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All Soap knows is that he has to be ready to go by fifteen hundred. He has no idea exactly what he needs to be ready for—all he knows is that Ghost has something planned. Something top level clearance, apparently, because the few questions that Soap finds himself asking throughout the morning get met with tactful deflection.
Soap watches Ghost move languidly around the kitchen, tidying up after he’s made them both lunch. He could probably be helping him—maybe wipe down the counters, maybe wash that one pan that’s soaking in the sink. It’s the least Soap could do, probably.
Soap hates washing dishes but he never minds doing it when Ghost’s presence is buzzing somewhere else in the kitchen, quiet footsteps on the ground somewhere behind him, the clatter of a ceramic plate being set on a stack, the sound of cupboard doors closing. Because it’s no longer mundane, the act of doing the washing up. Just a blank task that’s condemned to be repeated for the rest of his life—dishes dirtied, dishes cleaned, dishes put away; an endless cycle. There’s too much good in it for it to mean nothing. The dishes mean they’ve eaten together, and eating together means they weren’t in a rush, and not being in a rush means that nothing bad was happening.
It’s not like washing fine china with looping floral patterns that he was always too scared to chip, he wasn’t building anything there.
Soap doesn’t move from where he sits. He hears, in the back of his mind, his mam calling him lazy.
Ghost looks up in that moment and offers a small smile—gentle and a little amused.
Pushing through the relaxed whir inside his own head feels gritty, like sandpaper. His body is putting up a lot of natural resistance.
“What should I wear?” Soap eventually asks.
“What you’re wearing now is fine.” Ghost says dryly. He’d almost come off as indifferent if not for the slight crinkle around his eyes—he can’t get much past Soap these days, especially not his silent joy.
Soap glances down to his shorts and t-shirt, raising an eyebrow. “I won’t get cold?”
Ghost raises an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten where we are, Johnny?”
“No, but—I’m trying to think about possible scenarios. You said to be ready, and since I have no idea what we’re doing, reckon I should be prepared for everything.”
Ghost turns his head back to look at him, fond exasperation playing against his features. Leave has made him more expressive and relaxed than Soap has ever had the pleasure of witnessing. He hopes it doesn’t have to end when they go back to work.
“I’ll take care of everything.” Ghost says. “You just need to be ready to get your shoes on and head out with me. Make sure you wear your brace.”
“My knee is fine—” Soap starts to sputter, like he could in any way, shape or form, be offended by the way Ghost makes sure he’s taken care of.
“And I’d like to keep it that way.” Ghost interjects. He dries off a frying pan with a red and white checkered tea towel, putting it away in its place a moment later and hanging the cloth over the handle of the stove.
Soap smiles.
“You nervous?” Ghost ducks and tilts his head, gaze lingering on Soap from beneath his lashes. “I can tell you the plan, if it’ll let you enjoy it more.”
“No,” Soap shakes his head without really taking the consideration into account. “I trust you.”
“Okay.” Ghost agrees with a timid smile, taking their plates from the counter to the dishwasher, loading them into the rack.
“What are we doing between now and fifteen hundred?” Soap asks curiously, folding his arms over his chest.
“There’s options.” Ghost says, tone light. “We can get you out to the beach. We could head to the hammock.” He pauses briefly, closing the dishwasher door and hitting the start button. “Or we could go up to bed, sleep for a bit.”
Soap smiles at that, getting up and meandering toward Ghost, edging into his space as he straightens up the items on the countertop into a neat row—the toaster, the coffeemaker, the ceramic rooster-shaped salt and pepper shakers.
“Are you tired, Simon?” There’s a teasing, accusing edge to his own voice—it drips with the smile that’s gently spreading across his own features. What a gift it is, to be happy with such ease.
“Shouldn’t be.” Ghost huffs quietly, a little sheepish, like the weariness is something that should be quietly minimized instead of embraced.
“Well,” Soap’s index finger curls into Ghost’s t-shirt, and he twirls it into the fabric until it’s somewhat locked in. “Let’s sleep then.”
“You sure?” Ghost asks somewhat breathlessly. “I don’t want to waste time, if you—”
“Sleepin’ with you never classifies as wasted time to me.” Soap answers, firm and easy. He uses his hold in Ghost’s shirt to leisurely tug him toward the stairs. “I could use some rest, too.”
It’s somehow not a lie—despite the egregious amount of sleep they’ve gotten on this holiday already, Soap is still exhausted. Ghost is exhausted as well. Their worn down minds and bodies are finally getting the time to properly recuperate. As inconvenient as it feels, Soap isn’t really surprised by the way they both stubbornly lurch around in power saving mode.
Ghost seems to have a very specific plan in mind as far as this nap goes. He’s instantly dropping onto bed and crawling under the sheets, holding the corner up toward Soap in invitation. “Get over here.”
Soap crawls into the bed and feels himself be bodily tugged in, arms immediately clamping around his back and ribs. He can't stop the soft laugh that tumbles from his body, his weight and skin pressing against Ghost’s.
Ghost rolls them both on their side, facing each other. He tucks his head under Soap’s chin and wraps an arm around his middle. Soft breaths fan across his chest, lungs inflate against the outside of his ribcage.
“What time would ye like to wake?” Soap asks, just as the air goes quiet around them—the crinkle of bedsheets ceasing, the mattress going still.
“Mm, an hour?”
Soap nods, dipping his head to press his lips against Ghost’s head. “I’ll set an alarm.” Soap says, digging into his shorts pocket and getting his phone so he can do just that. Based purely on the most recent data points they’ve gathered, if they close their eyes now, they’ll barrel straight into dinner time without even coming close to rousing.
Ghost shifts until his head is pillowed on Soap’s bicep, and Soap encourages this by using his other arm to finish boxing him into his chest.
Soap opens the calendar app, stares at the grid of days on his phone, and exits—then he opens the calculator app and tries to remember what he even turned his phone on for. His entire mind has turned into mush within twenty seconds of laying down—he suspects muscle memory has a lot to do with it. His body definitely knows what to do when he and Ghost are in close proximity like this. He taps out of the calculator and finds the clock icon below it, fighting the mental fog as he scrolls through the options to set an alarm.
He looks over it no less than four times, double checking it’s actually going to go off today, and that his sound is on. He doesn’t even think he could recite any of the chemical compounds that he has memorized as a part of his demos training. Fucking hell, his brain cells are in bleeding single digits.
He drops his phone onto the bed and turns his attention wholeheartedly back to Ghost. He curls around him, he gets comfortable. He’s so comfortable and it takes nothing, just to be, to ache in this soft way, to feel settled to the point that no piece of his body needs to move. He could stay like this forever, and it wouldn’t come close to feeling like a bad thing. He could be held at gunpoint, forced to remain in this moment in perpetuity, and he could surrender with his dignity well intact.
“Sweet dreams.” Soap mumbles softly, pressing the words into Ghost’s head, trying to wedge them somewhere they have a chance of rooting.
Ghost nods ever so slightly, his voice slurring when he says—”Nigh’, Johnny.” There’s a hand that sweeps his back in an uncoordinated movement, a thumb that strokes back and forth three or four times—it’s this little, exhausted touch of affection, so important that Ghost seems to think it’s worth fighting against his body for.
Forever… like this, he really could do forever.
Soap follows Ghost out the door.
He doesn't hesitate, and he doesn’t have any worries about it—he’s mostly curious. There’s a lot to wonder about when he sees Ghost’s pack, clearly full despite Soap not being able to recall seeing him fill it up.
His brace is on and digging faithfully into all the wrong places, but he can’t find it in himself to give a second thought to the discomfort when his entire focus so easily lingers on Ghost.
Ghost starts off across town, not towards anything they’ve visited before, so Soap is doubly intrigued. He walks side by side with him, eyes roving the colourful street. He loves the gardens here—he loves the neverending amount of bright, happy flowers. He loves the feeling of sun on his skin, and the breathfuls of warm sea air. There’s so much life here, in a place like this.
They take a side street that turns into a dirt road, which narrows suddenly and considerably, before transitioning into a worn footpath. The deep green of foliage surrounds them, birds sing loudly, and a few insects buzz nearby.
They walk for probably half an hour, not really speaking as they meander down the trail—it’s an incredibly soft, comfortable silence. Soap is looking at everything, the occasional blooming plants hugging the outside of the path, the lush trees, the sun rays that filter through the canopy of leaves—his head is on a swivel, looking at this thing and then that, not putting any thought into where they’re going, because he knows Ghost’s got a plan. He’ll get them where they’re going, Soap can just follow and let himself luxuriate in the simple act of getting distracted.
It’s a beautiful walk, at times challenging when the elevation changes, but definitely doable. Even with Soap’s knee giving the occasional twinge in warning, it feels good to be on the move, to be outside, to be able to move his body.
Soap’s about to ask if they can take a short break, when suddenly they’re stepping out into a clearing, sky and ocean quickly becoming visible as they pass through the edge of the forest.
Soap hadn’t realized just how much altitude they’d gained. If he’d really thought about it, he would have put two and two together and realized that they were headed straight toward one of the large mountainous hills that cradles the beach town.
Soap looks out over the ocean from the top of the cliff he’d glanced over at so many times already, and is met with a completely new view of the area. He can see similar mountainous terrain along the coastline, the water looking so blue and expansive from way up here. And when he looks to his other side, he can see the town—he thinks he can even spot their rental.
“Holy shit, Simon.” Soap turns to look at Ghost, only to find that his eyes are already on Soap, a wide grin fixed firmly on his face.
Soap smiles immediately in return and lets his body loosen up considerably, excited eyes flipping back to the grand picture in front of him. He wants to paint it. He wants to sketch it. His journal is a dozen pages deep of just water, and beach, and tropical plants—but he aches to create more, to solidify the things he’s seeing by copying them to paper, to his camera roll, to his head.
The grass makes a barely noticeable sound when Ghost steps up behind him, a solid presence right at his shoulder. “Wasn’t sure how reliable the directions I found online were.” He says sort of sheepishly.
“God, it’s pretty here.” Soap breathes.
“It is.” Ghost agrees. “Afraid we need to keep moving, though.”
“We’re going further? Soap raises an eyebrow, curious.
“If you think your leg can handle it.” Ghost counters, giving a half-hearted shrug.
Soap turns to fully face Ghost, eyes flicking over his exposed features. No mask today. “I’m solid so far.”
“You be sure to let me know if that changes.” Ghost leans forward and gently knocks their foreheads together. It’s just for a brief moment, but Soap’s eyes flutter closed all the same, his stomach turning in gentle loops. “Won’t have you hurtin’ on my watch.”
“Aye.” Soap hums softly and feels almost intoxicated just by this small moment of orbit-like gravity—the incessant pull of Ghost’s presence on his own. “Thank you for this.” Soap says after a beat.”
Ghost smiles, eyes gleaming. “There’s more to come.”
Soap gives him a smile, unable to keep the grin from infiltrating his lips.
The walk starts to feel a bit tenuous by the end of it. Soap is definitely feeling his knee as they step back onto lower ground, but he’s able to ignore the discomfort for the most part. Instead, he shifts his attention to the way Ghost confidently strides ahead just a few feet in front of him.
They emerge from woods into tall grass, and instead of following the clearly worn path, Ghost veers off to the side.
Soap follows Ghost through it all and stops in his tracks when they take those final few steps over a ridge and are met with a hidden corner of the world. They stand staring out over a picturesque cove. Large, dark rocks and a dense treeline surround a white sand beach, turquoise water lapping gently against the shore—the waves almost non-existent here compared to the beach in front of the rental.
Soap stares at it—this private little piece of paradise, looking virtually untouched by human life.
He turns his head, wide eyes falling on Ghost. If he looked pleased with himself before, then Soap doesn’t really quite know how to articulate the sense of pride on his face now. Ghost really… looks proud of himself.
Soap is proud of him, too. Proud of the man who regards him so gently, who treats him with respect, who shows him how family doesn’t have to come with guilt and hurt and mind games. He’s proud of the man who fights not just to survive, but fights to live, now, too.
“Simon, you—” Soap blurts, shaking his head. Even he doesn’t know where his mouth is intending on running with the words, all he knows is that his appreciation is trying to find its way out, but it doesn’t know what form to take. Because how do you actually thank somebody for so many things, without sounding like a disingenuous broken record? He’s never had this problem before because nobody has ever done this much for him. But Ghost is hitting him with all these insanely good things, one after another.
Ghost just ducks his head and grins at the ground, like he can’t quite handle being in the spotlight of gratitude, and being looked at like that all at once. Soap can’t blame him.
“You wanted to sleep on the beach. I thought maybe…” Ghost runs a hand through his hair like he’s a bit nervous. “I brought you here for that, so we could do that—doubt we’ll be bothered here. I brought everything we need to rough it.”
Soap just stares at him and struggles to come up with the most basic sense of speech.
Ghost clears his throat and drops the pack off his shoulder, turning his back to Soap as he unzips the bag and digs through it. Soap’s not sure what he’s looking for.
He looks over at the water and the white sand under his feet, and then back to Ghost crouched a few feet away. He’s lucky. Soap is so incredibly lucky. That he found Ghost, that they get to have this, that life is giving them these kind moments.
“If you want to go back—” Ghost starts, and Soap’s eyes fix on him more firmly, realizing he’s stopped moving.
Soap steps over, shins bumping into Ghost’s lower back as he comes to stand behind him. He leans forward at the waist and reaches to gently hold Ghost’s head between his hands, tilting his face up so they can make eye contact. Upside down as this puts them, Soap can see the self doubt sitting crisp and clear in his expression, and mentally chides himself for letting that happen.
“Why on earth,” Soap starts, “would I want to go back?”
Ghost leans his head back against Soap’s thighs, soft grin beaming up into the air. “Because you didn’t want to go camping.” He teases lightly, but there’s still that undertone of tentativeness.
