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Ghost was in love with Soap.
Had been for quite some time, if Ghost was the sort of person who could be honest with himself.
He loved Soap. Soap, who was one of the only people Ghost could stand to be around outside of a mission, was one of the only people who could match Ghost's banter one to one. He'd managed, somehow, by some miracle, to burrow his way into Ghost's cold heart and carve out a space for himself.
That was not to say that Soap had thawed Ghost's heart, no. He wasn't any kinder nor was he any better of a person when it came to most people. Keyword – most people. Because it only ever seemed to apply to Soap, as if the damn Scot had made an entrance to his heart only accessible to him.
Maybe he started loving him back when they were the only one the other could trust, trying to get to Alejandro's safehouse. Maybe it was when he knew Soap would have his six, always. Maybe, maybe, maybe, because Ghost could never know when exactly he started loving Soap. It was so easy loving him, that it felt like he'd never known a time before loving John "Soap" MacTavish.
Ghost loved Soap, and he would never do a damn thing about it.
Love… wasn't for people like them. Love was for civvies, and maybe those in the military who didn't go on the front lines of battle every single day. Soap, and most especially Ghost, very clearly did not fall into either of those categories.
Blood had left their hands stained and tainted, and Ghost… doesn't want to ruin him further. Neither did he want to make him even more of a target for all of Ghost's enemies. Their lives were already at stake every single day.
Like Soap's latest mission, one that Ghost wasn't asked to be on. Soap had come back a week ago needing dozens of stitches from trying to protect the new recruit that was on his team.
Damn him and his "leave no man behind" mindset.
When Ghost had caught wind of it, he'd doubled down on the training for that recruit. Price said that Ghost was being unfairly ruthless with the newbie. In response, Ghost just told him that he "obviously needed more training, seeing as he was incapable of protecting himself."
At that, Price had given him that unsettlingly knowing stare, like he knew it was because Soap had allowed himself to get hurt just to protect someone incompetent. Thankfully, he didn't say anything more, just clapped his hand on Ghost's shoulder and told him to go easy on the newbie.
Ghost hadn't, until Soap had come around to watch their training and told Ghost to loosen up on him. He's starting to think that he shouldn't have done so, seeing as that damned recruit now stared at Soap with starry eyes.
When 141 had grilled him about the mission and his new injuries, Soap had laughed it off, like it was nothing, and moved on. He'd easily guided the conversation into a different direction, and no one batted an eye.
He was good at that sort of thing. Sneaking out of sharing things about himself that could arouse concern so smoothly that you'd forget you even asked about him in the first place.
It didn't make sense to Ghost; he was supposed to be the one who could disappear, having erased everything of his past that could trace him back to "Simon Riley", apart from himself. So how was it that it always felt like Soap was one slipping out of reach, always getting hurt, always keeping secrets?
For all intents and purposes, Soap was an open book. Loud, boisterous, passionate. But it didn't always seem genuine. Some of those pages were empty, or open to a string of words that never made sense when put together. He was an open book, sure, but not all of the pages he shared were coherent or useful.
He kept his cards as close to his chest as Ghost did – giving away useless tidbits of information and opinions about anything and everything, while keeping the ones that really mattered to himself. All the while, it went completely under the radar.
Or, at the very least, unnoticed by anyone who didn't look at him as closely as Ghost did. Because he never could help himself when it came to Soap, could he?
Which is how he finds himself storming down the base towards Soap's quarters somewhere around 2 in the morning. He doesn't even know why he's only doing it now – he should've done it the day Soap came back injured.
He raps his knuckles on the door sharply, before remembering that Soap was probably asleep. But Soap was an army man, meaning that he was a light sleeper.
On the battlefield, you never could have a good night's rest lest you end up getting shot in your head.
As he'd expected, Soap was opening the door moments later. "Lt? You need something?"
"You have to stop coddling the new recruits." Ghost tells him before he can think about rephrasing it in a less accusing tone of voice. "You're not going to be there every time to fix their fuck-ups."
