Archive of Our Own

When he’d called in to the office of Captain Price, he’d been fully expecting a writeup– an informal warning, at the least.

Soap’s relationship with authority was built on straw, always had been, ever since he was a boy. The brass had this well documented. Everybody who had the Mactavish file could see the extensive history of him skirting the coattails of rule books, pushing and prodding just to see how much he could get away with until they couldn’t excuse it with his skill.

“Do you know why you’ve been pulled in here, Sergeant?” Price asked, his eyes stern, his lips pursed.

Soap racked his brain, but really, he’d been pretty clean the past few months. A few petty arguments with some people of his same rank, but nothing severe enough to be called into an office. Especially Price’s office.

He’d worked with Captain Price before, of course. Several months ago, back in April. Price had led a platoon in Kastovia to apprehend the leader of an ultranational terrorist threat. The mission had been difficult and long and dangerous, but he had appreciated Price’s leadership– the man was fair, had hard expectations, and was good at maintaining the balance of getting the work done while keeping his men safe.

Soap couldn’t think of any reason why he’d be sitting here. He’d been decent enough on their mission, certainly hadn’t done anything to warrant a call back months later.

“I can’t honestly say I do, si’,” Soap said slowly.

“Mm,” the older man grunted. He set his hat down on the desk, and stretched out his back. “How have you been, Soap?”

“Alright, si’. Cannae complain, I suppose,” he answered.

Price cleared his throat and sat up in his seat. His eyes go hard again, the earlier mirth settling into something serious. He crossed his arms.

“Soap, I’ve overlooked your files…”

Shite. That wasn’t a good omen.

“... and I’d like to make you an offer.”

What?

Soap blinked. “An offer,” he repeated. Maybe this was some sort of bribe, an attack of psychological warfare he wasn’t privy to.

Price nodded once. He dug around in his desk and then dropped a folder onto the table, pushing it forward. “It’s a relatively small group. A taskforce. You’ll be working with myself and two other SAS members regularly, while any other members will be interchangeable as needed.”

“Y’want me on a permanent spot?” Soap clarified, reaching for the folder slowly. He’s frankly still trying to figure out what the trick is.

“That’s correct,” Price said, amused. “You, Lieutenant Simon Riley, and another Sergeant. I believe you were in training with him, actually. Sergeant Garrick.”

“I remember’ Gaz,” Soap said distantly, picking up the folder and flipping through it. A lot of it was redacted. Most of it. There’s a picture of Gaz, of the captain. A third profile with no picture listed, which must be the aforementioned lieutenant.

He glanced up. “If you’ve read my files, then,” he trailed off. The unspeakable sat in the air— he’s young, combative to authority. Not exactly a higher-up’s first pick.

“You’re the youngest to pass selection,” Price remarked. “And I remember how you performed in Verdansk. I was impressed with your tactical knowledge. You have good instincts, you’re a natural CQB expert. These are all valuable traits that I could use on the field.”

“Permission tae speak freely, si’?” Soap asked, after a beat.

“Sure.”

Soap gestured to the file. “Usually folk would want someone older, more experienced. Someone less…”

“Confident,” Price finished for him. He gave a smile with no teeth, his eyes crinkling. “Well, I for one, would appreciate the fresh eyes.”

“Most folk don’t,” Soap said deliberately.

“You’ll come to learn that I’m not exactly orthodox.” Price slid the folder back, slipping it back into his desk. “So. Are you in?”

—

He didn’t meet Lieutenant Simon Riley until two years later. The Ghost. Hulking mass of tactical gear standing at about 6’2, quiet as a church mouse when he wanted to be— with a deep voice that cracked eardrums like a bombshell the second that the situation demanded it.

Las Almas was a turning point in Soap’s military career. He can’t say he’d ever been betrayed or hunted down before then, and he’d definitely never had to rely on guerrilla warfare just to make it out alive of an op, no matter how shitty it’d gone down—

But through it all, there was Ghost in his ear.

“Johnny. Gimme a sit-rep.”

“Let’s worry about you.”

“I like you alive.”

There’s blood and rain in his eyes, his clothes were soaked through, freezing his bones to ice. Hunched in the shadows behind a wall, his hands were shaking as he fashioned together a Molotov— he doesn’t know if the tremors were from the stim he’d found or from the fuckery of it all, being hunted on the ground. Thinking every sound was a one-way turn from death.

“Little army humour,” Ghost rumbled in his ear.

“Very,” Soap muttered back, “little.” He’d only been half following along, in all honesty, his eyes and ears peeled for every reflection, every shift in his peripheral.

“Another?”

“Why not,” Soap turned a corner. The idle conversation was keeping his heart from jumping into his throat. He licked the rain from his lips.

“Why don’t blind guys sky dive?”

Something about the absurdity of it, maybe, caught Soap’s focus. He paused where he was, crouched low in the inside of some store. “Tell me.”

