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It's a sweltering day on their farm, so humid that Soap is sweating up a storm as he works through mending the fence post that was damaged when, once again, Bomber got spooked and decided running headlong into a bloody gate was the only appropriate solution.
The little donkey is standing beside him as he works, big head and long ears low in the heat. He whips his tail back and forth across his hindquarters rapidly, doing his best to rid his haunches of flies. Soap sends a half-hearted glare over his shoulders as another heavy, unimpressed huff washes over the back of his head.
"Well, if ye didnae try tae break yer neck on this thing every time there's a bit'a thunder, neither of us would be in this situation," he gripes. That statement earns another blustering snort. Bomber shifts his weight on his haunches, listing a little as he tries to put weight on his bad leg - the reason he ended up in their care in the first place. There's a severe dip in his joint and a lot of muscle mass lost in his back leg from a birth defect, but the little terror can still get up to quite a speed when he's spooked badly enough.
Soap sighs and straightens, wiping his sweaty forearm against his even sweatier forehead. The fence is in good enough standing for now; he'll come back to it come nightfall when, hopefully, it's a little cooler. Bomber follows him, Soap's ever-present shadow when he's out in the fields, and whickers gratefully when Soap refills his water trough, dips his head to slurp noisily at the clear, cool water.
Under the shade of the lean-to, their two farm dogs are panting in an attempt to keep cool, shaggy pelts matted so much that the white fur looks more brown. Caliber, the younger male, whines pitifully at Soap, as though he has any solution to the heat, earning a little lick from his older, bulkier sister, Bullet.
"Come on, babies," Soap coaxes, waiting until they slink to their feet and begin to follow him out to the farmhouse. Soap opens the door to the barn so Bomber can get in the shade when he's had enough, passes by the big, fat sow that's on her side and nursing her piglets. The fan stirs the thin hairs on her face and belly, the piglets suckling at her teats as she snorts and sweats through the heat. In the next pen are their collection of wild turkeys, who warble and cry out as he passes. Old Tom's feathers are growing back in nicely, the big old turkey plump and perched among his collection of hens. Caliber posts up by the turkeys, alerted by their gobbling, while Bullet continues on behind Soap as he exits the barn and heads to the second shelter, where their larger and more complex-in-their-needs animals are.
If you'd asked Soap almost a year ago where he thought he'd be, he'd have laughed and said probably dodging bullets and trying to stay alive during a firefight. That went sideways when two things happened in quick succession; he took an injury that messed up his knee so badly that he could barely walk on it at first, and…
Ghost got pregnant.
It wasn't something they were trying for, but with their unreliable access to Ghost's birth control and their penchant to, ah, forget condoms, it was really only a matter of time. Ghost had already been angling for lighter work, feeling the aches and pains of his aging body, the steady but inevitable loss of feeling in his hands and all the problems that compound when running oneself so ragged. He'd told Soap he was pregnant out of nowhere, a single flat announcement when they'd laid cuddled in bed.
It's one of the things he loves about Ghost, always has - he's straight-shooting and to the point. Doesn't beat around the bush, doesn't hide his feelings when he senses they're doing more harm than good. It's what made them finally take the plunge, stop dancing around each other and just go for it.
Ended up leading to the happiest five years of Soap's life. Put a ring on his finger, and when Soap got injured and was laid up in bed with Ghost at his side, telling Soap he was pregnant…
Well, it all felt natural, then.
The animals had come later. Soap likes having things to do, likes having a project. The plot of land had practically fallen into their laps, both of them playfully arguing about where they would settle down before they'd been driving up to Soap's family homestead and seen the sign.
Ten acres, already with a farmhouse, at a ridiculously cheap price. Sightlines for miles, close enough to the city that Ghost could see a good, non-bigoted doctor. Could safely switch up his medications in order to grow and nurture the life growing inside him.
It started with their foxes, who yip and wriggle wildly by their cage door when they see Soap approach. Two little reds, a mated pair, Flashbang and C4 - Soap gets to name all the animals, earning a fond eyeroll but easy acceptance from his husband. He grins and opens the gate to let himself in, Bullet wandering off to do whatever it is she wishes. C4, their lad, leaps up into Soap's arms and teethes at his watch, earning a little flick on his snout until he snorts and climbs up onto Soap's back, barking and yipping all the while.
