missing it. Because, wasn’t this what he wanted? To keep things safe, controlled. Contained.
He’d told Soap not to get distracted thinking about him—but now he was the one who couldn’t stop thinking about Soap.
After a few weeks, Gaz found Soap cleaning some guns, but his gaze was lost—absentmindedly doing the chore by instinct.
“You good?” he asked, casually leaning against the wall.
Soap shrugged. “Define good.”
Gaz tilted his head. “This about Ghost?”
“Am I that obvious?” Soap raised his head, eyes reflecting deep tiredness, sadness.
Gaz let out a compassionate sigh. “To me? Yeah.”
Soap returned his stare to the gun in his hands and hesitated before saying, “I told him something. Or tried to. Thought maybe there was something between us. But now I’m not sure if I just screwed it all up.”
Gaz was quiet for a beat. “Look... wolves don’t mate easily, Soap. It’s not just instincts or pheromones or whatever shit people think. When they choose someone, it’s for real. And it terrifies the hell out of them.”
Soap looked at him. “So what—you think he likes me but he’s just scared?”
“Maybe,” Gaz shrugged. “I just think that maybe there’s some stupid internal monologue going on in his head that won’t let him be honest with you or with himself. I don’t know him as well as you do, but I think the LT can be a bit of an airhead sometimes.”
Soap let out a small chuckle. It was interesting to hear Gaz say that about their LT.
“But I do know this—he’s not indifferent. And he definitely notices when you pull back. If I’m honest, he’s been kinda a pain in the arse to deal with lately.”
Soap frowned. What he heard made sense but at the same time, it didn’t.
“Don’t give up just yet,” Gaz added, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “But be careful. If you go in too fast, you might spook him.”
Soap nodded, relieved to have Gaz as his friend.
Another duo mission came in, sending both hybrids to secure a data drive containing intel from a suspected safehouse. It was an abandoned building complex. Dead quiet. Moonlight filtered through broken windows. Dust hung in the air.
Getting inside was easy. No soul in sight, intel had declared the zone isolated.
They found the device in a back office, hidden behind a broken filing cabinet. Ghost moved to secure the drive, sliding it into a pouch.
Soap kept watch—body alert, tail low. He was tense. Something felt off. Instinct scratched under his skin.
With the drive secured and the building cleared, they fall back toward exfil. Soap’s tail brushed Ghost’s leg as they moved. Not on purpose.
Probably.
The building is barely holding together—old wood groaning with every step.
The extraction route was tight—narrow hallway, ancient floorboards underfoot, walls closing in with rot and dust. The kind of place where bad things happen fast.
Soap’s just behind Ghost, covering the rear, when they hear it: boots. Voices. Movement coming up from the corner.
“Contact front,” Ghost says, calm. Too calm.
They fall into position just as shadows dart around the corner—five hostiles with rifles up. The firefight kicks off fast, brutal. Controlled shots, sparks from ricochets, and Soap’s grinning like a maniac behind cover.
“You smell like adrenaline and trouble,” Ghost says without taking his eyes off the hostiles.
“Good. That means I’m doing my job.” Soap grinned. It had been a while since their last mission, he’d missed the adrenaline.
Then it happened.
A sharp, echoing crack. A sixth enemy bursts in from the side, catches Soap off guard. He spins to fire—too close to the center of the corridor.
The floor beneath Soap gives out in a violent lurch.
“Ghost!” is all he manages before he drops like a stone.
Ghost hears it more than he sees it—the scream, then nothing. His heart spikes. For a moment, he’s frozen. Eyes wide, breath gone.
His vision tunnels.
The remaining enemies are still firing—but they’re not important.
Not anymore.
His snarl rips through the air as he charges forward, bullets barely registering.
One hostile tries to flank but Ghost drops him with a clean double tap, head and chest. No hesitation.
The next tries to retreat but he doesn’t make it far. Ghost takes him down too fast, too violently, a blur of claws and suppressed gunfire.
The third stares for a second too long. Ghost stares back. A growl deep in his throat.
Then silence, sharp and final.
In less than ten seconds, the hallway’s quiet again.
Blood pools on cracked wood.
He moves to the edge of the hole, drops to his knees and peers down into the dust-heavy dark.
“Johnny?” he calls, rough and raw.
No sound.
No motion.
Nothing.
He slings his rifle over his back and jumps down into the wreckage without another thought.
The floor below is a mess of splintered wood, metal piping, and choking dust.
Ghost lands hard, ignoring the pain shooting up his knees. He’s already sniffing, scanning, searching for the man.
Soap’s scent is here. Strong. Close.
He’s not thinking. He’s scenting .
Blood. Metal. Soap.
“Johnny!” he calls, voice raw.
No answer.
He doesn’t wait.