“Scares the shit out of their dogs.” A beat. “We could do this all night.”

Despite it all, Soap could feel the corner of his mouth turn up. The tension in his chest dislodged enough for him to take another breath, to make another step.

It wasn’t a difficult decision to make after that; to trust Ghost indefinitely. He’d follow him right into hell, Jesus willing.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Soap told him instead.

He kept moving forward. He waded through water that came up to his chest, making him shiver. The Shadows ahead of him had body armor, so he had to think smarter, not faster. Subduing the two in the tunnel went fine; it just drenched his head and face in freezing water. Jesus, he was cold.

“You still standing, Johnny?” Ghost asked, after he’d gone quiet for a few minutes.

“Think I’m clear,” Soap told him shortly. He can feel the weight of his drenched jeans making every step only that much harder. He kept himself steady, though. He was so close to the church, he wasn’t going to let wet clothes get in his way.

He checked every corner before he turned, kept himself low, crouched around furniture, made sure he moved slowly, carefully. He fashioned himself another pry tool, jamming the bit of metal through the slit of the door.

The door wrenched open.

“Fuck–!” Soap shouted, as the butt of a rifle slammed into his face. His vision blurred and he found himself on the tile floor, a light flashing in his face, his ears ringing. A Shadow standing above him. Fuck, fuck, fuck–

“Got one near the church,” the Shadow said quickly, and raised his rifle.

Blood splattered as the threat suddenly lost all life, collapsing to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Holy hell,” Soap breathed, quickly picking himself off the floor. He blinked the spots from his eyes. There was nobody directly ahead of him that he could see. Nobody obvious that could have made the shot. “Ghost— was that you?”

“Who else?” Ghost replied gruffly. “Now go.”

Soap didn’t hesitate. It was a short trek to the church now and he wasn’t planning on wasting any fucking time. He shot his way through, ducking between cars for cover when he needed to reload. He just had to keep himself moving, not let himself get cornered.

The church was in view, so he took a quick glance around– Shadows fucking everywhere. It didn’t matter. He legged it, sprinting low, and nearly lost his wind when he saw Ghost shooting his way out of the church’s exit.

His confidence shifted, the moment Ghost was by his side. It was like the hard part was over— and it was, technically. They weren’t out of the firefight yet, but it was far easier to dedicate all his defense in one direction when he knew the other direction was going to be covered. He didn’t need to have eyes on the back of his head.

It could be noted that this feeling wasn’t guaranteed in the field. He’d had plenty of teammates who he didn’t have good chemistry with, wasn’t able to trust them completely. But Ghost had saved him several times tonight alone, he’d more than proved himself as someone Soap could put his faith in.

“Alright, Johnny,” Ghost said, putting the car into drive. “You made it.”

“We made it, Lt,” Soap corrected, because he genuinely doesn’t want to think about how this would’ve gone without Ghost in his ear.

Ghost gave a short nod, and kicked off the break. “Hold fast,” he warned, flooring the gas. They went careening down the town’s street.

Yeah.

Simon Riley was a bastard, and Soap was going to stick to him like a fly on shit.

—

“Alright, listen,” Price said firmly. His voice commanded the room– it would have made anyone turn. He looked at his audience of soldiers with stern eyes and a steady hand. “We are taking back your HQ. We are getting our prisoner. We are killing Commander Graves.”

Rodolfo, who Soap had become quite friendly with during this entire shitshow, only shifted on his feet like he’d been waiting for the order. “When?”

“Now,” Ghost said.

“This is a fight against our own,” Price continued. “We are not 141 and Los Vaqueros on this. We’re a team.”

Ghost reached down and pulled up a bag. He dumped the contents onto the table– and Soap half-tuned out what Price was saying, because his eyes were tracking the movement of Ghost’s hand as he reached up and tugged off his mask.

Jesus wept, but his lieutenant was not ugly. Farthest thing from, actually. It felt like the universe had purposefully made him eat his own fucking words.

He was scarred, which Soap hadn’t expected, but felt he should have. Maybe it was the reason he wore a mask at all (which was a damn shame, because seriously). Either way, each scar he had was interesting as it was appealing– a Glasgow smile curving at the side of thin lips, a hooked line over his nose, a faint dash over his eyebrow, another on the side of his forehead.

Scars aside though, Ghost looked… normal. A squarish ovalish face, with a wide jaw and thin, pressed lips. Blonde scruff that he hadn’t bothered to shave, which Soap wondered was his usual style or a product of the several days they’d been stuck on this mission without the luxury of normal hygiene. Close under his thin brows were his lidded eyes, deep curves hollowed underneath to round out his cheekbones.

If Soap hadn’t known any better, Ghost would have looked like any other lad you’d see on the street.

“Good to see you again, Simon,” Price said, quieter, a meaningful pull at his mouth. He turned to the rest of the team, squaring himself back up. He took off his hat, dropping it on the table. “If you’re in, take a mask. If you’re not— don’t.”