The words come out ruder than Ghost had intended, and it has Soap blinking before he straightens up. "Don't think I'm coddling them, sir." He says flatly. "Just making sure they get home alive. No man gets left behind, right?"
"It shouldn't be at the expense of your own health." Ghost snaps. "I need you in as mint condition as you can be–" because I can't bear to see you hurt, because I love you, because I need to know you're safe– "–because you never know when I need you on the battlefield."
"You're asking a lot of me, Lt. I can't just not get hurt, that's not how the fuckin' world works–"
"I know that!" Ghost spits. "But these," he gestures to the wounds on his face and hidden beneath his civilian clothes, "Were completely preventable. You didn't need to get caught up in that recruit's problems."
"You're heartless, Lt." Soap frowns.
Heartless wasn’t quite right. Heartless implied that he wasn’t capable of love entirely, and he was. The proof of the statement was right in front of him. No, Ghost's heart was cold – so cold, that people tended to call him a heartless killing machine. Years, fuck, even months ago, he would've agreed.
And then John "Soap" MacTavish had walked into his life, all snarky comebacks and ridiculous mohawk, and redrew the world in colour to Ghost. He'd given Ghost a second chance at redemption, had done what no one else could; make Ghost feel like a person, like Ghost could be Simon Riley again.
That was when he'd decided; Ghost may have been his commanding officer, but Simon was all his to command. Simon was Johnny's, had been his the day he gave Simon Riley a new purpose, a new life. Soap held Ghost's heart (Simon's too, if he wanted to carry on with the oddity of separating the two identities that made him) in the palm of his hand and the bastard didn't even know it, with how reckless he was.
Ghost wants to throttle him until he understands, and simultaneously wants nothing more than for him to never find that out.
Soap's voice breaks his train of thought, frustrated and irate. "Lt, he had people who would have worried about him–"
"And you don't?" Ghost cuts him off harshly, glaring at him from behind his mask. Soap glowers back at him, and Ghost, for the first time, is pissed that the stubborn bastard doesn't back down in the face of Ghost's fury.
"Not many." He counters. Not many, he says, as if Ghost isn't burning up at the thought of losing him for good.
"I would have." Ghost hisses, before he can stop himself. He feels numb, simultaneously empty and feverish, and it's like the words linger in the tense air. It's at times like these that he's glad his balaclava obscures his expression. Just another one of the many times Ghost has felt grateful for his habit of wearing a mask 24/7, rain or shine.
Except, Soap was still staring at him, unsettlingly and calculatingly unreadable. If there was one problem Ghost had forgotten about the mask, it was that Soap knew Ghost enough to read him like an open book. Almost as well as Ghost could read Soap.
He thinks that maybe it's time for a tactical retreat – and by that, he means drink enough liquor to hopefully black out, gather his thoughts, and prepare a good explanation for the next time he sees Soap.
He takes a step back, ready to get out of there, but Soap grasps at wrist loosely. His touch is searing – even through the gloves he'd forgotten to take off after trying to shoot his problems away at the shooting range.
Ghost could shake him off, easily at that, what with his weak hold and him not being at 100%, but he doesn't. Precisely because he's still injured, and Ghost does not think about it any further.
"You mean that, Ghost?" Soap asks him, deliberately slow. His eyes dart across his mask in a frenzy, as if it could have provided him with any answers. Ghost hopes it doesn't.
"Sure." Ghost answers mildly, because he's not sure of what else he can say. It felt like he could never lie to Soap, but he can't tell him the whole truth either, for fear of scaring him off.
"Yer a fuckin' liar." Soap tells him.
"Sargeant." Ghost responds, a vague imitation of a warning for him to back down from this subject. Blood is rushing through his ears and it's like everything fades away, leaving nothing but the pounding of his heart that, if he focused on, he thinks might have sounded like a repetition of Soap; Soap; Soap.