Flashbang, ever the polite lady, jumps onto her hindlegs so Soap can pet her big, soft ears and give her the cheek rubs she so-adores. She bares her teeth at him, chattering happily. C4 jumps down and nips at her tail, causing the two of them to go running off so Soap can check their bedding and water as needed. Their enclosure is fenced in all around, so they can climb and leap and play as they like. Big enough just for them, though Soap has plans to expand it in the near future so they can take on more. Lots of foxes get injured or desperate, hunting is unfortunately still legal in these parts. He'd like to be able to give more of them a safe haven, even if it's just for long enough to mend their injuries and rehabilitate them for release.
That done, Soap lets himself out and locks the gate behind him, checks passively at the enclosure for their single, ornery badger. The smaller cages where the hedgehogs and rabbits live. All seems quiet and good, which doesn't surprise Soap - even so close to his due date Ghost is meticulous in his care and feeding of the small animals. Soap won't let him near their big lads, or any animal that could accidentally trip him, but it'll be a cold day in Hell when Ghost lets himself be put on bedrest or forbidden from the tasks he can do.
As though summoned by his thoughts, Soap leaves the second building to see Ghost carefully ambling his way out of their home, one hand cradling his gigantic belly, the other holding a big, condensing jug of water. Soap smiles at the sight of him, rushing over even though it makes his knee twinge, and takes the jug when Ghost offers it, unscrews the top and takes a hearty slug of water.
"Careful, Johnny," Ghost chides. "Make yourself sick."
Soap nods absently, but he's distracted, because Ghost is wearing one of his kilts. Ghost told Soap he was trans early on - or, rather, didn't deny it or act like it was a secret, when Soap was treating a knife wound in his stomach, had to cut his shirt away and saw the scars beneath his pecs. Would complain the few times he got his period through the years, accept Soap's offering of a heating pad and painkillers whenever he could find them. Soap took to keeping a stock of pads under his bunk just in case Ghost needed them when he spent the night in Soap's room, and made sure he learned all the ways Ghost did and did not like to be touched, or referred to.
He knows Ghost is perfectly comfortable with his gender - Hell, Soap would be hard pressed to find a more manly man - but he has his…dislikes. Doesn't like the idea of being called a mother, and drew the line at wearing maternity clothes. Baggy sweats and oversized shirts carried the lion's share of clothing his growing body, but now he's so big that even those don't fit without being too long.
So, the kilt. Which is really bloody distracting, if Soap's being honest.
Ghost snaps his fingers in front of Soap's face, drawing his eyes. "Got heatstroke or sommat?" Ghost gripes, though his cheeks are flushed with something other than the heat, his dark eyes glinting knowingly.
"Oh aye, real hot and bothered," Soap teases, grinning. "Yer alright? Little lass givin' ye trouble?"
They don't know the baby's gender, wanted it to be a surprise, but Soap is convinced Ghost will give him a girl. A little blonde angel with Ghost's eyes and nose and smile. Christ, he hopes the baby comes out looking just like Ghost, hopes to someday have a whole pack of Simon-clones to chase around the farm and help him with the animals.
Ghost rolls his eyes as he always does when Soap insists it's a girl, brings his other hand to help support his huge belly as he huffs and watches Soap take another drink. "All quiet on the Western front," he murmurs, and jerks his head to bid Soap follow him back into the house. Installing air conditioning cost an arm and a leg, but it's worth its weight in gold for how cool air sweeps over Soap's sweaty skin, finally allowing him to breathe without feeling like he's inhaling soup.
Ghost sinks down onto the kneeling chair they'd gotten, too big and heavy to be able to easily get up from the sofas or plush lounge chair. Soap grabs a towel from the guest bathroom and wipes himself dry-ish, knowing Ghost will grumble and complain if he sweats himself all over the upholstery.
Soap comes over to him and kisses him, in love with how Ghost sighs and leans into it, his eyes closing briefly in a slow, loving blink. "How's the fence?" he asks.
"Got it mostly shored-up, will hafta go back out this evenin' tae finish it off," Soap tells him. "Everything else is good."
"Good," Ghost replies. He worries, Soap knows he worries. He pets a hand through Ghost's thick golden hair, now grown long enough to fall in angelic waves over his forehead, curl around his nape. He adores Ghost's hair, how he has open access to it now that Ghost doesn't wear his mask all the time. It's tucked away in the back of their closet, along with all the other gear and weapons and hallmarks of their military life. They still have guns in a safe by the door and knives in every room - out of reach of future tiny, grabbing hands - because hyper-vigilance is one Hell of a drug, but the mask hasn't come out since they moved in, and Soap will admit he's a little obsessed with being able to see Ghost's face every minute of every day.