Ghost took a mask immediately after Price, and fit it on neatly. Alejandro, Gaz, the other Vaqueros– Soap. They all move pretty quickly, after that.

Honestly, Soap wasn’t a fan of the mask. Not for himself, anyway. He’s too aware of his own breathing, which he’s able to get past. It’s the hair that really got him. His mohawk was itchy as hell, the only thing keeping him from fidgeting was his focus on the mission. And Ghost, sitting next to him in the car, who he kept sneaking glances at.

He couldn’t help it. The balaclava was a lot less clunky looking than his usual mask, with that dramatic skull piece out of the way he had a better view of Ghost’s eyes. Jesus Christ, his eyes. In the most professional way– Soap really, really wanted to draw Ghost’s eyes.

“Don’t you get itchy?” Soap asked, glancing at him in the truck.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Rodolfo agreed, tilting his head and scratching at his neck. “Can’t imagine wearing this thing fulltime. I look like a ladrón.”

“Balaclavas were used by British soldiers during the Crimean War, early 1850s,” Ghost said flatly. “Ukraine is freezing in the winter, and brass weren’t able to provide warm clothes in a timely manner.”

Soap stared at him for a long moment. He then glanced at Rodolfo, who instead of being dubious or judgemental at the random history, had an expression of mild interest.

“But you don’t wear it for the cold,” Rodolfo finished, looking at him intently.

“No.” Ghost looked away. “SAS took up the practice of using balaclavas again during The Troubles. Hid their faces.”

Soap turned to Rodolfo, leaning in as if he was telling a secret. “He has a thing about his face,” he explained in a faux-whisper. “He’s really not ugly, though.”

Ghost made a quiet, huffing noise.

“So, what?” Rodolfo pressed. “You have something you’re not proud of, hermano? Something on the inside that you hide by covering the outside?”

Soap opened his mouth, glancing nervously between the two of them. This seemed like dangerous territory, was all. He didn’t know what exactly Ghost kept hidden, but he was a blunt man and if he had wanted something to be open information, it already would be.

Nevertheless, Ghost remained unscathed by the analysis. He merely tipped his head as if he was shrugging, his eyes remaining cool and neutral as ever. “Let’s just call it penance and leave it at that, Sergeant Major.”

Rodolfo nodded, taking the boundary as it was. “Sí, señor,” he said easily, appeased with the information he’d gotten, and turned to look out the window.

Well. From now on, if Soap wanted to know something about Ghost, he just needed to channel the iron-clad balls that Rudy had. Simple.

Soap stared for a few moments, blinking, processing.

Price’s voice cut in on the radio. “All Ghosts— I’m wheels up with eyes on.”

Time to cut the chatter, then. They had work to do.

—

Nothing ever went as fucking planned.

In his ear, he had Laswell, stressing out instructions for the control panel. Price, sounding just as tight, reminding him of the life at stake. A fucking missile. Jesus Christ. AQ soldiers are actively hunting him, heavy boots on concrete and flashlights glinting on metal frames of unfinished walls. He’s sweating fucking bullets, he’s never been so stressed in his goddamn life.

“Sergeant, you need to move fast,” Laswell said tightly. “We only have minutes, if that.”

He can barely hear her, straining his ears to try and pinpoint where the soldiers were by the sound of their voices. He ducked down under a desk, opening up the control panel again. “Okay, what do I do?”

He followed Laswell’s instructions, something about an override key, forcing his eyes to read out the strings of numbers and letters. He relayed everything she asked for, and then quickly shut the control panel again.

The beam of a light was coming around the corner again. “Stand by,” he whispered harshly, and ducked around the desk.

He sidestepped broken glass and crouched behind another wall, until the light had gone and the voices far off. “Next?” He muttered.

“Hit ‘link’ and ‘clear’ to initiate override,” Laswell said firmly. Soap’s mind buzzed as he searched for the buttons, locating them quickly. He pressed both.

“Overide on,” Soap confirmed. He looked up quickly. Nobody close, that he can see or hear. He swallowed thickly and glanced back down. “What now?”

“Copy. Get somewhere safe. This next part will make some noise.”

Stoatin’.

His honest first thought was drenched in a stressed annoyance. There was no ‘safe’. Every inch of this building was ready to send a bullet through his head. But this thought wasn’t constructive or conducive to their plan in any way– dying wasn’t on the table. He still had a missile to stop, thirty-thousand people to save, a war following its aftermath to stop. Whatever happened to him after that was fair game.

Soap turned his head around the corner, staying low. He’s banking on the soldiers looking at eyelevel, but it really didn’t matter. In these conditions, any slight movement would give off his position, regardless of its height. He kept low to the shadows, moving quickly.