He needs the reminder of his rank to stay professional enough that he doesn't accidentally do something he'll no doubt regret in the moments after.
Soap, stubborn bastard that he is, doesn't back off. He tilts his chin up slightly, challengingly almost, and stares Ghost dead in the eyes. "Tell me the truth, Ghost. Would you or would you not miss me if I was gone?"
Yes, he should say. Of course I'd mourn a teammate.
"You want the truth, Sargeant?" Ghost whispers hoarsely, before he can shoot the wisp of the thought down. He's learning that he loses all semblance of reasoning when it comes to Soap and yet, he still lets himself step even closer to him.
Soap doesn't step back, because of course he doesn't. "I'd find the bastard who killed you and make 'em beg for a quick death. I'd set the world ablaze if you died. Is that what you wanted, MacTavish?" Ghost tells him, the words feeling like cheap whiskey burning his throat with their intensity.
It's as honest an answer as Ghost will let himself give.
He doesn't add that he thinks he might wither away in his grief, that he'd feel like he'd lost a part of himself forever. He can't find the words to tell him any of that without also telling him how much Soap means to him.
"Careful, Lt. You're makin' me blush. Might even start thinkin' you like me." Soap breathes out, stepping into Ghost's space even mire. They're close enough now that Ghost thinks that he might have been able to feel his breath against his skin if his mask were off. He swallows his saliva and very decisively does not move.
"Soap." Ghost says – it sounds more like a plea. He doesn't know if he wants to put an end to this or for Soap to keep pushing. The damn Scotsman keeps tearing down the walls that Ghost puts up; walls built precisely to avoid every last one of his delusions from spilling out like a dam.
Ghost, for some inexplicable reason (at least, inexplicable if he wants to continue pretending he isn't utterly infatuated with Soap), keeps letting him.
Soap glances around the hallway. Of course, there's no one there – Ghost would never have come if there was a chance of being seen. With his recon apparently complete, Soap tugs Ghost into his quarters, and does nothing after that. He's giving Ghost a choice, he realises rather belatedly.
Ghost should leave now, before he does something stupid like kiss Soap or profess his love.
He doesn't. The only thing he does is kick the door shut behind him gently. Soap grins at him for that, and it makes Ghost's heart stutter.
Christ, it's like every time he thinks he can't adore Soap any more than he already does, he's proven wrong by the man himself.
"Always knew you liked me, Lt." Soap teases, hushed, and Ghost is instantly transported back to their first mission together. I like you alive, Ghost had told him in response. Those words aren't enough to carry the weight of how much Ghost adores him anymore.
So, he doesn't offer a response. He merely brushes his hand across the still-healing cut on Soap's cheek, and he sighs contentedly, leaning into his touch more. He shouldn't, really. He should be horrified at the thought of being adored and doted on by someone like Ghost.
The only problem is that Ghost is selfish. He's certainly not going to be the one telling Soap that.
"'M fine, Lt."
"Wasn't worried." Ghost tells him instantly, even though he'd wanted to go on a killing spree when he saw Soap's injuries from his last mission. Plausible deniability, and all that.
He huffs, clearly amused by Ghost's piss-poor attempts at lying. "I'm sure." He murmurs, winding his arms around his neck, and Ghost swallows dryly. "And I'm sure you don't want to get me in bed, too." Soap says, cheeky as ever.
Ghost feels like he’s just gotten punched in the face.
"But I don't want anything if you're going to pretend it never happened tomorrow. I don't want this to be a fling to you." Soap continues, so utterly casual, like he was just mentioning the weather. Ghost is left staring at him, breathless with an aching want – he doesn't think that he's ever wanted anything more.
He's never even let himself dream of anything more than being friends with Soap.
"Lieutenant." Soap says again, firmer. "Is fucking me going to be a one time thing because you're desperate to get your cock wet–"
"Negative, Sargeant." Ghost rasps. His voice has gone even deeper in a way he's never heard it go before. Maybe it had something to do with the way Soap was talking. He'd sworn before, of course he had, the damn Scottish bastard, but never in this context.