Ghost cradles his big stomach, sighs softly when Soap sets his water jug down and joins his hands, his thumb rubbing gently over the pushed-out nub of Ghost's belly button, his skin taut and covered in dark stretch marks beneath his shirt. He's a little obsessed with those too, loves the texture of them under his hands, loves seeing just how strong Ghost still is, his body effortlessly stretching and growing to accommodate their baby.
God, Soap loves him so much it physically hurts, sometimes.
"Nervous?" he asks. Ghost's pregnancy had been relatively easy, thank Christ, but it's stretched long. He's already two weeks overdue, scheduled for induction tomorrow morning with his doctor. On the side table is a pile of pregnancy books and information on postpartum recovery, little tips and tricks to help settle a newborn into their lives. They've both read them extensively, studying them like mission briefs. Soap could probably recite them backwards in his sleep if he tried.
"No," Ghost replies. Soap believes him. "Ready to have them out."
He smiles, pressing his lips to Ghost's forehead. "Cannae wait tae meet her," he says. "Yer gonna be a wonderful da, Simon."
"So will you," Ghost says easily, returning his smile.
"Aye. Still alright with ma mam comin' down?"
"As if I could stop her," Ghost laughs. When she'd learned Ghost was pregnant she'd been ecstatic, naturally, and offered to come stay with them for a few weeks to help them get settled, lend an extra pair of hands so Simon could sleep and shower when he needed to, help with nursing and around the farm so nothing fell by the wayside. Babies are a lot, they have no illusions about that, but Soap would never make Ghost accommodate someone in his space he didn't want, even though he strongly suspects Simon is his mother's favorite son at this point.
Soap hums. "Just say the word, darlin'."
Ghost looks up at him, his big dark eyes soft and sweet. "S'alright, Johnny," he replies, taking Soap's hand from his belly and kissing his palm. "I want her here."
"Aye, alright," Soap murmurs, and kisses his forehead again, cups his face. He sighs. "Love ye so much, darlin'. Ah don't say it enough."
"You say it every bloody time you see me," Ghost huffs good-naturedly. He meets Soap's eyes again. "I love you too."
From behind the couch comes a raspy, discontented yowl, a flash of black fur. Ghoul, their old and semi-feral tomcat, jumps up onto the back cushions, his golden eyes narrowed on Soap in a disapproving glare. He'd come with the house, or else begrudgingly accepted it when the house was built on top of him, and immediately imprinted on Ghost, barely tolerating Soap's presence. He certainly makes his displeasure known when he sees Soap touching Ghost, and it's only gotten worse when Ghost started to show.
Soap chuckles and lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender, as Ghoul trots up and bats at his arm until he steps away, leaps onto Ghost's shoulder and perches with another disapproving glare. "Ye ken yer gonna hafta share him with the baby, you monster," Soap mutters.
"I think he thinks it's his baby," Ghost teases, scritching under the cat's jaw until his whiskers tilt forward and he stretches his neck out with a purr. There's an old scar or some remnants of infection that have twisted up his lip and cheek, making it look like he's permanently stuck in a half-snarling grimace. Ghoul kneads at Ghost's shoulders happily, purring like a stuttering motor, his fluffy tail flicking at Soap dismissively.
Soap rolls his eyes and sets about showering off and fixing up their dinner, Ghoul's glaring eyes set at his back all the while.
Eileen MacTavish shows up at six in the morning with her luggage and a big smile, pulling Soap into a hug when he answers the door for her. He and Ghost are already up and packed for the trip to the hospital: Ghost's appointment is at 0800 hours.
Ghoul yowls and runs up to her, winding around her legs, purring when she sweeps him up into her arms like a baby and rubs at his belly.
"Traitor," Soap gripes without heat.
"Anythin' need doin' in the nursery?" Eileen asks.
"It's all ready," Ghost says. He made sure of that.
"The animals have all had their breakfast, they shouldn't need anythin' fer a bit," Soap adds.
"Aye, well good luck then. Ah'm a phone call away if ye need me fer anythin'," she says with another smile, her eyes a little misty. "See ye both soon."
Ghost smiles at her and lets him hug her one-armed so they don't squish Ghoul, and then they're loaded up in the car and heading into the city. Ghost hugs his belly close with a sigh, tilts his head back and closes his eyes.
Doctor Brianna Loren is a tiny whirlwind of a woman, greeting Ghost quickly once he's settled in his room, a huge smile plastered on her face. "Good morning, Simon!" she greets, tucking a short brown lock of hair behind her ear and taking up his chart. "How're we feeling?"