Soap huffs out an incredulous breath. “If I knew camping on the beach was an option, maybe I wouldn’t have shut it down.”
“All that money wasted on a rental.” Ghost replies dryly, shaking his head.
“Haud yer wheesht.” Soap mumbles, stepping back and letting Ghost’s weight tip backwards, falling into the sand.
Ghost makes a near silent noise of panic in the moment as he drops against the ground. He stares at Soap indignantly, raising both eyebrows.
The picture of it draws a laugh from Soap’s chest, but the sound sharply cuts off when he’s taken out at the legs himself, his body falling weighty and fast toward the ground.
Nothing about it hurts. He falls, but no part of his body hits the sand with an extraordinary amount of force. Ghost has a protective hand behind his head and neck, another behind his lower back—and suddenly Soap’s staring up at the sky.
“Ye daftie.” Soap grumbles, trying to sound offended—but he isn’t able to sound much of anything, when Ghost’s head dips into view and suddenly all he can see are those amber eyes and the cheeky smile that he appreciates more every time he sees it.
“If I’m going down, you’re coming with me, MacTavish.”
“Woulda come on my own recognizance, Riley.” Soap snipes good-naturedly.
“Would you really?”
“‘Course.” Soap smiles. I’ll go anywhere you go.”
“Anywhere?” Ghost tilts his head.
“Yes.” Soap nods firmly.
Ghost gives him a little smile. “Well then, let’s go find some firewood. We should set up camp for the night while we still have light.”
“We’ll have hours of light,” Soap says, fingers curling into the fabric of Ghost’s t-shirt and holding on tight.
“What do you propose we do then?” Ghost asks, briefly looking down at Soap’s hand placement, before glancing back up to Soap’s eyes.
“Propose that we’re in no rush. Propose maybe we just have a wee break first.”
Ghost hums in thought, rolling off of Soap and laying flat on his back, just to Soap’s side. Their shoulders and arms touch most of the way through. The sun gently holds them in its grasp. Ghost reaches over to thread their fingers together and Soap sighs, serene contentment flooding through his body.
Ghost eventually gets up to do whatever it is he’d started doing before, and Soap continues laying there, soaking up the sun and the gentle lap of water.
He doesn’t even mean to fall asleep. He’s not even sure how he does, because he doesn’t recall dozing. But there he is, blinking awake. There’s a shadow over him, and it takes two seconds to realize that it’s Ghost.
He’s kneeling next to Soap’s shoulder, his thumb stroking back and forth across Soap’s cheek.
“I suppose I did take you here specifically to sleep, but I figured you’d at least wait until it started getting dark.” Ghost says fondly, his voice soft and amused.
Soap blinks some more and turns his head to the side in the sand. He looks up at Ghost, briefly putting two and two together. The cove, the beach, the hike that took them here. Soap stretches his arms above his head and exhales heavily.
Soap feels a hand brush his hair back, and closes his eyes for a long few seconds, revelling in the touch.
“Yeah.” Soap hums. “Me too.”
“Walk tire you out?”
Soap shakes his head. “I was just comfortable.”
“What on earth are you going to do when we go back to work and you can’t nap whenever you want?”
Soap snorts sharply. “I’ll have got so much sleep by then, Simon, that I won’t need to nap.”
“That so?” Ghost smiles down at him.
Soap hums. “Aye.”
“Well you’re on track.” Ghost offers. “Eat something and you can go right back to it.”
Soap turns on his side so he can face Ghost a little more directly. “Ye cooked me dinner, aye?”
“Oh Johnny, for you I prepared the finest MRE there is.” Ghost deadpans. “Paired with lukewarm beer. I’m waiting for my Michelin star to come in the mail.”
“Now that’s fine dining.” Soap muses, lips spreading in a smile. He blinks heavily. “What’d I do to get so lucky?”
Ghost just gives him a smile and starts to push himself up. “C’mon—before your chili mac gets cold.”
Soap laughs and lets Ghost reach out to haul him to his feet—”did you seriously take MREs on an international flight?”
Ghost reaches out and slides warm hands around Soap’s, helping him to his feet. “Wasn’t the first time, won’t be the last.”
Upon standing, Soap takes a step forward, then freezes. The sun has lowered substantially in the sky, and there’s suddenly a small fire a dozen feet up the beach. A fire, that notably, wasn’t there before.
There’s a blanket spread out next to it, Ghost’s pack positioned in place of a pillow. Their meals are all set up, ready to go—the beers sitting in the sand… Soap feels inexplicably grateful, and he’s taking a good long look at it all in order to keep himself from taking it for granted.
“I know it’s no Travelodge, but I hope it’ll do.” Ghost says from beside him.
Soap can’t help it—the way his neck snaps to look over at Ghost. Ghost, with his hands in his pockets, posture smooth and slouched, a slightly tentative but mostly teasing smile on his face.
Soap can’t help it, the way a laugh bubbles out of him—it’s a surprised and sudden force, which comes with a lighthearted zing that zaps from his chest to his stomach.
It’s intoxicating, this feeling. This sense of levity. This little world they’re building outside of reality. He knows it can’t last, but living inside of this safety bubble is something he wishes he could get used to.
“It’ll do just fine.” Soap says with a grin, stepping those dozen feet up the beach and dropping down on the blanket.
Ghost stays where he is, just watching—and Soap won’t have that. Can’t have that. Not when having his hands on him is an option and a possibility. “Come here.” He says, reaching his hand out toward Ghost. “I’ll not eat alone, Simon.”
“Sorry, I will, I’m just—” Ghost falters, tilting his head like he’s having an internal debate.
“Ye know if you take a picture,” Soap smirks, retracting his hand and dropping it to his knee, “reckon it'll last longer.”
And to his surprise… Ghost does exactly that. He pulls out his phone and points it right at Soap with zero hesitation. His warm gaze flicks between the screen and Soap, like he's trying to line up the perfect composition. Soap doesn’t need to procure some fake smile for it, he just keeps looking at Ghost the same way he always does and the natural smile follows without a second thought. Ghost snaps the picture, lowers his phone, takes one last look, and that’s that.
Ghost takes a seat next to him, and Soap finds himself following through on the sudden urge to steal the phone from Ghost’s unprotesting hands. He taps the button that mirrors the camera, and the screen is suddenly live with the movement of Ghost staring in confusion at the screen.
It occurs to Soap, only in that split second, that Ghost might not want any photos of himself. Not with his mask off. But then Ghost’s arm slides around his lower back and he leans ever so slightly into Soap’s direction.
Soap bumps their shoulders together, then their temples—he gets in close, because they both need to fit in frame. And then he turns his head, and raises an eyebrow at the half-worried, still half-confused look on his face, and suddenly it’s—
“Och, you look like I’m holding you hostage.” Soap lightly grips Ghost’s thigh, just above his knee. “C’mon, just a wee smile, just for me.”
And like magic, Ghost’s face loses all tension and he huffs out a stunned little chuckle. Over the next couple of seconds, Ghost visibly brightens, and Soap can’t help but smile himself, just at the sight of it.
Soap blindly snaps a few pictures with the hope that at least one of them will be decent.
“Figured we should have one together, y’know?” Soap says, dropping the phone back into Ghost’s lap and reaching for the MRE bag that’s thoughtfully propped up against the pack, all ready for him to eat.
“Thank you.” Ghost says quietly.
Soap is unable to keep his gaze to himself, eyes drawing back over to Ghost—who’s staring down at his screen, at the picture of the two of them. Soap looks at it too, curious what’s got Ghost’s attention.
It’s just a picture, really. Not even a great one—it’s a little blurry. But it’s still sort of perfect because they both have gentle, radiating smiles on their face, the sunlight is casting an orange glow against their skin, a strand of short wavy hair is falling over Ghost’s forehead. There’s the lingering effect of the confusion on Ghost’s face, but the happiness there transcends everything else. He looks completely, ethereally, happy.
And suddenly, Soap is wondering if Ghost has ever physically witnessed himself be happy before. Happy like this—like how he has been since they’ve been here. Soap’s not used to seeing Ghost as carefree and loose and ready to smile as he is currently, but it’s never really occurred to him that this might be just as foreign for Ghost.
Given that Soap now has a key for the gateway into Ghost’s history, the theory feels more solid. He can see it—how being surrounded in safety might have been a luxury out of Ghost’s reach for most of his life. How happiness might have been inaccessible. Whatever little pieces of it he gathered and stowed away couldn’t have been more than fragments of glass, ripping open his skin in whatever pockets he’d stowed them away in.
“Simon,” he says gentle, lightly bumping his elbow into Ghost’s waist, letting the touch linger.
Ghost’s head whips over and he powers off his phone screen in a same split-second.
Their gazes melt together for a moment—Soap sees Ghost work his jaw muscles, and then he clears his throat, finally diverting his eyes to the small fire just a few feet in front of them. “Nice picture.” Ghost says, voice carefully even.
Soap nods slowly, letting silence fall over their shared space. Not for the first time in the last handful of days, he doesn’t dig in—he just lets it rest. Ghost looks bare enough as it is, letting Soap see the look on his face now. He’ll wait for another key because he won’t dare to trespass on land that he’s this dedicated to preserving. “It is.”
Ghost abandons his phone in his lap and reaches for his own MRE.
Soap takes a few bites of his chilli mac and looks out over the water, washing it down with a long sip of beer that’s too warm to be properly enjoyable. But Soap really couldn’t give a shit if it’s not cold. Not right now, not when it’s the symbolism of the fact that Ghost regarded him. There’s countless examples of Ghost’s thoughtfulness. Hell, that thoughtfulness is the reason they’re in Mexico. But it’s the little things like this that always hit Soap upside the head, and remind him that for the wrong people you’ll never be enough, and for the right people you don’t have to try.
Ghost hears the things that Soap rambles about, he listens when Soap doesn’t even think he’s saying anything important. And then he turns around and gives Soap everything. The things he needs, the things he wants, the things that weren’t even on his radar. Just like that.
And to be thought of, to be considered, in this way—it’s not really something Soap’s experienced to this extent before. He didn’t even know this was something you could have, really. Because his mam wasn’t like that and his dad wasn’t either, he can't remember a time where they did shit just to make him happy—and if they did, it floored him for days after the fact.
He won’t take it for granted—what he gets from Ghost. He won’t let himself start to expect it. He’ll continue to consciously appreciate every scrap that he can get his hands on—like the lukewarm beer, the campout on the beach, the way he’ll be held through the night. But he’s settling into it a little, and to be able to do that is just so… it’s nice. It feels indescribably nice.
“How’s your knee?” Ghost asks softly.
Soap subconsciously shifts his leg a little, a shrug falling off his shoulders. “It’s holding up fine.”
Ghost briefly glances over at him, then nods. “Was a little worried the hike’d be too much.”
“Think the walking did me good.” Soap finishes off his food, and sets the pouch to the side to pack out later. He grabs his beer bottle by the neck and takes a small sip. “We should probably do more of it, or we’ll get outrun by the recruits by the time we get back.” He teases lightly, lips curling into a smile.
“I’d like to see ‘em try.” Ghost says dryly.
“They won’t have to try very hard at this point.” Soap snorts.
Ghost smiles into a sip of his own beer, and then tilts his head, looking out the corner of his eyes at Soap. “We could start some light training, if you want.”
“Want? No.” Soap chuckles softly, leaning over to drop his head against Ghost’s shoulder. “No, fuck that, honestly. But, then again, I also would like to not be strugglin’ for breath runnin’ away from tangos on our next op, so…”
Ghost stays steady for him to lean against. “We can start tomorrow.”
“The day after,” Soap counters. “The walk back’ll be enough tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
Soap lingers in the silence for a long few moments, a puff of breath punching out of his chest as he shakes his head. “I was talkin’ to Gaz this mornin’, he actually said that he misses me.”
“Is that a surprise?” Ghost asks.
Soap just shrugs, mouth half opening to speak, but he pauses before the words can go out. “Guess I just didn’t think he would—he’s got a big family, you know? He said everyone was over for dinner Sunday and, between his siblings and their families and his cousins, there was twenty-six of ‘em. Guess I always assumed if you have a family like that, anyone else is just… extra, or somethin’.”
“You’re never just extra, Johnny, not to anyone.” Ghost tells him with a sureness that makes Soap immediately accept it as truth.
Soap stares at the fire, listening to the logs pop and crackle, the embers glowing at the base of the burning wood. A warm breeze blows in off the water. He closes his eyes just briefly as it blows the smoke into their faces.
An arm slides up his back, and then it curls around Soap’s head, tucking Soap’s face into Ghost’s shoulder. It’s a move that’s obviously cut with the intention of shielding him from the smoke, and Soap can’t help but sink into it—smiling against Ghost’s t-shirt.
Soap breathes in deeply, and instead of smoke, he just smells Ghost. Something he can only describe as fresh and pleasant, but also very worn-in and familiar. There’s the sharp edge of body wash, and fresh air, and salt.
Soap never wants to leave.
They watch as the sun gently sets past the horizon, until the only light is the small fire in front of them. Being outdoors, in the relative wild, is nothing new—it’s calm, comforting. They can see the stars, and hear the water softly mix around just a ways away.
Where Soap expects sleep to come early, they end up talking softly in the space of the wee hours. Ghost eventually gets them arranged for sleep on the blanket next to the fire, wrapping them together, just so they can be more comfortable as they continue sharing soft words against the dark of night.
They lay on their sides, facing each other, so close that you couldn’t fit a piece of paper between any two touching parts of their bodies. In this position—Soap gets tired fast, so he sneaks his arm around Ghost’s back, and starts lightly scratching the skin just under the hem of his t-shirt. He’s intent on taking Ghost with him, and falls asleep with his face tucked against Ghost’s neck, completely safe and surrounded by the warmth of Ghost’s embrace.