Ghost personally thinks it's obscene.
Soap beams at him, as bright and warm as sunshine. It's just another reminder to Ghost that Soap – Johnny – is more than he deserves. That doesn't stop him from wanting to keep Soap all to himself, though.
Maybe there were some upsides to being a nearly heartless bastard, Ghost decides. If he were any more of a good person, he doesn't think he would allow himself to sully Soap like this.
Soap leads Ghost to his single bed and sits down, letting Ghost stand between his open thighs. He traces gentle fingers over the hem of Ghost's mask, staring at him questioningly. Like he was asking with only his eyes for the permission he wants.
Ghost nods deliriously; he thinks he would have let Soap pull it off entirely if he wanted to. He doesn't though, merely pulling it up to the bridge of his nose and nothing more.
Soap's touch is feather-light as he traces the lines of the exposed part of Ghost's face, brushing over the gentle pricks of stubble just barely growing back in. He swipes over Ghost's bottom lip and Ghost represses a shiver at his touch.
"Do I get the privilege of kissing you, sir?" Soap asks him, annoyingly gentle and mischievous. Ghost, embarrassingly enough, has to fight back the all-consuming urge to tell him that he would let Soap do anything he wanted to him.
"Affirmative." He says instead, nodding just once, and Soap tugs him down, leaning up slightly to press a kiss to his lips. Both of their lips were chapped, neither of them ever being particularly inclined to taking good care of themselves beyond basic hygiene.
Somehow, the kiss was still as good as every fantasy he's ever had.
And yet, within moments, just that chaste kiss isn't enough for Ghost – because he's as greedy as a black hole; taking, taking, taking everything Soap will give him and then some even when all he wants to do is give him the world.
He presses Soap down against his bed and bites down on his bottom lip. When he drops his mouth open in surprise, Ghost slips his tongue in his mouth. The kiss is wrought with nothing but his need and desperation for Soap, messy and brutal.
Ghost thinks he tastes blood in his mouth. He just doesn't know if it's his or Soap's.
Soap, as always, gives as good as he gets, sinking his teeth into Ghost's lip and pushing back with just as much fervour as Ghost does. Eventually, and quite unfortunately in Ghost's mind, Soap pulls away, keeping hold on his shoulder to leave some space between them.
"Easy, Lt. Ain't going anywhere." Soap murmurs, like he's a damn dog. It still manages to ground him in seconds. Ghost doesn't think that anyone else but him would ever be capable of it.
He pushes Ghost back slightly and leisurely strips his civilian clothes off, entirely unabashed as he exposes large swathes of scarred skin. Ghost almost wishes he knew the name and face of every bastard who managed to lay a permanent mark on Soap before him and kill them off slowly.
Instead of asking the questions racing in his mind and killing the mood, Ghost runs his hands down Soap's sides with a gentleness he's never once attributed to himself. "Beautiful." He says, embarrassingly breathless.
"Jesus– 'M not a fucking girl, Ghost." Soap groans, screwing his eyes shut in what was hopefully embarrassment. Ghost knows that – of course he knows that, he's spent weeks of sleepless nights trying to talk himself out of loving Soap with that exact reason.
It never worked then, and it doesn't work now.
"You're beautiful." He says again, reverently. Because he was; it was the only way Ghost could ever think of describing him.
"You're whipped, Lt. Sappy fuck." Soap mutters, squirming slightly. Ghost was whipped; Soap just didn't know the extent of how far Ghost would go if it would make him happy. He'd kill for a lot of reasons – sometimes none at all – but he would die for Soap.
He couldn't say the same for a lot of people.
His thumb absentmindedly brushes over the scar on his right bicep. The very same one he'd gotten on their first mission together.
He thinks he should have gone for Graves himself. Should have killed him slowly for his betrayal, and painfully for daring to hurt his Sargeant.