He tears through debris like a madman, shoving everything with inhuman force. He digs with his hands, arms shaking from adrenaline. His claws are out. His knuckles bleed. Every sound he makes is a growl.
He couldn’t stop.
Not until he found him.
A noise. Weak. A low groan.
Ghost freezes.
Eyes scanning in the darkness.
There.
A tail, limp under a sheet of drywall.
Ghost’s blood runs cold.
In the blink of an eye, he dropped to his knees and lifted it.
Soap was crumpled beneath, half-buried in debris. His eyes were half-open, unfocused. One side of his face was bloodied. His arm looked twisted.
But he was alive.
Ghost exhaled—ragged, shaken.
Soap blinked slowly. “You…” His voice was hoarse. “You look like hell, Ghost.”
Ghost almost chuckled. It came out broken.
He dropped to his side and helped him sit, letting Soap lean into his arm for support. His other hand moved to Soap’s cheek in a fruitless attempt to wipe away the blood, a touch so gentle it was hard to believe it came from the same hand that had brutally killed moments ago.
“I killed them all.”
Soap gave a shaky little laugh. “Damn, not the time to try to seduce me.”
Ghost didn’t let go of him for a long moment—one hand holding him close, the other stroking along his ribs, checking, inspecting, scenting without even realizing.
“You scared the shit outta me, Johnny.” Ghost finally let out in a whisper.
Soap blinked again, his smile faint. “Didn’t mean to.”
Some seconds passed, eyes softening, leaving the adrenaline behind, leaving space for the calmness after the storm.
Static crackled from their radios, pulling them out of their world. Laswell’s voice came through, sharp and clear: “Ghost, do you copy? Sitrep. You’ve been dark for five.”
Ghost reached for his radio. “Back online. Engaged hostiles. Soap’s injured but stable, needs a medic on arrival. Standing by for exfil.”
“Copy that. Exfil en route.”
Ghost refused to leave Soap’s side once evac arrived. He growled at the medics when they tried to move him. Eventually, he relented—but only after Soap was stabilized, and only because Soap basically told him to let them take care of him.
Throughout the journey back, Ghost said nothing. He didn’t let go of Soap’s wrist until they landed and Soap had to be taken into the infirmary.
While they treated Johnny, Ghost found Price and pushed to be allowed to stay by his side during recovery, saying he’d need the help.
At first, Price was skeptical, trying to inject some reason into Ghost’s head. But the more they talked, the more he realized just how much of a blockhead his lieutenant could be. With a heavy sigh, he agreed—with the condition that just until a new group mission came in.
Soap ended up with a broken arm and some minor head trauma. Still, that first night, Ghost couldn’t sleep. He was too keyed up. He paced the room like a caged animal.
It wasn’t hard to convince Soap to let him stay—Soap just wanted to rest and wasn’t up to dealing with Ghost at the moment.
Ghost kept checking his pulse. His scent. His breathing. Even when Soap was dead asleep.
In the middle of the night, Soap woke up and found Ghost curled in a chair nearby, arms crossed, but clearly watching over him. His ears perked up as soon as he noticed Soap movement.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft moonlight coming through the window. Soap lay quiet, half-drowsy from the pain meds, but not quite asleep.
“Thought ye’d finally dozed off,” Soap murmured.
“I did,” Ghost said softly, eyes not leaving him. “Just... only for a second.”
Soap watched him for a moment, studying the uneasiness in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.
“You okay, Ghost?”
A pause. Long enough that Soap thought maybe he wouldn’t answer.
“I’ve seen death. I’ve felt loss. But nothing felt like that moment.” Ghost’s voice cracked just slightly, rough with something he wasn’t used to giving voice to. “Nothing felt like losing you.”
Soap blinked slowly, caught off guard—not by the words, but by the raw truth in them.
Ghost looked away, shaking his head like he hated even admitting it. “I still don’t buy the whole soulmates idea,” he said quietly, “but I know I want to spend the rest of my days with you. However long that is.”
Soap slowly sat up. Ghost stood quickly to help, but it wasn’t necessary. Soap patted the bed twice, and Ghost sat beside him.
Slowly, Soap reached up and grabbed the base of Ghost’s mask, but didn’t move, just locked eyes with him, patiently waiting. Ghost placed his hands over Soap’s and took off the mask.
There was silence for a beat—heavy, but not uncomfortable. Something shifted in the air between them, lighter now, warmer.
Ghost leaned in.
Not rushed. Not uncertain.
A quiet promise in the way his forehead touched Soap’s for just a second, like asking permission. Soap tilted his head, and when their lips met, it was soft. Gentle.
When they pulled apart, Soap was smiling, and Ghost’s thumb lingered along his jaw, an affection so warm, Soap felt like melting.
“I guess I was always yours,” Ghost said, voice low. “Just took me a while to figure it out.”