Soap wakes to the sound of water, to the grit of sand under his cheek, and to Ghost’s soft breathing next to him.
He creaks open his eyes and sees Ghost’s neck, feels his lungs moving, his heart beating, and is almost lulled back to sleep.
In a force of habit, though, Soap forces himself to lift his head and peer around at his surroundings. He remembers, with no shortage of fondness, that they’re on the beach—they slept on the beach.
He sees the sky is just turning a little lighter and he’s tempted to fall back asleep, but the thought of watching the sunrise is enticing enough to keep him conscious. He slowly pulls away from Ghost and sits up, gaze adjusting to the early morning darkness.
They’re still alone on this beach, truly hidden away in the world—somewhere only they know. They can’t be tracked by the rental house, can’t be tracked by their secure phones, can’t be tracked by word of mouth, because nobody knew they’d stop here for the night.
Ghost shifts a little on the blanket, and visibly startles, going from asleep to awake in less than two seconds. “Johnny?” Ghost whispers, hand tightly gripping Soap’s thigh.
Soap sees the worried eyes staring up at him, and knows that Ghost is disoriented. “All good.” He murmurs, letting himself fall back to the blanket. He shuffles up and presses a kiss to Ghost’s forehead, feeling Ghost melt beneath the gesture, body going limp against the blanket. “Everything is good.”
“Okay.” Ghost accepts it easily, a soft sigh escaping his body. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Soap hums softly. “Didn’t mean to wake ye.”
Ghost shakes his head like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just hurdle into consciousness with an abrupt startle. “S’fine.”
“Go back to sleep, Simon.” Soap whispers.
“Are you?” Ghost asks groggily—the question almost automatic inside this back and forth. Like it’s just the thing to ask, when Soap tells Ghost he can be at rest—are you coming too?
Soap slowly shakes his head. “Thinkin’ of watching the sunrise.”
“I’ll watch it with you.” Ghost inhales deeply, almost a yawn if Soap didn’t know better. “You wanna go to that clearin’?”
Soap smiles, lips still touching Ghost’s forehead. “You think you can pull yourself all the way over there, old man?”
“Oi, watch it.” Ghost retorts indignantly. Any offense is smothered by the relaxed roughness of his voice. “You’ll be watchin’ the sun come up on your own if you talk like that.”
“No I won’t.” Soap’s eyes fall closed. He’s beaming, Ghost can probably feel it against his skin. He hopes he can.
“No you won’t.” Ghost agrees, smiling himself, if the tone of his voice is anything to go by.
Packing up their small camp (minutes later, after they’ve finally managed to separate again) in the pre-dawn morning is quiet and endearing. Ghost admits he didn’t really think about breakfast, and Soap suggests they could just grab a coffee on their way back into town.
The clearing is right where they left it, and the elevation gives them an incredible view of the horizon that the sun is teasing. They can see for kilometres and kilometres ahead, the dark green of thick forested areas already starting to get backlit by the elusive first rays of golden sun. The town is just beginning to come alive, and a few people are on the beach. The ocean is so much lower than their current elevation, and it’s funny how small the waves look. It’s almost as if someone tossed in a pebble somewhere out at sea, and these are the ripples that have been sent out by the disturbance.
There’s surfers out this morning, little black dots on the ocean’s surface, cutting through the waves just before the curl of the water crushes in on itself.
Soap turns his attention back to the first peeks of the sun truly rising over the horizon. It’s glowing hot and yellow, spreading its light over everything it can touch from its steep angle. Soap can feel his skin warmed by it despite how far away it is.
Arms wrap around his waist from behind, and Soap instinctively leans back against the muscular mass behind him. “Good call.” Get’s whispered into the side of his skull, and Soap blinks heavily.
“Don’t know what I like more—” Soap says quietly. Birds are waking up in the forest beyond, chirping cheerily. The wind blows across his body. Wildflowers with tall stems sway a little in the breeze. “Sunrise, or sunset.”
“Do you have to choose?”
Soap smiles. “S’pose not.”
They walk along the beach, hot to-go cups in their hand, their breakfast already long gone. It’s funny how slow they move when they don’t have anywhere they explicitly have to be.
Ghost lets them in the house, and Soap’s happy to be that much closer to getting off his feet.
Soap gingerly lowers himself to the floor and begins unlacing his shoes while, on the opposite side of mobility, Ghost just bends down and undoes his own. The hike was maybe a little more than they should have taken on, but Soap doesn’t have any regrets—he’d be willing to do the same distance every day of their leave if it meant having as much fun as he’d had.
Still, his knee twinges beneath the brace, and he sighs softly as he sets his shoes aside.
He’s just debating how he might get back up off the floor, when Ghost steps between his legs and offers both hands to him. Soap takes the offered grip with a smile and Ghost heaves him up, helping Soap get his feet under him and then staying a steady support.
Ghost sets Soap’s palms on his shoulders, and switches his own grip to Soap’s waist. “Solid?” Ghost murmurs, slight crinkle around his eyes like the fondness is itching to spill across his features.
Soap smiles, moving his hands along Ghost’s shoulders and linking them behind his neck. “Aye. Thank you.”
Ghost ducks his head briefly and nods, eyes meeting Soap’s again as a smile pulls at his lips. “Should I make some coffee? Or are you sufficiently caffeinated?”
“I could go for another cup.” Soap beams, fighting the urge to grin himself. “What are we doin’ today?”
“Anything you like.” Ghost says, his thumbs sweeping back and forth against Soap’s hips, just under the hem of his t-shirt.
“Think I need to take it easy.” Soap says after a beat. “No running, jumping—that kind of thing.”
“Swimming is a good low impact activity for your joints. Or so I hear.” Ghost gives him a soft smile. “And they say saltwater heals you or somethin’ like that.”
Soap hums thoughtfully. “We might be a little far gone for the saltwater to do anything, but we can give it a go.”
In the ocean, barely 9 in the morning, sun already hot in the sky but not unbearably so—Soap can be found floating on his back in the water beyond the wavebreak. The low beginnings of swells bob him along a little, but for the rest, the water feels calm.
Soap’s ears are underwater, and the silent, almost haunting roar of water is all he hears. A languid hush that’s spread across countless kilometres, a whisper of currents and riptides, thunder turned inward. The water pops and crackles in irregular rhythms, scattered and spontaneous. Everything is softened, nothing is still. It reminds Soap of the period after an explosive is detonated, once the loud combustion is passed but you can still hear debris hitting the ground.
He’s a little startled to hear a muffled version of his name, only because he doesn’t expect to hear anything at all. He blinks open heavy eyes, just to see Ghost slowly swimming over to him—no urgency, no sense that anything’s wrong.
Soap left him on the shore with the book that he found at the market two days ago. Soap is pretty sure it was some military fiction based purely off the cover and how often Ghost stares at the pages in disbelief, before turning to Soap and saying—’this book is fuckin’ shit, Johnny. But the receipt he’s using as a bookmark continues to travel further and further through the pages.
Soap looks at him for a moment, here, now. He sees that Ghost is just gently gazing at him, not in need of anything—and then Soap lets his eyelids shut once more. He feels like he’s in a daze, almost dreaming except for the way he’s as alive as he’s ever been.
Hands find his shoulders, then his head, cradling it in a rescue hold.
Soap stops holding himself afloat in the water and lets Ghost completely take over knowing that he’s going to keep him safe. The top of his head bumps into warm, broad muscle, and it stays there. Warm lips are pressing against the middle of Soap’s forehead, and then leaving again.
He silently hopes that Ghost will stay here with him, in this moment. That Ghost won’t leave him to drift away, that he can stay anchored.
Because his knee doesn’t ache, and his body isn’t tense. His heart doesn’t have a pit in it, his stomach isn’t in knots, he doesn’t know discomfort. One moment will come, possibly soon, where he’ll have to slip from the water and dry off, but it’s not now.
Ghost slides one hand around the base of Soap’s skull, keeping Soap’s head level, and the other travels under his back. The touch is strong against the wispyness of the water, and Soap lets himself rely on it without doubt.
Ghost’s hand stops at the base of his spine, and Soap feels himself turning in the water. He’s still flat on his back, he’s still floating in the top layer of water, but he’s turning in place. Or Ghost is turning, and he’s moving Soap’s body with him. His shoulder and upper arm press into Ghost’s chest. He’s being all but cradled, a tandem effort by the ocean and Ghost.
Soap could fall asleep like this, he thinks. He’s feeling so relaxed that the possibility isn’t out of the question. He’d trust Ghost with everything, and that very much includes the idiotic concept of sleeping while floating in the open ocean, close to shore as they are.
Ghost presses a kiss to his temple, then to his cheek. And Soap smiles in his spirit, his body far too loose to comply with the feeling in his chest. He’s so loose that he’s sure it would take a full minute, or maybe an unexpected adrenaline rush, to have full usage of his arms and legs.
The water continues to rush around in his ears, his focus torn between the nothingness, and the firm hold that Ghost has on him.
They stay like that for who knows how long, and Soap really does start drifting off. He knows he shouldn’t, and he’s going to need help, so he taps Ghost twice. “You can let go. Don’t wanna fall asleep.” He murmurs, knowing he won’t hear the response.
He’s being moved in the water a moment later, but the support behind his neck and back don’t waver. He opens his eyes—Ghost staring at him affectionately and calmly, and the sense of peace immediately puts Soap at ease.
Soap’s upper body is lifted from the water at the same time that his legs are pushed under, and all at once, he’s sitting sideways across Ghost’s lap. Gravity immediately weighs down all the parts of him that had been weightless, but Soap doesn’t need to worry about how heavy he feels when Ghost effortlessly keeps them afloat.
The sudden clarity of hearing after spending that time in a muffled, underwater world, is a bit of a hit to the senses. But he doesn’t feel like he needs to be in a rush to re-immerse himself back into the world. He slowly settles into the waves crashing, the ocean birds calling, the quiet beach.
“Hey, you.” Ghost offers, voice low and rocky.
Soap hums softly. “Hey.”
“You looked relaxed.” Ghost says.
Soap nods, his shoulders heavy, his hands heavy, his body heavy. His eyelids are heavy, too, so he lets them close. “Yeah.” He responds, the word more air than speech.
Ghost moves his head forward, this time kissing Soap’s bicep, then his shoulder, all the while treading water.
Soap’s gonna pass out, and it’s going to be all Ghost’s fault. He’s going to fall asleep in the ocean and Ghost is going to have to figure out how to drag him back to dry land, because he can’t possibly, possibly move.
His body just gets heavier and heavier, sleep is coming back to tempt him. He exhales so slow that he can feel the individual portions of his lung compress. The edge of the water laps against his middle set of ribs.
“You can sleep if you want.” Ghost whispers. “I’ve got us.”
Soap tries to fight it, really, he does—he tries to fight it. He doesn’t want to trap Ghost here, he doesn’t want to miss anything. “That seems like a preventable drowning waiting to happen.” Soap murmurs, smiling tiredly. He squints against the sun.
“I would never let you drown.”
“I know. Let’s go to the shore, I’ll let you drag me to sleep there.” Soap hums quietly, feeling himself briefly doze. He’s just gone for a buzzing second, then back again.
Ghost hums. “And miss a chance to say you napped in the middle of the Pacific?”
“This is the edge of the Pacific at best.” Soap teases.
“Fine.” Ghost snorts. “Lead the way, then. I’ll be right on your six.”
Soap very reluctantly tips himself out of Ghost’s space, noting how much colder the water feels in the spots where their skin was touching just moments ago.
Back at the towels, Soap wastes no time getting comfortable—he drops right onto Ghost’s lap in a reflection of their positions in the water. He slouches into the hold and lets his head find a natural resting point against Ghost’s shoulder, his body turned slightly inward.
Ghost tightens his arms around Soap, one around his back, one around his front, hugging Soap into him. He’s so tightly held, so comfortable, so safe. The soft, luxurious pull of sleep is back almost instantly.
Another press of lips against his brow. A whispered—”Sleep, Johnny.”
The only thing better than falling asleep in the security of Ghost’s arms, is later, when Soap gets to wake up—body warm and sated, with Ghost patiently holding him like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. The heat of his embrace, the gentle sun, the way they’ve melted together.
In the post-dawn light, Soap crawls over the sheets. His hair is dripping, his skin is dripping—he’s soaking wet.
He’s just come in from a morning swim, the sun barely just risen in the sky. His watercolour pad has another page filled out, open and drying downstairs on the kitchen counter. The tea kettle is heating up.
Soap slowly pulls back the white sheet covering Ghost’s back, revealing planes of soft muscle and sun-kissed skin. Which is something that delights Soap to no end: Ghost has started to tan. His skin is going from pale to a slightly warmer tone, his medium-blond hair is gradually tipping the scales toward sunbleached, his freckles have started showing up more prominently on his arms and his shoulders and his face. And Soap is just—that is his favourite unexpected thing about this trip.
It’s concrete evidence that they’ve been spending time together in the sun, where Ghost didn’t feel the need to cover up with gear or a mask. To Soap, that’s the real confirmation that this has been good for them.
He smiles briefly, leaning down and pressing his mouth to the base of Ghost’s neck, following his spine down, lips softly brushing against his vertebrae.
Ghost sighs softly, a groan turned hum filtering from the back of his throat.
Soap’s eyes fall onto the dozen drips on Ghost’s back already, more falling every second.
“Johnny,” Ghost sighs contently, stretching out his back a little.
Soap brings the trail of his kisses back up to his neck and follows his hairline right behind his ear. “Good mornin’.” He murmurs. “Water’s on for tea.”
“Angel.” Ghost mumbles.
“I almost let you sleep.” Soap says. “You looked peaceful.”
“That would defeat me askin’ you to wake me up.” Ghost huffs.
“Aye. But we could go for breakfast another day,” Soap points out. “You could go back to sleep, get some more rest.” He presses a kiss to Ghost’s temple, then to his cheekbone, before pulling back and settling his weight over Ghost’s waist.