"You got any lube?" Ghost asks instead of voicing his thoughts. He's in bed with the most beautiful man he's ever met, and there's no time for him to worry about a corpse.
"In the third drawer." Soap tells him, shrugging his pants off.
Ghost blindly reaches to open what he thought was the correct drawer and rummages around, feeling nothing but what seems to be a roll of bandages, a couple of pens, and something strangely fabric-like that doesn't seem to belong there.
He glances down and inhales sharply, pulling it out.
"You kept it?" Ghost asks. There's some unknown emotion swirling in the depths of his heart, and Ghost loathes to want to know it. Soap turns his head and squints at the Ghost Team's mask in his hands.
"'Course." Soap says, like the alternative was bizarre. Maybe it was, to him. "Should I not have?"
Ghost swallows and drops it back in its rightful place. "Don't need to toss it anymore. You've kept it for too long now." He tells him, shutting the drawer again.
He doesn't want to say it's because it feels like his own private claim on Soap. Tangible proof of their trust and their bond, if you will.
"Roger that, Lt." Soap hums. "Get the lube already, will you?"
Ghost does, tugging his gloves off inelegantly and tossing them on the bedside table. He feels Soap's eyes burning a hole through him as he does.
"What?" He asks, kneeling between his open legs.
Soap groans. "Take your clothes off, asshole. Can't be the only one naked here." He jeers.
It's almost embarrassing how fast Ghost scrambles to do as he says, making sure his mask stays on. He tosses his clothes on top of Soap's clothes in a messy heap. Soap, the sonuva bitch, wolf whistles at the sight of his dick.
"Happy now, Sargeant?"
"Much obliged, Lt." Soap sighs, eyeing him up shamelessly.
Ghost huffs, amused, as he slathers his fingers with the lube. He gently eases a finger in Soap's hole; it's as tight and searing hot as he'd imagined, but there's not as much resistance as he thought there would be.
"You fuck yourself often, Johnny?" He asks, loosening his hole up.
Soap scoffs. "Your fault, sir." He says. "Hurry it up."
The implications of those words are disorienting, and Ghost doesn't think he can continue with that train of thought without shutting down. Ghost slides another finger in, finally beginning to finger him in earnest. Soap moans loudly, fucking himself back onto Ghost's fingers.
He looks obscene, like every wet dream given form. Ghost is sorely tempted to take a picture, but instead settles for merely trying to burn the image into his eyes.
He slips in another finger, accidentally brushing against something and making Soap groan brokenly. "Fuck, Ghost. Do that again." He demands.
Ghost is glad to see he's as bossy as ever. He crooks his finger up and begins to abuse his prostate mercilessly, earning the loveliest symphony of moans and gasps from Soap. Ghost doesn't think that he's ever going to be able to think of anything other than this for weeks to come.
"Ghost, put your goddamn dick in me already." Soap groans, fisting his hands in the sheets.
Ghost scrambles to obey, having completely forgotten about his own arousal in the face of Soap's. He slathers more lube on his dick sloppily, before slowly working it in his hole.
He intends to do it slowly, to avoid hurting Soap in any possible way. And, as always, Soap makes sure Ghost's plans don't go as expected.
"Just put it in already, you fuckin' tease." Soap goads, trying to fuck himself back onto Ghost. Ghost takes that opportunity to snap his hips forward and bury himself in Soap completely, while Soap gasps, arching his back beautifully.
Ghost can't stop himself from dropping his head down onto Soap's shoulder, panting. It feels even better than he imagined, and he has to fight the urge to start fucking into him immediately. Ghost thinks he's going to go crazy waiting.
"Soap." He rasps. "Can I move now?"
Soap grins at him, his eyes half-lidded and darkened with arousal. "Do your worst, Lt."
Well. Ghost has never been one to back down from a challenge. He pulls out slowly at first, just to make sure that Soap wasn't in any serious pain, and then slams back in.