"Ready," Ghost says.
"That's good, then let's get this show on the road!" she chirps, and sets his chart down, pulling on a pair of gloves. A nurse follows her in, masked and gloved as well, her hair stuffed under a cap. She wheels over a tray of equipment - syringes and a catheter with a bottle of saline solution beside it, as well as a heart monitor she affixes to Ghost's wrist, and sets up her station at the foot of the bed. Ghost obediently spreads his knees beneath the blanket, Soap taking his hand and remaining by his head as she flips the blanket up and ducks down to begin her examination. Ghost hisses in a breath, jaw clenching as she inserts two fingers into him, nudging at his cervix. "Baby's stubborn, aren't they?" Doctor Loren notes, her voice slightly muffled beneath the blanket.
"Takes after their dad," Soap mutters, earning a swat to his chest from Ghost.
"Well, I was hoping we'd be able to get right to it, but we'll need to soften your cervix up a little before we can get Baby out," Doctor Loren says, emerging from the blanket and gesturing to the nurse, who gives her the catheter tube and the saline solution. "This won't be comfortable. Have you taken any painkillers this morning?"
"No," Ghost says, shaking his head. "I don't… I don't want any."
Soap squeezes his hand. Pain is something they're both intimately familiar with, the way a body can break and bleed and stress its way through trying to survive it. Honestly he wishes Ghost would at least consider something to help with the pain, but Simon's always had a strong reaction to anything more powerful than paracetamol. Gets loopy, he'd explained, and doesn't feel like himself.
"I understand," Doctor Loren says, nodding. "Nothing until you ask for it, Simon, I promise."
"Thank you," Ghost says tightly, staring at the ceiling. He tenses and hisses again as the catheter is inserted, deep into his cervix, the balloon inflated once it's nestled inside so that the saline solution can be injected. Softens the cervix, the doctor and books had explained, lets the body naturally try to go into labor on its own when it's not so clamped determinedly shut.
Ghost's hand tightens in his as the balloon is filled, sweat breaking out along his brow that Soap dabs away with a cloth the nurse hands him. He gives her a thankful smile that she returns, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Now," Doctor Loren begins, peeling off her gloves and setting them on the tray so she can take up Ghost's chart, "our last check-up, everything looked good. I'm genuinely not expecting any issues once we actually get going - you're in good health and Baby has been growing well. Do you have any questions for me? The saline might take a bit to start working, but we'll be in and out to check progress as it does."
"Is… Is there anything we might have tae do, if it takes too long?" Soap rasps.
"We have a few options. We can separate the amniotic sac, or incise it so it breaks on its own. That'll jump the process right into labor, so we can certainly do that if this doesn't kickstart the process naturally. There's also an injection or a pill that can help induce labor, but given your," she looks to Simon, "preferences, I'd rather avoid that if we can."
"'ppreciate it," Ghost grunts.
Doctor Loren smiles. "This softening process could take anywhere from an hour to twenty-four. There's no real way of knowing, unfortunately. But I'll be here all day and Tricia here is assigned to your room, so we'll both be nearby."
Soap nods.
"There are some things you can do too, while you wait," she continues. "Personally I can swear up and down on chamomile tea - did wonders when I was waiting for my third to arrive. Ginger can also help, though it's more effective for nausea, but can also help with overall muscle aches and potentially get things going. There's also nipple stimulation, if you want to try that."
Ghost swats at Soap's chest again, making him huff. "Ah literally didnae say a damn thing," he mutters, making the nurse cough to hide a laugh.
"I'll come back to check on you in a bit," Doctor Loren says, fixing the blanket and tucking Ghost's chart into the holder at the base of his bed. "See you soon!"
With that, she and Tricia leave, closing the door behind them.
Ghost sighs, tilting his head towards Soap. "How're ye feelin'?" Soap asks, kissing his fingers.
"Whatever shit she put in me is cold," Ghost grumbles, reaching with his free hand to rub absently at his stomach. He's so big Soap is certain he can't even see his own knees from his position. "Aches a bit, but s'not too bad."
"Can fix ye up some tea?"
"Yeah, cheers."
Soap smiles. "Love ye, darlin'."
"Love you too," Ghost replies, lashes drooping. He hasn't been sleeping well since he got so big, which is to be expected. He's seen Ghost stay up for almost forty hours straight during a mission, and the knowledge that Ghost is now in a position to be tired, to let himself be tired, does very unfair things to Soap's heartbeat. He kisses Ghost's forehead and squeezes his hand before hurrying out to fetch his wonderful, perfect husband his damn leaf water.