He rubs his hands over Ghost’s back, brushing away the salt water, thumbs dragging along Ghost’s lax muscle.
Ghost groans lightly. “Johnny, I promised you we’d go.”
“And we will.” Soap says. “I’m just sayin’, it doesn’t have to be today. We don’t have anywhere we need to be, we could spend the day in bed for all I mind.”
“What time is it?” Ghost mumbles, eyes still closed.
“Nearly eight.” Soap rubs light circles against Ghost’s shoulder muscles.
Ghost sighs softly and Soap continues casually massaging Ghost’s back, no real systematic approach. He’s just feeling Ghost’s skin, letting his hands find their way across his muscles, instinct choosing the particular path.
“You’re such an enabler.” Ghost exhales heavily. “Why are you so wet?”
“Just went for a swim.” Soap snorts softly. “Sorry.”
“Reckon I’ll live.”
Ghost moves then, turning himself around under Soap and letting his hands come to rest on Soap’s thighs. He blinks up at Soap wearily, and then after a few seconds, he smiles.
He smiles more with his eyes first, twinkle building against his irises, and then his lips quirk up. “Hi, Johnny.” He says, tone soft and gentle. The morning sun is shining bright and golden on Ghost’s skin, catching vividly on his blonde hair and lashes.
“Hey.” Soap lets his hands gently rest on Ghost’s lower chest. “How’s my Simon?”
“Good.” Ghost nods a little. “You’re bloody covered in sand.”
“Aye.” Soap just grins.
Ghost raises an eyebrow. “And this sand is now in our bed, you do realize that, right?”
“Och, there’s a beach out front, ye cannae be surprised there’s sand in the house.”
“But in the bed, Johnny.”
Soap just laughs softly, and from one moment to the next, he’s being vaulted forward by Ghost’s thigh, and encompassed by his arms, hurdling straight into Ghost’s chest.
“Hey—” he grunts, briefly beginning a protest that fizzles out almost right away. He can’t protest when he’s smiling, he can’t protest when nothing is wrong.
Ghost chuckles silently and Soap’s grinning himself, eyes closing in glee. Ghost readjusts his head to rest more firmly against Soap’s, and Soap settles on top of Ghost more comfortably, stretching out his wet, sandy legs alongside Ghost’s warm, dry ones. He’ll deal with the repercussions later, he’ll… the sheets can be washed, the floor can be swept, but moments like these won’t always be there. So he sinks in, ready to stay awhile.
Ghost’s fingers drag lightly up and down Soap’s back, the residual saltwater drying up against his skin, making it feel a little tight. It’s all good though—it’s all good. He could count on one hand all of the people who ever made him feel so wanted, and three of them are Ghost.
Of course, not even five minutes later, the shrill whistle of the kettle is screaming up the stairs at them, begging for attention.
“Steamin’ hell,” Soap grumbles, where he’d been halfway to sleep. “Why the fuck did I start that?”
Ghost laughs, the sound deliriously light, almost bouncy. “You were gonna make me tea, as I recall.” He answers.
Soap hums, lifting his head. He brushes a kiss against Ghost’s jaw, and then presses himself up, carefully untangling himself and getting off the mattress. “Off I go then.” He muses, shooting a small smile at Ghost, who looks delighted.
“Hurry. We don’t have all day.” Ghost mumbles lazily, every stitch of skin so loose and relaxed that if Soap didn’t already know otherwise, he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to tell Ghost had been through a day of terror. He’s devastated to compare this to the average day on base, and be aware of the weight that Ghost constantly carries on the job and in the nights between.
“Don’t we?” Soap says with another beaming smile and a tilt of his head, backing out of the room.
“I’ll be down in a minute.” Ghost calls after him, the tone so light that he almost doesn’t sound like himself. But maybe this is the real man behind the mask, after you remove him from harm—where he’s not on guard, where he’s not waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Soap is thinking about all of this as he goes about making the tea, turning his phone on to play some soft music. He wonders how he can support Ghost better, day to day, when they’re back to real life. And then he finds himself sort of feeling bashful, because that’s where they started with this—Soap just looking to help. It sort of spurs him on more than slows him down, this idea that he has the capacity to have a positive effect on Ghost’s life. He wants to give Ghost the best, because Ghost gives him his best, and that give and take is something that’s sustaining the both of them. There’s no two ways about it.
And so he starts thinking about how to handle getting back. Sort of a battleplan. Because it will be a fight, he thinks. Going back to war and darkness and the wounds they’ll take away from it. It’ll be like dropping from an aircraft straight into the middle of a churning warzone. Zero to one-hundred.
He should probably stop ignoring the reality, pretending it’s never going to happen—and start mentally preparing to go back. Doesn’t matter that they still have two weeks to go.
When the stairs start creaking with Ghost’s descent, he’s unable to suppress his smile. He sips absently at his coffee as he leans against the counter and watches Ghost’s large build slip into the room.
Ghost is covered in sand, and by the look on his face, he’s trying to come across as annoyed. Soap laughs very softly into his mug.
“Yeah, yeah. All fun and games until you realize you’re the one who has to clean it up, MacTavish.”
“You pulled me into bed, I was barely—”
“Bullshit.” Ghost huffs. “That bed was a goner before I was even awake.” He walks closer, wrapping both his hands around Soap’s jaw, just gently holding. “Can’t imagine what was so important that you had to make such a mess.”
“You were.” Soap is smiling, and has smiled, so much that his cheeks are aching. And they’ve barely got their morning started.
Ghost’s face does something very soft, and then—“I’ll help you with the sheets after tea.” He says, leaning forward and tipping their foreheads together for a few moments. He pulls away from the hold just as casually, slowly moving to grab the mug Soap prepared for him on the counter.
“If you insist.” Soap says lightly, still grinning as he takes his next sip of coffee.
“That I do.” Ghost takes the mug and meanders over toward the patio door, likely keen on sitting outside to enjoy his morning tea. He stops short, glancing ever so briefly over his shoulder. “Coming? Hammock is empty.”
Like all things these days, Soap follows along slowly. And with a smile on his face. And a coffee in his hand, because he actually has the time to savour it.
They get so comfortable in the hammock that they don’t end up going out for breakfast. Instead, Ghost is asleep, and Soap is just content to lay there, soaking in the morning sun.
The second he wakes, Ghost tries to apologize about ten separate times, but Soap isn’t having it. Because it’s like Ghost feels as if he’s fallen short, but this is much more about the day having carved out a different plan for them—one where they’re called to be still, and where their path is rest, rest, rest.
In the spirit of the thing, Soap decides to lean into it. And after he makes them lunch, he drags Ghost straight back outside, this time toward the beach.
At first, Soap thinks he’ll go for a swim, but then he sees the look of Ghost’s heavy eyelids and knows he won’t last long. So Soap takes it upon himself to keep watch, slipping Ghost’s book out of sleep-limp hands, ready to see for himself how shit it is.
Ghost’s blatantly offended reaction to this novel is enough to create the intrigue, and it’s nice to have something for his mind to focus on while the backdrop of water continues to soothe his nerves. It's not so bad, if you look past the horrific tactical choices, and the misuse of equipment, and the fact that the protagonist gets shot at with a rocket launcher and doesn't have a scratch on him. If you read it ironically, it's entertaining enough—though he's shocked that Ghost has actually stuck with it.
But then the rain starts spitting down and the heavy darkness of rain clouds roll in, and Soap wakes Ghost up to coax him inside.
That's where they are now. Sprawled out lengthwise over the too-small couch, the two of them. Ghost found a baking TV show, and Soap is just happy to be along for the ride—he’s fighting sleep himself, but the rain keeps him awake. It’s windy. And the weather isn’t stressing him out, not like it has in the past. But there’s also a part of him that never completely quiets. He looks over to the windows any time a particular strong gust of wind sends torrential rain against the building.
The washing machine is quietly whirring away, and Soap hopes that the power doesn’t go out—he’d like to sleep in bed tonight, but that’s not ideal without sheets.
Ghost is lazily drawing patterns around Soap’s hairline. It’s Ghost’s chest that his head is resting against, it’s Ghost that’s holding Soap. Tight, steady, and secure. The moments pass very slowly but the day is going fast.
Soap’s hair is brushed back time and time again. His eyelids get heavier every time that Ghost’s hand sweeps along his skin—warm and heavy, calluses rough but touch so gentle that it doesn’t make a difference.
“Is it really that hard to make a croissant?” Ghost asks quietly.
Soap drags his gaze away from the windows and back to the TV.
“You really—the butter just goes in like that? Like a sheet?”
A soft hum bubbles up Soap’s throat and he nods. “Yeah. S’called laminating.”
“Okay.” Ghost says, borderline disappointed. It sounds like reluctant acceptance. And given the context, the delivery of that single word completely delights Soap.
He’s too close to sleep to laugh, but he does smile. The triangles of dough are rolled up into neat pastries, and Soap offers one last heavy blink as the chef places the tray into the oven. Another blink as a timelapse of the croissants baking speeds through, the dough puffing and then shrinking a little, before ultimately turning golden brown.
And Soap is falling asleep. He drifts in and out of a heavy doze, teetering on the fence of consciousness.
There’s a wee part of him that expects his chest to fill with anxiety because the wind continues to gust outside, and with his eyes closed, it reminds him a lot of that cabin. That one night, in that one cabin, in the middle of a blizzard.
But his skin is warm. His skin is warm, and Ghost’s heart is slowly beating away, and there’s someone talking about the croissants on TV. The butter goes in there, yeah, like a sheet. It’s laminated in. Everything is fine, because that was the only pressing question.
So Soap doesn’t startle, doesn’t feel scared. He doesn’t panic. He’s as calm as he was when this day started, and as calm as he’ll be by tomorrow.
Ghost had his nap, now he’s having his—and they’re a pair of wrecks, the fact that they can’t make it a day without supplemental sleep. But he likes that.
When he wakes—and by the time he does come around, it’s late—the sky is a darker grey than before. He’s been covered by a warm blanket, his body heavy and still on the couch, the sound of near-silent noises in the kitchen barely registering over the continued rain.
He’s alone, Ghost has slipped out from under him at some point, which is impressive considering Soap never felt him go.
A knife is moving slowly on a chopping board, not hesitant, just slow. Like Ghost might be trying to minimize his moves so he doesn’t wake Soap. It makes him smile into the dim living area—lights clearly left off so as to not disturb him.
“Simon—?” Soap’s voice drifts through the room. It’s barely loud enough to be heard—it should be barely loud enough. But Ghost hears it anyway.
“You awake?”
“Aye.” Soap sighs softly, yawning into the edge of the blanket as the knife stops, and footsteps pad across the space between them.
Ghost sits heavily on the coffee table, looking at Soap with soft eyes.
“You ‘right?” Ghost asks quietly, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, fingers laced gently together.
“Yeah.” Soap yawns again. Ghost chuckles softly. The rain patters against the windows. “Did I sleep long?”
Ghost huffs out a laugh, gentle amusement creeping across his features. “Yeah.”
Soap turns on his side, head half-sunk into the couch cushion which means he’s got one eye closed, and only one to see from. He blearily reaches a hand past the warmth of the blanket, and sticks it between Ghost’s.
Ghost lets him do it, and then he gets intentional about holding Soap’s hand in his, wrapping his palms and fingers around Soap’s in something of an embrace. “I’m making dinner. You can stay here. Do you want to sleep some more? I could turn the TV on for you. Do you want something to drink?”
“Drink sounds great.” Soap mumbles ever so softly, smiling at the gentle barrage of offers.
“What can I get you?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re havin’.” Soap responds, lips pulling into a smile when he sees Ghost’s immediately perplexed expression.
“I’m having tea.” Ghost says, like that will sway Soap in any way, shape or form.
“So I’ll have tea.” Soap shrugs a single shoulder, the one that’s facing up.
Ghost nods, and then he makes to get up, but quickly sits right back in place. “So, I…” he frowns slightly. “I should probably know this, but how do you like your tea?”
“I like it with you, Simon.” Soap smiles some more.
Ghost’s expressive features pull into another frown, then they level out, and a twinkle builds in his eyes—visible even in the dim light. Something relaxed rests heavy in his gaze. He looks a little bashful, a little unsure what to do with it. He stands back up, and sits down, and pats Soap on the bicep, then finally heads to the kitchen. From there, he says, softly, “I—so should I just make it the way I make mine?”
Soap closes his eyes, his glee not faltering, and his cheeks hurt by now, they really do. “Aye, Simon, that’d be great.”
“Okay.” The faucet turns on, and then there’s the telltale noise of the empty kettle being filled with water. “I’ll make it. And then I’ll come have tea with you.”
Soap pops his head up and looks over the armrest just as Ghost sets the kettle on the stove. “I thought you were cookin’.”
“I was, and I will be again after we have tea, Johnny—” Ghost says absently. “Start thinkin’ about how you’re going to make room for me on the couch, yeah?”
Soap drops his head and hums softly. “If you’re sure you’ve got the time.”
“I always have time for you.” Ghost answers without hesitation. “You know that.”
The rain slows hopefully over the next minute, and then it’s back to howling again. A moment of peace in an otherwise chaotic storm. Soap doesn’t really care for the weather, but he’s doing alright. He’s doing even better when Ghost sits next to him, their bodies touching from shoulder to hip to knee—hot cup of tea steaming in both their hands.
He sips at the tea, the smell of which reminds him of Ghost. And he wonders, randomly, if he has the misfortune of losing Ghost at any point, if he’s going to be able to bring himself to brew a cup just to reminisce in the scent of it—let it bring him back to moments like this.
Soap wonders if it would be torture, or relief. It’s hard to imagine which would be the more difficult emotion to overcome.