“Fucking glass,” he muttered viciously, passing over it on accident. He quickly changed directions, and moved against the wall until he was positioned awkwardly behind a half-wall. It was better than nothing. He didn’t have any great options for cover. He opened the control panel again. “Okay. Go.”

“Last step,” she said. “Hit ‘link’ when the green light is in the fourth position.”

Soap took a steadying breath and waited. One, two, three, four, five. Nodding faintly to get the count. One, two, three—

The control panel made a loud chiming sound. MISSILE SCUTTLED.

“It’s detonated,” he said lowly, looking up over the half-wall. He saw the lights move now, picking up on the noise and moving towards it. Soap exhaled harshly and put the case down. It’ll be easier to get around quickly without the weight of it, without having to worry about it clanging into anything.

“Copy that. Air Force will confirm,” Laswell said. A beat. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Yeah,” Soap breathed, keeping low and moving along the wall. “Pleasure doin’ business with ye, Laswell.”

The soldiers are angry now, moving around like a swarm of wasps.

“Steamin’ bloody fuckin’ Jesus,” he swore, ducking around every second. If he kept moving, they’d have a harder time tracking him. Meanwhile, he was keeping a mental blueprint of the building floor. Where to duck, where to jump over, where to hide. Where the glass was. Other fun things.

“Nicely done, Johnny,” Ghost said in his ears. “Now for the hard part.”

Soap grit his teeth. “That was the fuckin’ hard part, Lt.”

“Let’s find out,” Ghost replied, his voice unbothered as ever. There’s something settling about it, if for nothing else, the reminder that Ghost got him out of this the first time. Second time he’d have better odds, right?

So, on and on they go.

Ghost kept his steady stream of commentary, giving him tidbits about things he can fashion together with what’s in his environment. Shivs, smoke, chemical gas.

“Just like old times,” Soap said dryly.

Ghost hummed. “Sounds like yesterday.”

“It was yesterday,” he muttered, and kept moving.

He killed three guards, by his count that had been all there were. His head was on a fucking swivel looking for Hassan.

The bullets have him on the floor before he can even process which direction they came from. He’d been so careful. He’d counted every person he’d seen, how could he have missed one—

He sucked in a breath, his hand coming up to shield his face, to block the hit, to make his final case for life. Hassan’s standing over him, armed with a rifle he must have stolen off one of the many scattered bodies.

Hassan pointed the muzzle at his face, and then lowered it. Then the stock was slammed into Soap’s skull.

His vision faded in and out, eyes rolling up at the ceiling and across the room. He’s trying to wake himself up, trying to hear anything over the way his ears rang. He was being dragged, he could feel his body sliding across the floor, could see Hassan pulling him by his ankle.

“Ghost,” he rasped, as Hassan turned away.

The response, of course, was immediate. “Soap.”

Over the buzzing of his mind, he heard that his lieutenant sounded almost shaken. First time for everything, he supposed.

His lungs burned with every breath, his throat rough as he tried to drag in oxygen anyways. “Watch… the window,” he choked out.

An explosion sent the window splintering into glass shards and smoke, Hassan stumbling back. Soap watched him throw down the gun, distantly heard the metal clang against concrete.

Hassan grabbed him and hoisted him up by the tac vest, and fuck that hurt. He swallowed thickly as Hassan shifted him closer and closer to the open window, wind and smoke whistling past his ears, his eyes.

Maybe he would die today.

As sobering as it was, he also wasn’t stupid. There had always been a probability he’d die in action. He’d seen his fair share of death, even held a few brothers as they went.

His life hadn’t been terrible. Hadn’t been useless, anyway. Fuck. Sidesweeping everything from just this week— this past thirty minutes he’d saved stopped a missile heading for a goddamn capital city.

He’s thinking about his mam’s devastated eyes, when he told her the news. (“Yeah, I’m signing up. We dinnae have a choice. I’ll send you bunsens after every paycheck, it’ll keep us afloat, Mam.”)

And he’s thinking, maybe the money wasn’t the only reason. Maybe he just selfishly wanted out. (“Mam, please don’t cry. Please. Listen, y’ave to promise me, when I leave, ye won’t do anything stupid. Mam. Promise me. Okay? Oka—“)

Hassan’s head split open in front of him, leaving Soap abruptly dropped to his knees.

He took a measured inhale, picking himself up enough to look over at the corpse. And it was a corpse. Ghost only took one bullet to finish the job— dead center, clean through his brain.

“Perfect shot, Lt.,” Soap said hoarsely. He can see his shaky breaths as they hit the air.

“You called it, Sergeant.”

Soap stared back at the body as Ghost sent out the message. Enemy KIA. Medical needed on the floor Soap had ended up on, after all the bullshit with the elevator cars.

“Soap,” Ghost said again, grabbing his attention. “You with me?”

“…Aye,” Soap sighed, dropping his head down. “Ready to go home.”

“Copy that, Sergeant. You’ve earned it.”