Soap isn't sure he should be surprised when, less than two hours later, Ghost abruptly hisses and violently clenches all over as the first contraction hits. He really ought not to be surprised - Ghost is ruthlessly efficient when he puts his mind to something. Soap sticks his head out and spies Tricia, calling her in. She pages Doctor Loren and puts on a fresh pair of gloves, helping Ghost to spread his knees and flips up the blanket so she can remove the catheter and examine him.
"A few centimeters," she reports when Doctor Loren comes bustling in.
"Contractions?" she asks, all business.
"Just had the one so far -." Even as he speaks, Ghost snarls under his breath and clenches his fist, shaking finely as another contraction hits. "Ah, two minutes? Ish?"
"Alright, moving right along," Doctor Loren says, taking up Tricia's position and pulling on her gloves. "That's already pretty close together, so shouldn't be long before your cervix is open enough to really start pushing." Ghost gasps, collapsing as the contraction ends, reaches blindly for Soap who takes his hand and lets Ghost crush his fingers to dust. He braces his other hand on Ghost's shoulder, feeling powerful muscle tense and flex beneath his touch. A sheen of sweat coats Ghost's forehead, plastering his hair to his face which Soap tucks away.
Soap wasn't in the room, but he was able to be there when his younger sister, Jess, had her second baby. It had taken hours of waiting, pacing a track into the floor, full to the brim with nervous energy he couldn't otherwise let out. His mam liked to tease that Soap was more worried than Jess or Callum were, the way he was acting.
But he's stone-still, now. Focused. All of his attention is on Ghost; rubbing the nape of his neck when he groans and huffs as another contraction hits. Soothing him with quiet sounds of his own, kissing Ghost's knuckles and wrist in an effort to distract him. He's deadly calm, feels it come over him like a flood of water - gentle enough to drown in. Like everything in his life was leading up to this moment; for him to be there for his husband, to hold and soothe and offer what protection and solace he can while Ghost does all the work.
Ghost progresses quickly - it barely feels like any time at all before Doctor Loren confirms he's at ten centimeters, and starts encouraging him to push. The scent of blood isn't foreign in the slightest, stings Soap's nose, sour and pungent. Ghost has gone silent - doesn't scream, doesn't cry. Just clenches his fists so hard his knuckles turn white and fixes all that focused power in his muscles, the absolute control he's always had over his body, down.
It's enthralling, always has been, watching Ghost work. Whether he's wielding a sledgehammer in a breaching effort, laying for hours at his sniper's post and gunning down guards to let Soap have a clear way in, wrestling with Bomber to get the donkey into his bloody stall every night. Always able, no matter the situation, to make his immediate mission his entire focus. To drive himself to the brink of exhaustion, starvation, sleep deprivation.
He'll never say it out loud, or believe it truly, but his love for Ghost in these quiet moments might be the worst ache of his life. He feeds Ghost ice chips and wipes his forehead, pushes his hair from his face when it falls into his eyes, ignores the pain of Ghost's hand crushing his bones together whenever he squeezes.
It's takes one hundred and eighty-six long, brutal minutes, before Ghost collapses with a final, shaky breath, and a piercing squall finally breaks the silence.
Doctor Loren straightens, her own cheeks flushed, her smile wide. Tricia comes forward with a blanket to tuck the wriggling, red-coated baby into a loose swaddle, cleaning off her slick face and gooey-coated hands and feet. The umbilical cord stretches like an intestine, disappears under the blanket.
"Would you like the cut the cord?" Doctor Loren offers.
Soap nods, swallowing. His hands are steady when he takes the little scissors and snips the cord in two. He watches Doctor Loren tie it off and Tricia continues to clean the baby until they're ready to be wrapped in a new, clean blanket.
She places their baby on Ghost's sweaty chest, and says, "It's a girl."
Ghost sighs, his eyes misty, and swats at Soap's arm.
Soap grins. "Ah didnae say a damn thing," he huffs, but winks at Tricia and Doctor Loren. "Knew it was a girl. Simon didn't believe me."
"Lucky guess," Ghost mutters, sweeping his thumb across their daughter's cheek. She's long and skinny, a proper giant compared to Soap's niblings whenever he was able to hold them after they were born. She squeals at the world, her eyes still shut, one loose fist swatting heartily at Ghost's chin as he holds her.