Lightning pulses outside, thunder following shortly after, and the resounding boom startles Soap. He jolts just slightly, not a lot, but enough that Ghost notices it and places a large hand over his thigh.
They don’t say anything for the next while. The power flickers. Soap dips his head to rest against Ghost’s shoulder, and everything is okay.
The next morning, after a long restful night, they lay in a tangled heap. The sun is up and has been for a while, and they’ve fully slept in. Then just stayed in bed for the hell of it, because they can, and because it was just the natural thing to do.
Soap brushes his fingers across Ghost’s scalp and lets the soft strands fall between his fingers. His wavy hair is getting really light from the sun, and it’s so smooth and healthy—a big departure from the state it tends to be in when Ghost showers in a rush and has a mask matting it down all day.
It’s another one of those things that Soap wants to memorize and cling to. “Have I seen your hair this long?” He asks curiously. It’s not even that long, to be honest, he can only twirl the longest strands around his finger about two times.
Ghost sighs softly, turning to lay on his back. “Doubt it. Reckon it’s time for a cut.”
Soap scoffs. “A cut? Why?”
“Like to keep it short. Always have.”
Dragging his fingers through Ghost’s waves again, Soap can’t help the protest that leaves his lips. “Will ye leave the top? Just… for now?”
Ghost blinks open his eyes, turning his gaze to meet Soap’s eyes. “Why would you want me to leave the top?”
“Because it’s soft.” Soap admits. “Like playin’ with it.”
Ghost snorts quietly. “Fine.”
“You’ll leave it?”
“I’m not about to risk doing anythin’ that will jeapordize you playin’ with my hair, Johnny.”
“Good.” Soap says, pleased with himself.
“Might get the clippers out after breakfast, unless you had plans to go out?”
Soap shakes his head. “No. But I’m—you brought your clippers with you?”
“Yeah, figured my hair would drive me mental sooner than later.” Ghost gives him a look, and then Soap strokes a hand up his forehead.
“You didn’t think I was the reason you’d go mental?”
Ghost chuckles. “Not in a million years.”
Ghost leans forward so he’s more or less over the sink, and starts in on his hair with a confidence that says he’s done this before. Many times. But that’s no surprise—Soap can’t imagine Ghost letting a stranger with sharp instruments have free reign so close to so many vital places. To go for a jugular in that situation would be as easy as anything.
He trims down the hair along the sides of his head with clippers buzzing away.
All Soap can think, from where he’s leaned against the wall behind Ghost, is when he did this to himself. When he took the clippers and buzzed his whole head.
His phone vibrates in his pocket and he briefly pulls it out, just to read he’s received another text from Mam, before he shoves it right back into his shorts. He switches his focus completely, one hundred percent, back to Ghost.
He switches it back to Ghost. Who’s got short bits of hair falling to the sink below, who’s got full concentration on the way he’s moving his hands, the way he’s handling the clippers. He handles it the way Soap has seen him handle weapons.
“How’s it looking so far?” Ghost asks once he’s done the back.
Soap shrugs minutely. “Little patchy.”
Ghost smiles into the mirror and continues around the sides of his head, not really touching the top. Soap lingers on the fact that he’s not touching the top because Soap asked him not to. Which shouldn’t be such a thing, except for all the ways that it inherently is.
The machine briefly gets shut off while Ghost removes a guard and replaces it with a new one. It’s a little shorter by the looks of it, and he clips around the lower half of his head, giving himself a very blocky fade. But then he pulls a lever, and starts working the line where the two lengths meet. There’s another guard change, and then suddenly the transition of short hair at the edges to longer hair is smooth as anything.
“Seems like you’ve done this before.” Soap teases lightly.
“Only twice.” Ghost jokes. He locks eyes with Soap via the reflection of the mirror and gives him a small smile.
Soap continues to watch as he cleans up the edges, somehow creating a perfect hairline through nothing more than touch alone. He doesn’t have a mirror he can refer to like he was doing with the sides of his head. Blatantly, he wonders how he hasn’t ever considered Ghost’s been cutting his own hair the entire time. He’s not even sure he’s noticed Ghost’s hair getting longer before, not unless there was a lengthier op that kept them off base for several weeks—but day to day, Ghost’s hair just seems to constantly remain the same length. Apparently this is why.
“How often do you cut your hair, Simon?” Soap asks, pushing off the wall he’s leaning against, and taking a step toward Ghost.
“Twice a month or so.” Ghost answers without missing a beat.
Soap thinks about that. “You’ve never done it in front of me before.”
“That’s because if I’m with you, I usually have far better things to do than wasting my time cuttin’ my hair.”
Soap smiles at that, and watches Ghost meet his gaze again, before continuing on. “Do you… would you ever cut somebody else’s hair?”
“Maybe. Depends who was askin’.” Ghost says to the mirror, full concentration on himself as he trims around his ear.
“If I asked?” Soap beams, taking another step forward and wrapping his arms around Ghost’s middle. The action sways Ghost and he immediately pulls the clippers away from his head before they can shave a block into his fade, chuckling softly.
“Careful, MacTavish. You’ll have me endin’ up with a botched job.” Ghost gets back to cutting, and Soap hooks his chin over Ghost’s opposite shoulder, watching him in their reflection.
“You’re about the only person whose hair I would willingly touch,” Ghost says after a few moments.
Soap swallows considerately, and thinks about their time here together—how pleasant and calm it’s been. How happy he’s been. How hard some things are, but how easy the rest has fallen into place.
He can’t remember the last time he got a text from his mam and it didn’t weigh like a heavy cloud over him the entire rest of the day.
“Any chance ye know how to do a mohawk?”
Ghost pulls the clippers away from his hair once more, and meets Soap’s eyes. The room suddenly goes silent as the power switch is flipped, and barely more than a second later, Ghost is turning around in place. His eyes search Soap’s in a way that the mirror restricted—but he’s gazing with all he’s got now. Looking for what? Soap doesn’t know. But he’s happy to share whatever he’s trying to find.
“I could figure it out.” Ghost says, almost breathless. It’s funny, because Ghost is looking at Soap, like Soap is the one who’d be giving something of himself to let Ghost cut his hair. But it’s not like that, it would be Ghost’s time, Ghost’s energy. “Is that… what you want?”
“Reckon it’s time.”
Ghost shakes his head. “There’s no timetable for it, you don’t even have to do it, it’s up to you.”
Soap considers this. And he doesn’t know what to say, except that he wants to feel the way he did before the op that had him shave the mohawk off in the first place. But he won’t. Because that’s the nature of life, the fact that every day changes you in ways that don’t always ask permission—you wake up every morning, especially in their job, and the action of coming to consciousness alone is an automatic acceptance of the risk you’ll face.
But maybe it’s scarier to stay the same than to change. Because he reckons he’s probably stronger in a lot of ways now. He thinks about how much this has made himself grow, and the countless number of ways this has brought Ghost and him a little closer.
This is one of them, this is one of the ways they’ll get closer, too. Ghost will give him back the mohawk, the thing Soap lost—and they’ll do it together.
“I think I’m ready.” Soap gives him a smile. “If you think you’re up for givin’ it a go.”
“We could find a barber, we could… find someone who actually knows what they’re doin’, give you a proper, well-done mohawk.”
Soap gazes at his eyes, trying to determine whether or not Ghost is searching for an out. Close determination says he’s not, he’s trying to give Soap the out.
“When it comes to me, you’re the only one who knows what they’re doin’.” Soap says plainly. “Dinnae need a barber.”
“I’ve never done a mohawk before.”
“You’ve seen me with one for most of the time ye’ve known me.” Soap replies, raising his eyebrow. “Or is your memory that bad?”
Ghost smirks at him. “Just because I’ve seen it, doesn’t mean I can replicate it.”
“Well—do your worst. Worst case we’ve got to buzz it, and then we’re only back where we started, could try again in a few weeks.”
“Let me finish mine.” Ghost says, ducking his head and peering at him through those blond lashes. “Then we’ll see what we’re working with, yeah?”
“Sure.” Soap agrees, letting Ghost turn back around to face the mirror, but not letting go of him. Ghost doesn’t seem to mind the way Soap continues to live inside his personal space as he gets back to his haircut.
A few minutes later, Ghost is using a damp cloth to wipe hair off his face, and the back of his ears, and his neck. The haircut suits him, especially with the top a little longer, and his few days of stubble filling out his jaw and the lower half of his cheeks. He looks good—he looks sharp. He looks settled.
“Ready?” Ghost asks to the mirror.
Soap gives him an affirmative nod and sighs softly. “As I’ll ever be.”
“Right.” Ghost nods once. “Think we’ll need a chair. I’ll grab one, you get your hair wet, alright?”
“Rog.” Soap agrees, stepping in front of the sink and doing just that as Ghost disappears out the door. He ducks his head down and cups water to his hair, spreading it over his scalp and rubbing it around.
He looks himself in the mirror and stares at what he sees—his hair is barely long enough to be cutting a mohawk into it, but it’ll have to do. He exhales heavily, feeling his chest deflate. He wonders if he can still see the echo of the man that buzzed it off in the first place. He double checks with himself that this is really what he wants—that it’s not just an impulse.
It is an impulse. But not in a way that feels like a rushed decision, because he’s thought about it every time he’s been looking in a mirror, lately.
It’s just… him taking the split-second to say yes. When the no is far easier.
Ghost comes back with a stool as water drips down his temple and traces the edge of his jawbone. His phone buzzes again in his pocket, and he knows it’s his mam again without having to look.
Instead, he sits on the stool that Ghost places right behind his legs, and tips his head backward until he can see Ghost.
Ghost steps forward, a small smile on his face as he cradles Soap’s head in his strong hands, taking the strain off his neck. “You sure you want to do this, Johnny?”
“Aye.” Soap responds, giving a small nod. “I’m sure.”
“Okay.” Ghost says, helping lift Soap’s head upright again, and then just looking at him in the mirror, their gazes locked together for long enough that Soap starts to wonder if Ghost is sure he wants to cut his hair.
Ghost drags his fingers through Soap’s hair, like he’s trying to imagine how to approach this. Seconds tick into minutes, but Soap’s got no desire to put a rush onto any of this—he’s not eager for it to start, nor is he eager for it to end. He’s just happy for it to take as long as it takes.
“I’m gonna have you face me.” Ghost says after a beat. “So I can make sure everything lines up right. Can’t have you walking around with a crooked mohawk.”
Soap shrugs, turning around easily on the stool, facing Ghost. He squares his shoulders and tries to relax. “It’ll be good, however it turns out.”
“You have too much faith in me.”
“What makes you say that?”
Ghost tugs a comb through Soap’s wet hair and Soap’s eyes flutter closed at the scratchy feeling against his scalp, tingles running through his head and down his neck.
“You make it sound like I can do no wrong in your eyes.” Ghost murmurs, two fingers coming up under Soap’s chin, tilting his head slightly upward.
“Simon,” Soap huffs out an unexpected breath, prying his eyes open. “I don’t think you could.” He says. Ghost’s hands pause their movements for a solid few seconds, and then he’s going again.
“I’m sure I could.” Ghost argues lightly.
Soap reaches forward and lightly wraps his hands around the outside of Ghost’s thighs, just resting his touch there. “Not unless you tried.”
“Not ever going to be my goal to let you down.” Ghost responds softly. “But promise me you won’t be surprised when it happens.”
Soap’s thumbs stroke side to side against the warm skin of Ghost’s legs. “Ye have the room. To mess up. Or to do things the wrong way. Get the idea of bein’ perfect out of your head.” Soap offers. “We can figure shit out as it comes. You have room.”
Ghost exhales heavily. He’s pouring all his focus into Soap’s hair, but Soap can see his shoulders loosen enough that his entire stance shifts to one more relaxed. “Okay.”
The haircut truly begins when the buzzing of clippers cuts through the air. Ghost goes slow, using measured but relaxed movements to drag the machine in up and down motions against the side of Soap’s head.
Soap sort of views this as a full circle moment. The last haircut with this haircut, the way last time was the wrong kind of impulse, probably. And how it was the final straw after nightmares and bad nights and too much pain.
And then this, with Ghost, so far from being alone that his heart has cloned itself in his chest and is beating with strength. With Ghost. Sand under his fingernails and clinging to the hem of Ghost’s shorts, and sunlight filtering through the three windows and skylight in this bathroom.
Soap exhales softly, feels the together. The ‘we’ll do it together’ that they put on the things that they could just as well face alone. But they don’t have to. And maybe that mantra, that one thing that Ghost said what feels like forever ago, the thing that’s somehow become a comprehensive truth—maybe it’s not just for the bad things or the hard things. Maybe it’s also for haircuts that mark a fresh start. Maybe it’s for the good days too, because it’s a shame that something so good can only be there for the worst moments.
“We’re doin’ it together.” Soap says to Ghost, then. Because he wants to share his little thought, and to ask that they rely on each other for the light as much as for the shadows.
Ghost’s eyes flick to him, and his amber eyes sparkle brightly in the glimmering day. “Yeah.” He says. “‘Course.”
Soap closes his eyes and soaks it up. For as short his hair really is, still—the stuff Ghost is cutting off weighs more than he expected. He’s not going to be a new man after this, but he’s going to be one step closer to the person he’s been trying to become. Not because he’s salvaging something he lost, but because they’re making something new.
Callan, back when they were teenagers and didn’t know what the fuck they were doing, helped him cut the first messy mohawk—an attempt to claim a piece of himself when he felt completely suffocated by routine, and structure, and everything just so. Soap will forever be grateful, he’s always going to look back fondly on that haircut as the first step in figuring things out for himself.
This one will be Ghost. It is Ghost—as Ghost turns off the clippers, and turns him around in the stool minutes later. “It’s not done… But how’s this for positioning? I started a little wide to give myself room to even it out, I can cut it narrower if you like.”