—

“So, ye really never take it off, then,” Soap said bluntly. He’s nursing a scotch, lamely, because while he had taken at least a few sips while sitting in this dingy bar, he’d really been more distracted with the rest of the team.

For example, his lieutenant. A dark, shadowy figure beside him, wearing a black balaclava and hooded sweatshirt. He really gave the impression of someone who didn’t want to be looked at more than once. Unfortunately— he’d already solidified himself as Soap’s number one target of interest.

He had ordered himself a bourbon, pointedly looking at Soap— to which he had only smiled privately over— and had spent the entire night so far only holding it in his hands (which were bare. No gloves).

“I wasn’t lying to you,” Ghost said back, flatly.

“Aye. Just figured… if ye bought a drink,” he gestured, “surely ye’d take the thing off. Unless ye’r planning on waterboarding yerself.”

Ghost looked at him blankly, unamused as his head tilted to the side. “Have a fascination with my face, do you?”

Just with you, I’m afraid, Soap thought. His sketchbooks have already started seeing the grim consequences, charcoal silhouettes haunting every page corner.

“Just a bit odd,” Soap shrugged easily. “Ye look lik' a bampot, sittin` 'ere at a boozer 'n' nae swallyin anythin'.”

Ghost gave him another long, dull look.

“You look crazy,” he elaborated. “Like yer up to no good. Si’.”

Ghost huffed quietly. “You sound concerned.”

“Aye,” he smiled with his teeth. He always felt particularly wolfish, around Ghost. Like he needed to impress him with sharp eyes and a faster wit. “Be a damn waste of a shite glass o’ bourbon.”

Ghost actually snorted at that, which made Soap’s entire being light up with glee. Then the man lifted his gloves and rolled up the bottom of his balaclava, so it sat just under his nose.

Soap’s unabashedly staring at every sliver of skin, the exposed, scruffy blonde chin, the silvery scars tugging at the corners of Ghost’s mouth. And then Ghost lifted his glass of whiskey, and downed it in a single swallow.

Jesuuuus.

Ghost pulled the balaclava back under his chin, tucking it back under the neck of the hoodie.

“Surely that burned,” Soap said, at a loss for anything else he could possibly form in his mouth other than some form of static.

Ghost only grunted.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Soap told him. He was at least trying to contain the awe out of his voice, but nothing could be done about the way he was probably looking. He was enchanted— hard to lie about it when it was written all over his face.

“Finish your drink,” Ghost said back. So he did. And then he finished four more, getting lost in the camaraderie of a real team and a job well done.

He almost died, you know— came nearly face to face with Baneshanks— but he’s still here. Thank God. No, thank Ghost, who’d had his six, who’d been watching from the rooftop with steady hands and steady breath and one good fucking shot.

“I told you, it was your call,” Ghost reminded him. There’s a firm pressure on his neck, guiding him down the hall. “All I did was pull the trigger.”

Soap blinked fuzzily, his legs melting under him like the wax of a candle left in the sun. Ghost’s eyelashes looked like the sun. All bright white and blonde, stretching out like beams of light against the stark black greasepaint—

Ghost let out an amused scoff. “Johnny, what the fuck are you talking about. Jesus.”

“Shuddup,” Soap slurred out, leaning heavy against the wall as he walked. “These’re mah inside thoughts. Ye cannae hear thaim.”

A steady hand guiding him off the wall, and forward. “Can’t understand a goddamn word you’re saying. Where the fuck’s your room?”

“Nnhh,” Soap answered, and pushed down the hallway, finally stumbling to his door. His hands searched clumsily at his pockets, his key slipping from his fingers.

“The pinnacle of dexterity and fine-motor control,” Ghost remarked blankly. But he stopped Soap before he could go reaching for it, simply pushing him back against the wall. “Alright, alright. Don’t hurt yourself. Just stay put. Fucking hell.”

Ghost leant down, swiftly picking up the keys, clicking open the lock. Soap tipped into the threshold and collapsed into the shitty twin bed, inhaling the smell of service-issued sheets and nondescript detergent.

He really doesn’t remember anything else.

What Soap did know, was that he woke up the next morning with a gaff of a fucking headache, his clothes rumpled, and a sour taste in his mouth. But his shoes had been discarded to the side of his bed— and paracetamol was left on the windowsill.

—

Twenty-nine hours ago, Soap and Ghost were assigned to a recon in the lower mountains of Norway. Intel had said that there had been a covert group buying and distributing military grade weapons, and that their base of operations was supposedly placed here. Intel had also stated there would be a big-time arms deal taking place within the next few hours. Brass needed to know who they were buying from, and to potentially eliminate targets as needed.

Twenty-nine hours later, they’re still here, holed up in what could almost be described as a shed, keeping watch. Waiting for movement. No heating, no fire, no bathroom. A rollout canvas they took turns sleeping on in four hour increments, and whatever rations they packed.