"Hah, comin' out swingin', that's ma girl," Soap rasps, pride welling up in him harsh enough to stick in his throat.
"I'd like to run some tests, just to make sure all's well," Doctor Loren says gently. "But when you're ready, Simon. There's no rush." She smiles at them both, then she and Tricia take up the task of cleaning up the soiled linens and their equipment, before they leave the room to let Soap and Ghost have a moment with their daughter.
As though waiting for their full attention, their little girl opens her eyes at the sound of the door closing. They're big and beautiful, a glassy blue, the wisps on the top of her head almost silver with how light they are. She gazes up at them with that newborn seriousness, no longer crying, just staring at them as though judging their worthiness of being her parents.
Ghost swallows, pets his thumb over her cheek again. "Hi, baby," he murmurs, voice thick. "Took your time, didn't you?"
She stares at him, her nose scrunching.
Soap laughs. "Aye, Ah ken yer dad's comfortable," he jokes, earning an eyeroll from Ghost. "Ah like bein' inside him too."
"Johnny, Christ," Ghost mutters, covering one of her ears protectively and glaring at Soap with no heat. Soap can't help it; that feeling unclogs, spills out of him in a laugh. Soft, unsteady, utterly elated. He cups Ghost's head and kisses him deeply, his other hand cradling their daughter with all the love and gentleness in the world.
"Ah love ye, darlin'," he says thickly. "Love ye so much, cannae believe it. She's perfect, you're perfect."
Ghost smiles at him, exhausted but glowing, flushed with sweat and happiness. He nuzzles under Soap's chin, then turns back to their daughter, who is still watching them, a little gummy grin on her face. "She has your eyes."
"Fer now," Soap agrees, gently petting the wisps of hair on her head. "Might darken."
"Yeah, might."
"She looks like you."
Ghost scoffs. "Poor thing."
"Lookin' like the most beautiful person in the world? Hardly."
Ghost's cheeks turn a shade darker.
He shifts his weight with a grimace, lashes fluttering as another contraction hits; passing the placenta, no doubt, or on his way to it. Soap wraps an arm around his shoulders, places kiss after kiss to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.
"…Next time, reckon we can do some things to hurry it along. So they don't come so late."
Soap's eyes widen, his breath catching. "Next time?" he asks, straightening. He cards his fingers through Ghost's soft, sweat-damp hair. Their daughter yawns widely, her eyes closing as she settles to sleep. "Ye'd be alright bein' pregnant again?"
Ghost meets his eyes, soft and dark. "Yeah, Johnny," he says, as straight-forward and assured as he has always been. "I…like that I'm able to give you kids. That this body can give you kids. Figured we should have at least three."
"Three?" Soap echoes, breathless, his smile wide and disbelieving.
"Our own little squadron," Ghost teases, eyes crinkling at the corners. "That alright with you, Sergeant?"
Soap might pass out. He might cry. Might do both. He cups Ghost's face with both hands and kisses him until their lungs burn. "Aye," he breathes. "That sounds pretty good to me."
Ghost sighs against him, tilting his head back to rest against the pillow. Soap can only stare - at his husband, this perfect man, the love of his life. At their daughter, safe and sleeping in his arms, trusting and content.
Then, he groans. "Ghoul's never gonna let me touch ye again."
Ghost huffs, and then he laughs. He reaches out and takes Soap's sore hand, squeezing gently. "I'll put in a good word for you," he says. "Go on - take her for a second. My arm's gettin' tired."
Soap swallows, obediently and gently taking their sleeping daughter from Ghost's arms. She stirs a little, blinking open her eyes at him, a small furrow forming between her brows for a brief moment before smoothing out. She bats her fist at his cheek and her tiny fingers are so strong when she grips his thumb, squeezing it half to death.
"Aye, little lass, yer the boss," he murmurs, and settles into a chair at Ghost's side. Ghost hums, tilting his head towards them, lashes low. "Gotta figure out yer name, Private."
Ghost chuckles lowly. "Named everyone else," he murmurs. "Guess I should let you pick, this time."
They've talked about a few names, and Soap counts his lucky stars that she did come out a girl - too many men in their line of work, real gobshites that don't deserve to share a name with their baby. If their next one's a boy they'll have their work cut out for them picking something proper.
But for now, it comes easy. "Ah liked Genevieve," he suggests, meeting Ghost's eyes.
Ghost smiles, and nods. "Little Genny MacTavish," he says quietly, and takes Soap's free hand. "That'll do."