It’s Ghost. With experience, with steady hands. Neat lines, mohawk perfectly even on his head, warm hands resting on his shoulders. It needs a bit of fine tuning, but it’s there—and Soap feels like he’s looking at himself for the first time in months. It’s nothing to do with the hair, and everything to do with the gentle smile he finds on his own face, the way Ghost is softly gauging his expression, the absence of stress lines on skin that’s getting more tan every day.
“Do you want to go narrower?”
Soap leans back against Ghost and sighs, light and airy. “Just a wee bit,” he’s still staring at his own calm joy and wondering how long it will stay. “You got it pretty spot on, though.”
“You’re happy with it so far?”
“Never been happier.” Soap spouts off—it’s not even a lie, not even a murky truth. If given truth serum, he could wax on about every little way he’s experiencing life out of the shadows. He would talk about Ghost’s eyes when the sun hits them. He would speak to the way he wakes up in the mornings, where the aches hurt pleasantly, like his body is lived-in more than worn to the bone.
“That’s what we like to hear.” Ghost gives him a relieved smile. “I missed you.”
“I didn’t go anywhere, darlin’.” Soap murmurs softly, returning the gentle look in the mirror’s reflection.
Ghost makes a vague noise of agreement. “Come turn back ‘round so I can get the front cleaned up.”
Soap does as he’s told, turning in place and looking up at Ghost. “Yes, sir.”
“Save it for the battlefield.” Ghost snorts quietly, looking lightly amused. “I’m only Simon.”
“And I hope ye know, Simon, that you’re forever doin’ my haircuts now.”
Ghost nods easily. “I was sort of hoping for that.” He admits, sheepish smile crossing his lips.
That night, Soap chases Ghost in the shallows of the shore. Water is kicking up, drops landing on his shoulders—waves are crashing into his knees. He yells out a light-hearted—”Simon Riley, there’s nowhere in this world you can run or hide that I won’t find ye.”
And it’s meant to be a threat, but it carries such a stern reverence that it sounds more like a promise. Ghost dunked him in the water, his fresh mohawk is surely plastered flat against his skull, saltwater drips are clinging to his lashes. He’s trying so very hard to act like he’s annoyed about it, but how can he be? Honestly?
He’s going after Ghost like he’s gonna get him back, gonna dunk him under the water, show him how it feels. You know? But really, he’s just running after him because Ghost is laughing. Whole chest, whole diaphragm. Deep and thorough. Ghost is laughing.
It’s so carefree and so happy, and as he’s jogging through shin-deep water, that’s what he’s really chasing.
Ghost is positively thrilled with himself, and Soap thinks the more he plays into his obviously overdone despair of getting drenched, the bigger kick Ghost is getting out of it.
Soap could never be upset at Ghost, not for the way he pulled them both into a wave, arms secure around him. Not for the immediate dash after Soap spluttered—”are ye mental?” And not for laughing. He’d never waste a moment being upset at Ghost for laughing, no matter the cost, no matter the sacrifice.
He finally catches up, but where Ghost is grinning, and where he’s bracing for Soap to launch himself into him, all brute muscle and momentum—Soap stalls out. He stops right there in the water, comes to a complete standstill.
Ghost immediately looks over his shoulder, his first reaction concern at Soap suddenly not being a step behind. He’s concerned, because of course he’s concerned.
But Soap just grins at him, and stands there like an idiot, and just looks at Ghost.
“You ‘right?” Ghost asks, coming closer, all sense of urgency gone from one beat to the next. “Didn’t hurt your knee, did you?”
“I’m good.” Soap nods easily, watching as Ghost comes closer. His hands are on his hips, head ducked, lungs heaving. They’re so wrecked for when they go back, if this burst of activity has winded them both like this.
Ghost’s eyelashes flutter, he’s soaking wet, too.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re going to get my guard down and then brutally kick my legs out from under me?” Ghost says with a softer smile, still coming toward Soap despite his words. Like he doesn’t care if Soap throws him into the water.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Soap shakes his head.
“Then why are you chasing me?” Ghost grins. “If it’s not to exact your revenge?”
“I’m just saying I dinnae need to kick yer legs out.” Soap raises an eyebrow, huffing out an amused breath. “I can take you just like this.”
“Can you?” Ghost’s smile gets brighter, if that’s a possibility. You wouldn’t think Soap just offered some affectionate physical violence to him on a silver platter.
“Aye.” Soap nods deeply.
“Like to see you try.” Ghost says suddenly, and starts running again. Jogging, moreso.
And it takes Soap a second to kick it into gear. Ghost looks over his shoulder and falters like he’s not sure Soap’ll take the bait. But Soap is gone, hook, line, and sinker.
Soap spurs off a moment later and gives it all he’s got. Ghost huffs out a surprised laugh and looks straight ahead, focus hurdling to the forefront as he goes from a light jog to a full-on run.
“You’re so in for it.” Soap threatens. Again, sounds more like a gentle reminder of their reality.
Ghost is grinning in the moment before and after Soap makes the calculated tackle that takes them both to the sand. They roll around in the place where the ocean meets the shore, covering themselves in frothy saltwater and wet sand. Laughter and exerted grunts are the only thing audible as things turn into an impromptu sparring session, both fighting for control.
It’s Ghost’s inability to keep composure that does him in. He’s honest to all hell giggling when Soap finally gets him into a side headlock, and he just can’t seem to stop. Ghost’s head is safe against Soap’s chest and in this hold, and it gives Soap the ability to fully soak in the sounds that are bubbling out of Ghost’s chest. These completely untroubled, airy sounds, like for once, Ghost isn’t worried about anything.
Soap is grinning into the air, halfway into thanking whatever higher power decided to give him this, when Ghost settles against him fully. He breaks out of his laughter with a sigh, and then chuckles again.
Soap can’t help but join him. It’s just… innocent. And good. Like they’re teenagers experiencing new highs of emotions, brains still learning to calibrate themselves.
“Told you,” Soap says mischievously, into Ghost’s hair, because who can stop him? “I can take you.”
Ghost lifts his head, pulling it away from Soap’s hands with ease, because Soap really wasn’t holding him in a way that would feel truly restrictive. Ghost is grinning, and this time, Soap sees it up close. Their heads aren’t so far away—Soap can see the laugh lines he’s begun to familiarize himself with, and he can see the sunset colours reflecting in Ghost’s eyes.
“I let you get me.” Ghost teases, tilting his head.
Soap reaches a hand and lightly swipes Ghost’s hair back, away from his forehead. His thumb traces a line past his temple, across his jaw, stopping just under his bottom lip. “As long as I got you.” He murmurs.
Ghost nods slightly, then just smiles again. He looks over toward where the sun is setting, and Soap follows his gaze. It’s a beautiful sight, a bright red sun nestled in pink and lavender clouds. If his phone wasn’t in the house, he’d be taking a picture in order to paint it later—his memory will have to do.
“We need to rinse off.” Soap comments lightly.
Ghost leans his head down, letting it rest against Soap’s chest once more. “And we will… in a minute, maybe.”
“Aye, in a minute then.”
Though the days are long, the weeks are short. Or that’s what it feels like, at least, when Soap wakes up by the end of it and gets a sense of the dread seated low in his gut. Ghost doesn’t look much better off.
They’re going back today.
They wake up, and the way they wrap around each other is quiet. There aren’t any whispered mornin’s, there’s no sudden movements. Maybe if they just stay still, the universe won’t notice that they’re not supposed to be here.
Breakfast is quiet. Coffee and tea by the patio table is quiet.
It’s another gorgeous day. The sun is out, like it could care less that another set of travellers are leaving this coast and descending directly into the shadows—like it wants to remind them this place will be a constant, even if they won’t.
It’s almost as easy for Soap to picture himself spending another slow day in the sun, getting food from that one beach bar they’ve become familiar with on a first name basis, he’d probably order pescado zarandeado because of all the local cuisine they’ve tried, it’s the only kind of fish that Ghost truly went for seconds on. Maybe he’d get Ghost some of those birria tacos that he likes so much. Maybe he’ll learn to make them when they get back—he tries to remind himself that there can be good things about going back, too.
“You feel ready?” Ghost asks, finally.
Soap huffs out a breath, shaking his head. “No. Do you?”
Ghost deflates instantly, like he was holding himself together just on the off chance that Soap had his shit together. It’s almost laughable, except for that it’s devastating. Because this whole thing just sucks. It fucking sucks. Not even just for the fact that they’ll be heading back to cold weather and work, but for the fact that they won’t just be two people sharing a bed, and a house, and a life, in relative peace. They’re going to have to stuff themselves into a box smaller than what they’ve grown to be.
“Not even a little bit, Johnny.” He breathes.
Soap exhales slowly and nods in acceptance of Ghost’s words. “We’ll do it together, aye?”
“Yeah.” Ghost agrees. “We will.”
Packing up their things is a somber event, but Soap tries to keep their spirits up where he can—he can tell Ghost is worked up and he wants to mitigate it more than anything. He makes jokes, he talks. He just tries to connect, he supposes.
To his credit, Ghost tries very hard to mirror that energy. Because they both know they don’t want to end this trip on a bad note, but also, it was so good. For them both. And the idea of going back is just… draining. There’s no two ways about it.
It all boils down to the moment they lock the doors of the rental—gone through and cleaned to the point nobody could know they were there. That’s sort of where it clicks.
They’re leaving.
Somehow, the hot bus isn’t nearly as enticing when they’re heading away from paradise. Somehow, the airports are more overstimulating than they were when they were fresh from base.
But they make it onto the right planes, and they’re at least not exhausted. Not really. The amount of sleep they’ve managed to grab hold of over their leave is honestly impressive. And Soap can notice it in them both, the difference it’s made—he can feel the relaxation deep in his body, like his roots have been well watered and are thriving. His eyes aren’t heavy for the first time in ages, his stress level is on the floor. You know, outside of the fact that he’s amping up to go back to base.
And Ghost… Ghost is almost an entirely different person.
It was odd (and Soap will admit, a little disappointing) to see him put on the face mask just before they caught the bus. After weeks without it, he looks initially uncomfortable to have it covering his face.
Soap doesn’t ever mind the mask, but it’s just a reminder that they’re closing a door.
The big plane, the one that takes them over the ocean, is the worst. Ghost is tired, but can’t sleep—Soap can tell by the pull of his eyes in the corner, and the furrowed lines between his eyebrows.
So, emboldened by the last few weeks of closeness, Soap gingerly pulls Ghost to rest against his side. He goes heavy, lets their heads nestle together, but he never quite sleeps. Not even when Soap starts carding his fingers through his hair.
“Hey, Johnny?” Ghost says softly, close enough to his ear that he barely needs to speak.
“Aye?” Soap hums lazily, letting his body be shaken by the plane turbulence.
“D’you think it’s better to have good things and lose them? Or is it better to just… not have things to lose?”
“What do you mean?” Soap prompts.
“Would it have been easier if we hadn’t gone? I mean, is it easier not to have something that’s this shitty to leave behind?”
Soap raises an eyebrow. “Would you have traded anythin’ for those weeks we just had?”
Ghost pauses for a moment, considering. “No.” He shakes his head. “Nothin’.”
“My nan used to say the only reason flowers are so beautiful is because they don’t bloom forever.”
“Suppose there’s some truth to that.” And then. “You’ve got a nan?”
And Soap just snorts softly. “Aye, everyone’s got at least two.”
“Am I meetin’ her next time?”
“I fuckin’ hope not.” Soap mumbles, and then feels Ghost stiffen slightly next to him. “She’s dead, so if ye wanna meet her, you’ll need to find a way to hell. And if it was up to me, you’d stay nice and alive should we brave Elgin again.”
“Oh,” Ghost says breathlessly, audibly relieved. “Why’s she in hell?”
“Because I have to hope that when I follow ye into heaven, we won’t run into her.” Soap says light-heartedly. “She wasnae a kind woman. People used to say she was a great person, generous, kind, and maybe she was—but she was another person behind closed doors.”
“I see.” Ghost acknowledges. “Sorry she was a shitty nan.”
“Aye.” Soap snorts. “Thanks. Did you… have a nan?”
“Two, apparently.” Ghost muses fondly. “Didn’t know ‘em though, think my dad’s mum overdosed before I was born. My mum never talked about hers. Maybe it’s for the best. The less people you have, the less you can lose.”
The sentiment hit a little harder knowing what Soap now knows about Ghost’s past.
Ghost reaches over, his hand sliding against Soap’s, not grabbing, just sliding. His fingers brush Soap’s palm and trail up the inside of his fingers. He circles Soap’s fingertips with his own.
“Then again,” Ghost says softly. “Sort of think, maybe, that there are a few people worth the pain of losing.”
“I hope that there’s never a day where you’re alone in this world again, Simon.” Soap murmurs, watching as Ghost’s fingers finally glide between his own, and their hands clamp together.
“I hope not either.”
The quiet lingers. Ghost finally falls asleep about two minutes before the plane begins its descent.
They land back in the UK to grey skies and rain. As much as the weather is an unwelcome change, there’s still something in the bones of it that feels like coming home. A familiarity—something that feels well worn and fit to your body.
Again, the clothes they’re wearing don’t work with the weather—they should have learned from the last time. It’s colder here, colder than what they’ve temporarily acclimatised to. As soon as they’re off the plane and have a moment to be, they’re digging in their bags and both going for a hoodie. The chaos of the deboarding gate pulses around them, and they’re careful to stay close to one another.
“So, back to base?”
Ghost shrugs lightly. “We don’t have to report back until the day after tomorrow. Figured we’d need a day or two to square away the jetlag. But yeah, we could go to base.”
“Right—” Soap starts, then stops. Ghost has already given him a lot, he’s already given him everything—he really shouldn’t ask for more time. A little grace before they have to step back through the doors of their station.
“So.” Ghost says, dropping his shoulders slightly.