Soap was tired, his back was stiff, his knee hurt. His eyes were straining so bad he had to employ the use of eyedrops just to keep himself prepared to switch positions with Ghost. Needless to say, he was ready for this recon to be wrapped up as quickly and neatly as possible, and he’s sure Ghost felt the same.

It was Ghost’s turn on the scope, so he sat low and still. His head tilted to the side, both eyes vaguely scanning over the base, blinking slowly and far between. He was focused, even though they’d been at this for an entire day— probably thinking of wind conditions, distance, sound, something important.

Soap was thinking of the shapes he’d draw to get the image in front of him on paper. Triangles and lines to make up the creases of Ghost’s jacket, rounded half-rectangle for his earpiece, ovals and rounded right angles for his balaclava, the scraggly shading of a cracking painted skull. Cylinders for the SR, rough angles and curves where his hands held it steady.

“See anything?” Soap asked, absent.

Ghost made a noise of faint disgruntlement. “Birds.”

“Wha’ kind?” Sue him. He was bored.

“Don’t fucking know. White ones.”

Soap sighed, tilting his head back so it hit the damp wooden wall. He went quiet for another minute. He was restless, something itchy under his skin that wanted him to get up, to move, to get something to react. The need to light a match in an oxygen tank.

“I went to the doctor the other day,” Ghost spoke up, flat. “Gave me a cream for my skin.”

Soap grunted in acknowledgement, grateful for any kind of conversation. He’d listen to Ghost ramble on about whatever shite he wanted, so long as it filled the empty fuckin’ space.

“On base?” He wondered, because again— he was bored.

“Mm,” Ghost hummed. “Said I was a sight for psoriasis.”

Soap’s head slowly dropped back down, looking at Ghost for a long time. He’s so exhausted that it took a moment just to register the words, and now he’s mad because the man who said them didn’t even bloody twitch.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap mumbled, rolling his eyes. “Proud of that one?”

“Always am.”

“Yea, I’m sure you are, ye bastard,” Soap huffed, his lips rolled over his teeth in a failed effort to not smile. He let out a dramatic sigh, and brushed a hand over his face. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

“Stay steady, Soap,” Ghost said naturally, a gentle nudge to stay with it, keep his head in the game. Always professional first, Ghost was.

Soap tilted his head to the side. “Yeah, yeah, ah know.”

He shifted to sit next to Ghost, leaning up on the carved out window, scanning over the horizon with nothing better to do with his time. He could probably get something to eat from his pack, but he wasn’t starving and it was best to save rations for when he actually needed them.

After several silent minutes of staring at the wind messing with the trees, the restlessness won again. He pulled back from the window and grabbed his sketchbook from his bag, and leaned back against the wall.

He drew out the base, the entrances and exits. A series of cabins, all different sizes, scattered fire pits, littered weapons and tanks and cars all over the place. Trees keep the perimeter well hidden, long grass, general rough terrain that Soap worked on rounding up with some easy pencil scratches.

“Don’t like birds,” Ghost rumbled beside him.

“Uh huh.” Soap didn’t glance up from his paper. His hands drift to the blank slate of the page, gently curving graphite into a vague shape of someone hunkered down.

Ghost grunted shortly. “Something about them. Beady eyes. Way their head jerks around. ‘S fucking spooky.”

Soap made another noise. He’s expecting Ghost to continue, round it off with some corny punchline that he always seems to have stored in his back pocket. When it didn't come, his head lifted slightly.

He actually can’t remember the last time, if ever, Ghost had shared something personal. There’s little hints here and there that he gave about his past, usually dark, vague, not able to be pinned down. Other than that, nothing— no personal stories, no interesting anecdotes or idiosyncrasies other than what Soap can glean just by being near him.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s fucking exhausted, but this small personal comment sent a shot of adrenaline up his spine. It’s like he’s insane, suddenly. Soap needs to make it clear that he understood the gesture, the very brief window into Ghost’s life.

“My da’ left when I was sixteen,” Soap blurted. His head hurt. His eyes hurt. He needed a nap, not to keep blethering about like a windowing hen. “He wis a trucker, so he wasn’t home much a’all anyway. But.”

(“John,” her voice trailed from the kitchen, anxious, weary. “Come in ‘ere a moment, ‘am needin’ tae talk wi’ ye. Just lea’ yer rucksack at th’ door.”

“Did da send a letter?” John frowned, pulling off the bag and kicking it to the side. Mam was always stressed on Da’s trips, but she’d hardly sounded like this; like she was holding back tears. Something must have happened.)

“...You hate him?” Ghost asked.

He did. For a long time. Ironically, he had hated him the most when he was trying pointedly not to care about what had happened. That teenage air of bitter indifference, a righteous glare at the road when he walked to and from school, a clenched jaw as he made dinner for himself and his Mam every night, a tight throat on holidays. That sort of thing.