Soap gasps, scrambling to dig his nails into Ghost's shoulders for purchase as he gets fucked in earnest. At one particularly sharp thrust, he tightens his grip so much that Ghost thinks he might break skin.
He hopes it will, just so that it might scar him for life. Soap was exactly the type of person who would want to take responsibility for maiming someone on accident.
It's a dark thought, but Ghost just wants to chain Soap down to him. Wants him to be as obsessed as Ghost was. Wants his every thought to be consumed by Ghost, just like how his thoughts were filled with Soap.
He decides that he needs to put his focus back on fucking Soap until he's writhing in pleasure before he can go any deeper down that rabbit hole because it's a horrible, horrible idea. Ghost tightens his grip on Soap's hips as well, hard enough that it might bruise if he could be so lucky.
"Oh, fuck, Si– Lieutenant." Soap gasps, correcting himself as he squirms. Ghost's thrusts stutter at the slip-up, and Soap glares at him, like he hasn't nearly just given Ghost a heart attack with that one syllable.
"What? Got a thing for your own name, Lt? Cocky bastard." Soap rasps, taunting, but there's no heat behind his words. Then again, there never was when it came from Soap. Ghost begins fucking into him again, driving deeper into him with a desperation that's obvious to anyone who could see him.
There's something possessive burning in his chest. He wants to mark Soap as his so intimately that no one would dare to harm him if they knew what was good for them, wants to keep him right fucking next to him, where he knows Soap won't get hurt, he wants–
"Only from you." Ghost says hoarsely. "Only you, Johnny."
It's only ever been him, will only ever be him; Ghost is obsessed, so inexplicably, innately obsessed. He craves Soap's presence the same way he craves a smoke or a drink after every rough mission. It feels– it is an addiction. He's addicted to Soap.
He speeds his thrusts up, fucking into that delicious heat even more mercilessly. He wants to set a claim in Johnny that he can't get rid of.
"Fuck, Jesus fuckin' fuck– Ghost, look at me, Lt–" Soap gasps, throwing his head back in pleasure. Ghost turns his gaze to him, because he doesn't think he could never deny Soap when he sounded as debauched as he does right now.
He's beautiful, so, so beautiful that it makes Ghost's chest ache with want. Because he's apparently a greedy sonuva bitch who can't be happy with what he already has. Soap's hands come up to cradle Ghost's jaw gently in spite of his bruising thrusts, and he squeezes his eyes shut, leaning into his touch even more.
"I'm yours, Simon. Only ever been yours." Soap tells him in between moans, like he was oblivious to how much of a chokehold he had on Ghost. Like Ghost hadn't already given him full ownership of every piece of himself that he could. He exhales shakily, leaning down to press a kiss to Soap's neck, nape – every part of him that he can reach, really.
"Negative, Sargeant. You've got it the wrong way 'round." Ghost murmurs into his skin, as if he could brand the words onto Soap. "I'm yours, Johnny." Always, always, always.
Ghost can see neither his reaction nor face from here. He doesn't even know if he wants to. He hears the beginning of a sentence, and he angles his hips just that bit higher. He hits Soap's prostate dead on.
Soap cuts his sentence short to moan – thank fuck. Ghost doesn't know what he'd do if Soap met him with the same disgust he feels towards himself for wanting to monopolize someone as good as Soap.
He keeps going; wants to bring Soap to the closest thing to a heaven he's not going to, now that he's slept with Ghost, now that Ghost has sunk his claws into him, sullied him, won't let go of him. Maybe it's meant to be an apology.
Either way, Soap keeps letting out these sinful little gasps as he does, and it makes Ghost dizzy with arousal. His hands come up to hook around Ghost's neck to drag him down into a kiss, wet and filthy, and so, so good.
In this moment, Ghost thinks that if Soap wrapped his hands around his throat and wrung his neck, he would have let him.
"Simon, love you. Fuck, I love you." Soap gasps, against his lips, into his mouth. Ghost thinks, rather deliriously, that it sounds like a prayer.