Several seconds pass, and Soap lets the silence linger, waiting for something to happen—waiting for anything to happen.
“I’m sorry, I honestly didn’t plan this part out. I wasn’t thinking about the end.” Ghost scratches the back of one hand, and his eyes dart here and there. “I wasn’t…”
“Let’s grab a hotel tonight.” Soap blurts out.
Ghost’s expression, or what’s visible outside the mask, melts. He’s nodding instantly. “I’ll find us somewhere.”
“I can do it.” Soap offers lightly. “I don’t mind.”
Ghost is already pulling out his phone. “We can just—let’s look together.”
Soap nods easily and leans into Ghost’s shoulder, tipping his head against him. Ghost switches his phone to the other hand in order to wrap his arm around Soap.
Soap lets himself relax into it, and instantly jumps to teasing when he sees the first listing under places to stay. “Och, Travelodge nearby, Simon.”
“We can do better than a Travelodge.” Ghost scoffs, scrolling through hotel after hotel, until he finds one that seems to catch his eye.
It’s pricy. Pricier than Soap would have ever gone for, because who in their right mind wants to spend over £300 for a room for the night? Not when there’s several options available to them that are perfectly adequate and will do them just fine. They don’t need much.
Ghost turns his phone screen toward Soap like Soap can’t already see the contents.
“You are absolutely deranged if you’re considerin’ wasting that amount of money on a room.”
Ghost smiles brightly, as if he’s found the shining gem of approval inside Soap’s half-hearted dismissal. He slides over a few of the listing photos, and Soap grabs his finger to stop it when he sees—
“Simon—they’ve got—” Soap starts, cutting himself off just as quickly. Because if Soap lets on that there’s something to this room that he likes, he’s positive that Ghost will book it on the spot. And as fun as it sounds, the reality of spending three-hundred pounds, on one room, for one night, is objectively insane. And reckless. And irresponsible. And Soap isn’t going to push for it.
“They’ve got?” Ghost prompts, perplexed.
Soap shakes his head vigorously. “Nothin’.”
“Tell me.” Ghost counters, instantly intrigued. He stares back down at the photo that Soap stopped. It’s a picture of a bathroom. It’s not big, not over the top. There’s really not even anything special about it until you look closer.
“But then you’ll get it, and then you’ll be the one with a future of livin’ under a bridge.” Soap says, giving Ghost a knowing look.
“Well, if you don’t tell me, I’m gonna book it anyway.” Ghost shrugs. “So you might as well share with the class, yeah?”
Soap sighs softly. “They’ve got a tub with jets in it.”
Ghost turns his face toward Soap and raises both eyebrows. “Jets?” He asks, sounding confused.
“Yeah, like—” Soap motions to the picture where you can clearly see the built-in whirlpool bathtub in the bathroom, the jets clearly visible. “It shoots water out of those things.” He points to the photo.
“For the purpose of—?” Ghost asks tentatively.
Soap works his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. “Have you not…?”
Ghost shakes his head. “No. Is it supposed to be good?”
And from one second to the next, Soap steals the phone from his hand and starts the process of booking the room, money be damned. He would spend quadruple that amount of money if it means he could see the look on Ghost’s face when the jets kick on.
“What happened to this bein’ a waste of money.” Ghost comments lightly, but doesn’t make a move to stop Soap.
“Och, hush.” Soap says good-naturedly.
Somebody bumps into them from behind, and Ghost guides Soap to stand in front of his chest, looping an arm around his front, acting as a buffer against the mass of people all around them.
“I cannae book online, website keeps crashin’.” Soap leans his head back against Ghost’s shoulder and turns his face toward Ghost. “Want to find somethin’ else?”
“Let’s just head over. Is it far?” Ghost asks softly, his eyes finding Soap’s.
Soap quickly looks back to the screen and inputs the address into the map on the phone. “Far enough my knee is tellin’ me we shouldn’t walk it.”
“So we’ll get out of here and we’ll get a car.” Ghost nods once.
Soap gives him a nod and slips Ghost’s phone back in his front pocket, before shifting his bag on his shoulder, and looking around for the exit. Between the two of them, they’re able to smoothly navigate their way through the airport and outside. It’s bleary and miserable, cold rain falling down in sheets as they wait under an awning for the ride that Ghost organized for them.
The building that the hotel is located inside is as grand from the exterior as the room price would imply. They probably look like quite a pair, because they are.
They get the up and down look from several staff. Of course, because Soap’s wearing his knee brace, and shorts, and Ghost’s hoodie—the sleeves of which are drooping well past his wrists. He’s got a mohawk, and he’s more tan than about ninety-nine percent of England’s Caucasian population, and he’s walking hand in hand with Ghost.
Ghost himself is large, and right now he’s coming across as brooding (if you aren’t Soap, and you don’t see the half-there smile lines around his eyes). His energy is intimidating, and Soap hopes it’s just for show—that it didn’t take such a short amount of time to slip back into the role of stressed-out soldier running on fumes.
The receptionist looks like he’s full on about to turn them away, but then Ghost starts speaking. Words like, “king suite,” and “we’ll take it.” And suddenly the fucker behind the counter smooths out his expression and goes right along with it.
Diabolically entertaining. Truly.
Soap can’t count the plethora of ways that amusement floods through him.
Soap pulls out his wallet to pay, but Ghost beats him in handing his card over—and that’s that.
And then they walk to the room, which is fucking stupid. It’s so stupid, because nobody on earth should pay this much to stay in some random hotel, and they certainly shouldn’t need a room this extravagant. There’s a chandelier. There’s faux fur rugs. There’s carved wooden furniture, the bed is a fuckin’ four poster.
“We’re livin’ large tonight, MacTavish.” Ghost teases, tugging off his mask and shoving it in his pocket. “Reckon they have a stocked minibar?”
“For the price you’re paying, they better.” Soap mutters, shaking his head senselessly. “And seriously, what is it with you payin’ for everythin’?”
There’s a balcony. It overlooks a pond.
“Loosen up.” Ghost comes up to him, tugging Soap into his arms. “It’s just money. Who gives a fuck about money.”
And Soap goes willingly—very willingly. And he hides his smile against the side of Ghost’s neck as he tucks his head onto his shoulder. “You should. Everyone should. Have you gone mental?”
“Yes.” Ghost deadpans. “Isn’t this a nice room?”
Soap hums softly. “Aye. So it is.”
“It is.” Ghost repeats after him. “You want to go down to the hotel restaurant? Order room service? You must be hungry.”
Soap laughs softly, his chest shaking against Ghost’s. “You okay?”
“Absolutely not,” Ghost says softly, it’s said with amused affection, but his voice is quiet enough that Soap can hear the truth in it. “Not even a little bit.”
“Things will still be good.” Soap says softly. “It was good before we went, we can make it good again. Not that we’re just gonna start havin’ a shit time because we had such a nice time away.”
“Yeah,” Ghost is smiling as he says it. “And we have this hotel for the night.”
Soap leans up to Ghost’s ear and says, conspiratorially—“Heard checkout isnae until noon.”
“You wanna have a lie-in?” Ghost prods.
“Yes. But first, we need to eat. What do you want to eat, Simon?”
Ghost shrugs. “Whatever you like.”
“I’m sure we can find something.”
‘Something’ is a room service cart delivered to their room door forty minutes later.
Ghost and Soap both order expensive entrees, and Ghost orders four different desserts because they can’t decide between the options. It arrives in an array of silver-coloured cloches and white linens that feel far too formal for the fact that they eat on the stiff couch along one side of the room. For all that they paid, not even a table. (Seriously?)
Not so ideal to eat steak on your lap, but it melts in his mouth in a way that instantly assuages him.
They split two of the desserts, taking turns having bites, and rating them against the desserts they scored at the beach bar. So far, no clear winner. Soap’s noticed that Ghost tends to gravitate towards things with fruit, whereas Soap enjoys indulging in chocolate.
And then Soap eyes the bathroom for the dozenth time. He imagines the water jets on his stiff, travel-weary body. The hot water soaking into his knee, his back, the ache in his shoulders.
Finally, he gets to his feet, tugging at the bottom hem of his shirt, pulling it off—he drapes the t-shirt over his shoulder and looks down at Ghost. “Gonna try out that bathtub, I reckon.”
“Oh,” Ghost nods slowly. “Yeah, sounds good.”
“Aye.” Soap flashes him a smile and turns, heading to the bathroom. He starts the fill on the tub first and foremost, adding whatever generic bath soap is neatly lined up on the shelf above it, before he finishes undressing.
Sinking into the hot water has him letting out a long, low groan. He can immediately feel the sharp tingle of the temperature start to sink into his skin, then his muscles, and then his bones. He lingers in the heat for a solid few moments, his head spinning with the innate relief that comes from the water surrounding him.
“Simon?” He calls out, just loud enough to be heard.
“Yeah?” Ghost says back from the main room. “You okay?”
“Yes.” Soap grins, letting his head fall back against the tub, his body sinking a little lower. “Come here.”
The footsteps are immediate, and Ghost is instantly making his way into the bathroom. There’s no awkwardness, no averted eyes, no weird tension. Ghost just walks in and looks to Soap’s face, eyeing him tentatively, like he’s looking for pain or discomfort.
But when he doesn’t find that, Ghost seems to relax. His shoulders drop an inch, his body stills. He walks further into the room and leans shoulder-first against the wall. “Can I get you something?”
“I was gonna ask if you wanted to join me.”
Ghost’s eyes soften. His mask is long gone, nowhere in sight—Soap is always okay with the mask, but fucking hell he does like being able to see all of Ghost’s features at once.
“Is it—” Ghost pauses. “Is there actually room for me?”
It’s a fair question. In a regular tub, there would almost certainly be no chance they could both pile in, but this one is large enough that Soap is confident they can both make it work.
“Yes,” Soap says with a nod, surveying the space they have. The opposite end of the tub has a faucet in the way, which means sitting across from each other isn’t an option. Ghost will either have to sit in front of him or behind him, back to chest. Soap’s plenty fine with that. Ghost will be too. They’ve showered together before, realistically this isn’t all that much different.
Ghost starts undressing on the spot, and Soap sits up, preemptively sliding forward in the bathtub to leave room for Ghost to get in behind him.
Soap listens as he hears Ghost step into the water, cursing softly—”Fuckin’ hot enough, MacTavish?” He grumbles softly, no heat behind his words.
“It’s no’ that hot,” Soap retorts airily.
Ghost settles down slowly, the air filling with the sound of water displacing and dripping. After a moment, Soap feels Ghost’s legs bracket his own, then hands slide around his ribs, under the water, and pull him backward.
He goes effortlessly, letting himself land against the firm chest behind him. His head lightly falls against Ghost’s shoulder, chin just above the water. It really is a massive bathtub. They both settle out a little and get comfortable.
Ghost’s one arm curls around Soap’s chest to hold him in place, his other elbow resting against the outer ledge of the bathtub so he can lightly play with Soap’s hair.
“Fuck,” Soap mumbles, sighing out low and long. If this bath was good before, it’s a million times better like this. With Ghost holding him. With the soft, relaxed muscle at his back, the gentle sensation of fingers swirling against his scalp.
“I think I understand,” Ghost says quietly, “the enthusiasm, about there being one of these here.”
Soap nods a little, the base of his head shifting against Ghost’s collarbone. “My bones are melting.”
Ghost hums in kind. Soap feels him suddenly go loose, like he’s just accepted that he’s allowed to relax, inching another little bit into the bath. They can’t stretch out their legs, it’s a little cramped, but that’s not even slightly taking away from the calm joy that’s begun to emanate from Soap’s chest.
The way their skin slides together is slick and smooth under the soapy water, and it’s easy to feel connected. The world doesn't exist outside this bathroom, the world doesn't even exist outside of where their bodies are touching. They’re separate from the impending chaos of the life that awaits them tomorrow. For now, they can just be.
Soap turns his head toward Ghost’s, and gets a soft brush of lips against his forehead. His eyes fall closed automatically. His heart rate almost tangibly slows. The line where the water is sitting is warm and heavy, pushing in, pushing them together. He’s content with that—to live in this world, to be the man that Simon Riley feels safe to be in a bath with, no questions asked, no hesitations.
“You’re gonna fall asleep, aren’t you?” Soap muses, smiling at nothing, feeling Ghost’s stubble brush against his temple as he moves his head.
“You are, too,” Ghost argues lightly, instead of saying ‘yes’ and ‘of course.’
Soap’s lips spread into a beaming smile. He is so, so content. He doesn’t want for anything in this moment, other than for time to stop altogether, just for a while. Just so they can linger, and the water won’t cool.
But time doesn’t do that, so in about forty minutes, the water is lukewarm and they’re just pulling themselves out of their respective dozes—and Soap is still happy, but now he’s cold, also.
They dry off and pull on sweats and crawl under the heavy blankets of their massive bed. They’ll use about a third of the mattress through the entirety of the night, and that’s generous. They don’t tend to spread out that far, not when they’re together.
Soap is clean and the edges of his eyes are still tight with sleep. He’s held in Ghost’s arms, the TV playing softly on the opposite side of the room. He doesn’t know what program is running, he can’t follow along with it because he’s so far gone already. The bottom edge of his mohawk is damp against his skin, the air in the room is cool and fresh, Ghost is warm, their combined body heat is sinking into his bones with ferocity.
He’s so comfortable that he’s on a straight path toward sleep. He doesn’t even have it in him to say goodnight, but he figures the arm he has wrapped over Ghost’s middle, finger grabbing as much of Ghost as he can—he figures that will do it for him.
It’s not until he’s dropping off, that he realizes they never even turned on the jets.
They luxuriate in the room for as long as they dare. They’re crawling out of bed at 11:30, getting dressed, packing up the few things they’d removed from their luggage, and then it’s time to move on.