“Don’ know him well enough tae hate him, now. But if he came back I pro’lly wouldn’t cheer.”

“Better man than me.”

“Not better,” Soap said. “Just different.”

They fall back into silence. Soap worked on sketching out the profile of Ghost’s face, the slope of his nose under the balaclava, the eyelashes. He loved Ghost’s eyelashes.

“Don’t like eels either,” Ghost spoke up, after several minutes.

“Cannae say I’m fond of ‘em myself. They’re like… snakes of the sea, aye?”

“Hnnm.” Ghost shifts slightly, putting more weight on his other arm. Then, neutrally: “My dad made me kiss a snake when I was a kid.”

Soap blinked hard. His vision buzzed and he could feel his lips twitch like he wanted to sneer or frown— but he didn’t. He kept his expression as calm as Ghost’s voice was. Soap couldn’t explain why, but he seemed to owe him that.

“… Makes sense why you don’t like them, then,” Soap said, instead of other things that came to mind, like: what the fuck, or sounds like he was a stellar lad, or do you know where he lives and can I pay him a visit for no reason in particular?

“Usually how it goes,” Ghost agreed coolly.

Soap wanted to say something else, to keep the conversation flowing through whatever tired, syrupy state they’d found themselves in. But Ghost sat up, lifting himself from position, and nodded simply towards the scope.

“You’re up, Johnny.”

Soap shut his journal. That was that, then.

—

“D’we have an ETA yet on the helo?” Soap shivered, holding himself closely. He’s bundled up, sure, all the stealth and weather gear, heat packs tucked into his pockets and boots.

He had his fair share of experience in cold weather— he travelled just as much as the rest of the 141, and he did grow up and take residence (proudly) in Scotland. All of that withstanding, he just couldn’t stand snow.

It was cold, it was wet. Made for a fucking dreich of a hike or drive. And when it snowed on an op, he was bound to be recovering from it for a solid two weeks, just from how the aching cold settled in his bones and stuck there.

God bless him, but he hated Siberia, and he wanted to leave.

“Negative,” Ghost said flatly. “Strong winds. They’re taking their sweet time.”

Here Soap was, shivering in his tac boots, and Ghost was just standing there like he wasn’t bothered at all by the snow whipping around them. Infuriating.

“It’s fair jeelit, I’m freezin’ mah fuckin tits off,” Soap complained, shifting on his feet. “How’re ye not miserable?”

“Too busy trying to comprehend what you’re saying.”

“It’s fucking cold.”

“I knew you had it in you,” Ghost said back, because he was an asshole.

Soap sighed, and continued staring out into nothing. Snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes, barely melting into the skin of his cheekbones. He tried not to look as disgruntled as he felt, because he knew Ghost’s next comment was likely going to be about him ‘pouting.’ (Which he didn’t do).

“Johnny.”

“What,” Soap said, giving him a pointed look. He’s already rearing to defend himself, a witty comeback on the tip of his tongue.

“Back pouch. Left side,” Ghost replied simply, turning his back.

Soap paused, but quickly reclaimed himself. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and went for the aforementioned pocket, tugging up the hook-and-loop and reaching inside.

“You have a spare?” Soap blurted, holding the balaclava up. It’s black, a bit worn, no pattern. He looked up to study Ghost’s still masked face, expecting to see some kind of damage on it that he may have missed earlier. “Did yers get wet?”

“No.” Ghost reached up and pulled his own mask off. Light hit the scars on his face, Soap reminding himself of each one.

He really was braw, even with, especially with, the scars. The man under the mask— the Simon Riley of it all. Soap found a particular joy about the freckles peppering his face, the curls of his hair, which was longer than the last time he saw it, and the way his mouth formed a permanent frown.

“Swap with me,” Simon said, holding out the balaclava.

Soap’s mouth opened, and then subsequently closed. He exchanged masks, pulling the one he’s been handed over his own face. It was still warm from Ghost’s body heat, and smelled of cigarette smoke, sweat, and faintly clean, like the base-issued shampoo.

He’s trying to settle the part of his brain that’s turning its soft, vulnerable belly at the basic kindness Ghost had given him. It’s only a mask. It is not as if Ghost has done some remarkable thing. He wasn’t saving Soap’s life, wasn’t sniping an active threat down, wasn't cracking his ribs open to keep him breathing.

Which felt like the whole point, Soap thought traitorously. Care for the sake of caring. It wasn’t like Soap had asked for anything. He’d only complained and been generally annoying, and in return Simon had fixed the problem.

“Like the Brit soldiers in the 1850s,” Soap commented absently, recalling Ghost’s previous history lesson.

“I hope not.”

“Why swap?” He then asked, as Ghost pulled on the spare. Because it would have been just as easy for Simon to keep his own on his face. There’d been nothing wrong with the one Soap had pulled from the man’s pack, no holes or damage, it wasn’t wet from snow. It was perfectly usable.