Ghost wants to tell him the same, tell him what he deserves to hear, but his tongue feels like lead in his mouth. In its place, he presses more chaste kisses on Soap's face as he brings his hand down to jerk Soap off into completion.
Once, twice, and then he cums, spilling all over his abdomen as his eyes clench shut and he moans Ghost's name like every wet dream Ghost's ever had about him.
It's too much. Ghost pulls out and starts stroking himself off rapidly until he spills, mixing with Soap's cum. He can't stop himself from rubbing parts of it into Soap's skin.
"Christ, Si. You're a filthy little pervert." Soap groans, throwing his hand over his eyes.
"I–" Ghost says, pausing. "Only for you."
You make me like this, don't you see what you do to me? Ghost wants to ask him. He doesn't, though, just tells him to stay put for a second while he leaves to go get a wet cloth to wipe him down with.
"Not like I can go anywhere after you fucked me half to death." Soap grumbles from behind him. "Fuckin' horse-dicked sonuva bitch!"
Ghost lets himself huff a short laugh as he wrings water out from the old shirt he's using as a rag.
"You like my dick." Ghost tells him once he's back, wiping off sweat and cum from his spent body.
Soap sighs. "That I do. Unfortunately, I also happen to like the snarky bastard it's attached to, so I can't just make a replica. A damn shame."
"A shame." Ghost repeats. He tosses the now-filthy shirt somewhere in the corner of the room to deal with later. He allows himself to run his hand through Soap's mohawk affectionately before he stands up, getting ready to leave.
"The hell are you going?" Soap snaps at him.
"Back to my quarters."
"Stay here tonight." Soap says, tugging at his shirt. Ghost blinks at him, throat dry. "You promised that this wasn't going to be some one night stand."
He wants to. God, he wants to. But he doesn't want to risk getting caught.
Not because he's ashamed (he'd shout it from the rooftops, if he could), but because he doesn't want or need any of the recruits finding out. Price, and the rest of 141 for that matter, wouldn't care. Probably wouldn't even bat an eye if they found out, guessing from the knowing glances they sometimes sent Ghost and Soap's way.
Everyone else, though? There's no guarantee that they aren't half as supportive as his team. And if it got into their higher ups' hands? Well. God knows they don't need anymore reasons to dislike the absolute reckless menace that was Soap.
He says about as much to Soap, keeping the part about him being a chaotic mess to himself. Utterly unbothered, Soap scoffs.
"And?" He raises an eyebrow at Ghost. "Tell 'em to mind their own damn business then, Lt. You're the best they got, can't get rid of you now, can they?"
He pushes himself up. "And you won't let them get rid of me, will ya?" He says, so self-assured. Like he already knew Ghost wouldn't let him get dishonourably discharged unfairly. Believed in it with the same confidence that he knew the sun would rise everyday.
He still tries to turn it down, because he doesn't think he'll ever be able to sleep on his own ever again, will be haunted by the knowledge of knowing what it feels like to sleep next to Soap after a good fuck like they were normal people in love. "A single bed isn't goin' to be big enough–"
"Bloody fuckin' hell, Simon. Get in the damn bed already." Soap groans, dropping back onto the bed.
It's unfair how Soap's already learned that Ghost would do anything for him, so long as he called him by his name.
At least when Ghost slides into bed beside him, he's proven right. The bed isn't nearly big enough for the two of them, so he has to press close and tangle their legs together. Still, Soap sighs, like he couldn't imagine himself being anywhere else than this cramped bed with Ghost practically trying to become one with him.
Ghost presses even closer against Soap, if that was possible, until sweat dampens his mask. He wonders if it manages to convey everything he wants to tell him but can't say – I love you. Please don't ever leave. Let me stay by your side forever.
When Soap only huffs and tugs him tighter, digs his finger into Ghost's arms hard enough to bruise, he knows his message has reached.