The last leg of their journey back home is a train that’ll take them relatively close to base. As they board, Soap resolutely finishes his grieving process for the leave that’s essentially now closed out, and he focuses on finding the proceeding happiness where he can.
It’s not all that hard. Soft words bounce between them as the rail carries them through the UK countryside, trees and fields and smaller villages pass by in a blink, but Soap isn’t really looking outside. His attention is solely drawn to the man beside him, as he talks gently about this and that. His hand is being held under the table. The side of Ghost’s boot is pressing against his own.
Soap and Ghost walk through the doors of base to find nothing has changed. Soap feels like a different man all the same, because he’s never in his life been so rested.
They go to Ghost’s room. It’s not a verbal agreement or anything, it’s just… that’s the natural place they end up together, setting their bags down on the floor beside the door like it’s shared territory.
“So,” Ghost says, planting his hands on his hips, and looking over his room.
Soap follows his gaze. Somehow it seems smaller than they left it, the bed especially—but they’ll get used to it before long.
“So,” Soap repeats tentatively.
“Now what?”
Soap shrugs his shoulders lightly. “I guess we just keep goin’.”
“Guess so.” Ghost says, raising a hand to glance at his watch. “If we hurry up, we can get dinner before the mess closes out.”
Soap groans softly, ducking his head. “Mess food.”
Ghost’s soft chuckle is immediately audible, and it sounds fond. He steps in front of Soap, and uses two fingers against the bottom of his chin to tilt his head up. “We’ll survive mess food, Johnny.”
Soap just raises a singular eyebrow, countering with an all too fond—“Speak for yourself.”
They arrive at the mess hall to the unexpected but pleasant sight of Gaz at their usual table. They manage to get their food before being noticed, and they get to surprise him by dropping their trays on the empty space and sitting down.
After the split second of visible shock, Gaz brightens up in recognition and excitement, immediately leaning over to give Soap a side hug. “Hey,” he exclaims. “When the hell did you get back??”
“A few minutes ago.” Soap is laughing softly and trying, desperately, to keep them both from falling to the floor.
“The mohawk is back! Let’s fuckin’ go.” Gaz cheers giddily, slapping Soap on the back, before pulling his head onto his shoulder and giving him the tightest hug Soap’s ever had—his ribs creak precariously, but he makes no move to pull away. In fact, he hugs back just as tightly, letting the levity of this moment lift him up.
“You’d think I was gone a year,” Soap mutters, grinning all the while.
“Bloody felt like it,” Gaz exclaims.
“I did miss ye as well.” Soap grins. “When’d you get here?”
“Late last night, I wanted the day to settle in.” Gaz shrugs, finally letting Soap go, and having a look at him. “You look good, Tav.”
Soap gives him a nod. “You do too.” And he means it—Gaz looks like he’s been smiling from the time he left to the time he’s come back, the deep crinkles around his eyes telling a story of what it means to go home to a family who loves you with their whole heart. Soap’s heard the stories, and the way Gaz talks about his parents and his siblings, and he knows that Gaz was looking forward to seeing them just as much as Soap was looking forward to getting away from his own parents back in Elgin.
“Wonderful to see you as well, Ghost,” Ghost teases from across the table, voice deadpan but eyes alight with softness. “Yeah, great to have my favourite lieutenant back.”
“Course I’m glad to see you.” Gaz laughs in delight. “Didn’t think you’d appreciate me launching myself across the table for a hug.”
Ghost makes a noncommittal noise and takes a sip of tea.
“Price back yet?” Soap asks curiously.
Gaz turns his attention back to Soap and shrugs a shoulder. “I saw the light on in his office on my way to the mess, reckon he just got back, too—honestly was more expecting to see him come down to eat, not you two clowns.”
“I’m nae a clown, ye wee numpty.”
“And I’m not a numpty, you bloody muppet.”
By the end of dinner, Gaz and Soap have big plans to commandeer the gaming system that Gaz spied in one of the common rooms. There’s a moment where Soap catches Ghost’s eye, and sees the fondness there—and they share a soft smile.
“You wanna play with us, Ghost?” Soap offers lightly, tilting his head as the question leaves his lips. The callsign feels foreign on his lips, but he’ll need to get used to it again—just like the bed, and just like the mess food.
“I’m going to see if I can find Price.” Ghost says, gathering his tray together. “But have fun. Let me know if anyone gives you trouble after you commit theft on that Playstation, I’ll straighten ‘em out.”
“Nobody is gonna find out it was us.” Soap beams, looking up at Ghost like, ‘you taught me far better than that’.
“Good.” Ghost snorts, getting up to his feet and walking away to put his tray away. “Night, lads.”
“Night, Ghost,” Gaz calls after him.
Soap doesn’t really add anything, because he’ll just say his goodnights to Ghost when they crawl into bed tonight. It’s not something they discussed—sleeping in their designated bunks for the night or sharing a bed, but Soap doesn’t think he can bear to be apart tonight. So he’ll see him.
By the way Ghost looks over his shoulder at him as he walks away, he’s got the same thing in mind.
They are well and truly back.
+1 Unofficial Secret Bonus Track (What We Say With Our Silence by thirteenbullets)
Price flips through another folder, brows furrowing as he reviews the contents, flicking through it page by page.
Though he did enjoy his time at the cabin, he’s been rearing to come back to base and roll up his sleeves. He can only have so much time to himself before he goes mental. There’s a reason that isolation is used as a torture method. It’s not human nature to keep to yourself and sit still, and over the years, Price has learned that the hard way.
But that’s why he took a box full of backlog paperwork with him, which he’s hoping to covertly sort and organize now, before anyone notices. He’ll be praying that Laswell doesn’t pick up on the fact that he has multiple weeks of paperwork dated to the exact date that he’s officially reported back to work after his leave. Only time will tell.
There’s a knock on his door, and he curses softly, staring out over the mess of folders, before desperately looking up to the door. He settles for covering up a few of the reports most likely to give him away, before clearing his throat, and calling out a sharp—”Come in.”
To his surprise, it’s Ghost who pops his head past the door. “This a bad time?” He says, like he’d just as easily slink back and run off, in case he could possibly be of any inconvenience.
Price huffs out a laugh and relaxes in his chair. Not because Ghost won’t give him shit, but because Ghost knows him well enough to have expected Price would do this very thing. “No, Simon, come on in. I’m glad you made it back safely.”
“Same.” Ghost comes the rest of the way through the door, two tumblers and a bottle of top shelf bourbon visible in his offhand just a moment later. “Up for a drink?” He asks, raising the bottle and the glasses slightly.
“Yeah.” Price nods. “Reckon I deserve one after being on leave so long.”
Ghost makes a noise of agreement and closes the door behind him, slow steps carrying him to the desk. He sinks into the chair opposite Price, leaning forward so he can set the glasses on the tabletop, leaving him with both hands free to open the liquor.
“Glad you made it back in one piece. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure you would, knowin’ you had Tornado MacTavish with you.”
“Yeah, well,” Ghost says after a second. “I don’t mind a bit of wind. Did you have a good time away?”
“Little too long.” Price answers honestly. The quiet air fills with the glug of the bottle as the bourbon splashes into one glass, then the other. As a general rule, the more Ghost pours for them when they have a drink, the longer he plans on staying. Tonight, he’s given them both a generous two fingers. Looks like they’ll be sipping for a while.
Ghost pushes a glass to him and caps the bottle, setting it on one of the few spots where the wood of the desk shows from between the thick cover of manilla folders and standard copy paper.
“I’m sure you felt the same.” Price adds.
Ghost’s gaze dips to his own glass, and he swirls the bourbon briefly. Several moments pass, and Ghost is suddenly slipping off his mask, gently laying the fabric balaclava down over his thigh.
His eyes raise again, and suddenly, Price is looking at a man he’s never met before.
Price is looking at a version of Ghost that he didn’t know existed, nor had the capacity to exist. He’s… well, apparently the dark circles under his eyes weren’t just a permanent fixture, because they’re gone now, nowhere to be seen. His skin has developed a gentle tan, his hair is such a lighter blond that Price is seriously tempted to question whether he’s bleached it, and he’s got healthy colour flushing his face.
What’s maybe the most insane thing, though, is just how steady he looks. In a way that he can’t really put a finger to. He’s relaxed, sure of himself, easy. Not like he’s going to startle if he hears the wrong sound two corridors away, not like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. His fight or flight response isn’t even in the room with them.
And he looks…
God, he looks fuckin’ light, doesn’t he? Just… there’s concrete evidence. The lingering crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes, the smile lines—they’re used, they’re showing wear and tear, and Price has never seen that on Ghost before. His shoulders are loose, his body is unwound. It’s a sight that Price would have never expected to behold in his lifetime.
That’s not even to mention how casually Ghost has removed his mask, even if it’s in the relatively protected confines of Price’s office.
But then again, he was with Soap, for a month. So maybe Price shouldn’t be so shocked.
“I might disagree with you there.” Ghost shrugs lightly.
“Yeah?” Price prompts, trying to keep himself from projecting just how floored he is by the sight in front of him.
A slow nod bobs Ghost’s head. “Yeah.” He confirms, a little smirk playing on his features. “I could have stayed. Easy.”
Price raises a hand to smooth over his facial hair, eyes regarding Ghost with glee. Because he looks happy, and that’s all that Price could have hoped for when he managed to get the team assigned to leave.
“You could have stayed.” Price repeats after a moment, stunned. The words, the sentiment—it all of a sudden sinks in. This idea that Ghost, who is much like him, in the sense that he’s never known him to sit still or take leave voluntarily, could have stayed beyond the already lengthy time he’d been away.
Ghost nods slowly. “Yeah.”
“That’s not like you.” Price comments tentatively, taking a drink.
“I know. And I slept,” Ghost scratches the back of his neck, “Fuck, I think I slept thirteen hours one of the nights.”
Price snorts. “I don’t know if I believe that.”
“I didn’t set an alarm, Soap didn’t wake me up, I dunno. I guess the jetlag screwed me up, I don’t remember ever sleeping so much in my life.” Ghost crosses an ankle over his knee, his boot creaking as he shifts.
Price doesn’t know where all this is coming from (he does). He’s spent years trying to crack Ghost open just to get a sliver of him, and here Ghost is, sitting in front of him after seeking Price out, and sharing little details about his leave even though Price has hardly even started to dig in.
Price laughs softly, taking a lingering sip of his bourbon. “So you spent your whole month off sleepin’ by the sounds of it.”
“No,” Ghost scoffs, looking down at his glass. “No—we did lots of other stuff. Some touristy shit, even.” He peers back up at Price, a twinkle in his irises. “We did some hiking, and some sightseeing. Spent most days on the beach.”
“You at the beach?” Price comments, raising both eyebrows. “Willingly?”
“I know.” Ghost grins at that. He shakes his head, looking a little bashful. “I’m sort of as surprised as you… but it was good for me, you know? Just some time away. I didn’t know I could need it, but I think I did. And I think it was good.”
Price wonders why Ghost bothers with the ‘I think’ when it’s so obvious that it’s fact. This leave was incredibly beneficial. A part of him already wants to start planning for the next one, just so he can make sure the boys have another opportunity to recharge when they inevitably get run-down all over again.
“And—and, Soap—” Ghost shakes his head, huffs out a laugh, “he had this idea that he wanted to go diving with sharks, there’s a charter that takes you to swim with ‘em. So we did that.”
Price laughs softly, not because it’s funny, but because he finds himself feeling incredibly happy. It’s a relieved laugh. His eyes are stinging a little, he won’t cry, he’s—it’s not like that—but he finds himself feeling so overwhelmed, and so relieved, and so happy that Ghost has thrived. He’s always been worried about Ghost going on leave, but he realizes that this time, there wasn’t a second thought in his mind. He knew Ghost was going to be okay.
“I—” Ghost tries to school his expression but it’s like he can’t keep the gentle, pleased look off his face. He takes a short sip of bourbon, and lowers his hand to let the glass rest against his leg. “Sorry, I’m talking too much—”
“No, no, no—” Price shakes his head, still smiling. “It’s nice to hear you talk about this. Fuckin’ hell, it’s good to see you happy, Simon.”
For a split-second, Price sort of worries about the word choice. He expects denials, he expects Ghost to push away the thought of being happy with a ten foot pole, because it’s like oil and water—Ghost and feeling any kind of light-hearted emotion. For most of the time he’s known Ghost, he’s been cold, distant, and unwilling to put himself in a position to connect with anyone else.
But Ghost just nods, looking right at Price. He’s still so relaxed, so confident. “I’m very happy.” He says, just as easy and straightforward as ‘target acquired’ or ‘RVing at third checkpoint’. “I’m… yeah. I think I just had the best month of my entire life.”
He’s trying not to smile, Ghost is, but he can’t keep a straight face. He’s full of life—more than Price has ever seen.
He knows, logically, that it’s not one hundred percent because of Soap. But he knows that’s the catalyst that started Ghost off in this direction. He knows that Soap supports Ghost in ways he’ll never understand, and he wonders how he’ll ever work out how to properly thank Soap. Maybe he should have a chat with him soon.
Price shakes his head knowingly, and takes another drink. “You deserve it, Simon.”
“I don’t know about that.” Ghost shrugs his shoulder. “But I’m trying to let myself have it anyway.”
“Soap’s doing, I imagine?” Price says, a little worried that he’s pushing this too far, but he just has to know. He wants to hear it from Ghost.
Ghost doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Definitely.”
A beat passes, where Price is sure he looks insufferably proud, but Ghost continues looking pleased nonetheless.
“Tell me more about your leave, then.” Price says, studying Ghost carefully—curious whether he’s about to be shut down or not.
But Ghost genuinely seems to perk up, and he offers Price another small smile, amusement settling in his eyes. “Do you want to see the pictures from when we went shark diving?”
Price smiles, leaning forward in his chair and resting his arms on his desk. “Absolutely.”