Ghost then nodded simply to the warm balaclava clinging to Soap’s face, and just said, with the most clarity in the world:

“That one’s wool.”

—

As expected, Siberia wasted no time to catch up with him. It followed after his heels like a starved dog. As soon as they’re back on base and the adrenaline of being on an op wore off, Soap showered, crawled into the cramped twin mattress of his room, and crashed.

His knee gave him grief the second he was pulled out of the dredges of REM. It creaked like an old boat, the joint and offending tendons were swollen and ached without him even moving.

If Soap were a smarter, more proactive man about his own health, he’d probably have taken pain medication before he crashed yesterday. Then again, if Soap had his own health and wellbeing as a number one priority, he wouldn’t be in this line of work anyway.

He stared at the ceiling for a long beat, trying to psych himself up enough to get out of bed. He began planning it out like it was a goddamn CQB — fastest route to pain medication, his knee brace, heating pack.

Not helpful. He felt grey. Wrung out. A used dishrag left in the sink for a day too long. He’s reminded of his mam, and the months she spent in bed when he was a teenager.

She’d been sick, something that had “affected her constitution”, as she liked to put it. Always tired, weak, usually lacking an appetite. She’d been able to stomach small meals, crackers and light soups, and sometimes Soap would be able to get her out into the garden when the weather was nice enough.

(“Ah dinnae need a doctor,” she had insisted, though her face was gaunt and pale and she lost weight by the week. John had learned to braid hair just to keep hers from being matted. “A’m just fine, John. Ye fret lik’ yer father.”

“Da didn’t fret,” John had told her back, his teeth feeling tight in his own mouth. His fingers crossed carefully to plait the thin hair. “If he fretted, he’d be here.”

“Och, enough o’ tha’. Ye'r tae young tae be crabbit lik' this. Yer heart will git stuck that way,” she scolded lightly. And John would sigh, and say sorry, and kiss her forehead, as if it would cure her.)

His phone dinged, bringing him out of the fog, and he leaned over with a grunt to pick it up.

Lt.

Soap. [07:31 AM]

Sleeping in, are we? [07:32 AM]

Captain said we’re allowed. Did plans change [07:32 AM]

? [07:32 AM]

Garrick brought in his “special post-op breakfast” an hour ago. [07:32 AM]

You’re usually awake for that. [07:32 AM]

Slow morning [07:35 AM]

You solid? [07:36 AM]

Bad knee is smarting, be down soon [07:36 AM]

Soap sighed heavily and dropped his phone back on the side table. It took him a great deal of effort to sit up, even more so to haul himself to the side so his feet could touch the floor.

His knee was screaming at him with every slight use of the tendons, pain shooting up his spine and making his vision blur. His fingers went numb with how tightly he gripped his sheets.

He exhaled slowly, inhaled deeply, repeated the process until the heat in his face dwindled and his vision cleared of white spots.

Jesus help him, he wasn’t as young as he used to be.

He stood up, feeling the heavy weight of his own body sink onto his better leg. He half-limped to the small bathroom, leaning against each wall and gritting his teeth the whole way. Drugs first, he’d decided easily.

Soap swallowed the paracetamol dry, and looked down at his reflection with dull eyes. He looked like shit. He was proud, but he wasn’t a liar. He had deep, dark circles and a general disdain for life written all over his puffy face.

A knock hit his door.

“Yeah,” Soap called out.

“Sergeant,” Ghost said blankly.

Soap furrowed his eyebrows, glancing over his shoulder. “Come in..?”

The door shifted open, Ghost stepping in and closing it behind him. He’s in civvies— grey athletic joggers, black hoodie, another skull balaclava. He held a Gregg’s takeaway bag in his hand.

“You have anything yet?” Ghost asked first, skipping formalities. He dropped the bag on the small table.

Soap felt vaguely like he was high, or had some kind of horrendous head injury that he’s just now feeling the effects of. He watched with absurdity as Ghost just… messed about in his dorm. He pulled a plate from the shelves up on the kitchen’s wall, set it to the side. Opened the mini fridge and closed it shortly after. (He didn’t keep much of anything in there. Spoiled too easily with how often he travelled).

“Yeah,” Soap answered distantly. “Took meds.”

“Good.” Ghost turned back to the table and pulled out the food from the bag. “Greggs. Courtesy of Gaz. You want sausage, bacon, or the one with both.”

“Uh… both, I suppose,” he sighed, limping out of the bathroom. He sat down with a pained grunt.

Ghost pushed over a plate with the paper-wrapped breakfast and then studied over him for a moment, his eyes lingering on his knee. “Don’t you have a brace?”

“Huvnae put it on yet. Like ah said, slow morning.”

Ghost made a gruff sound of acknowledgement, staring for a bit longer. He pulled his eyes away and looked around the dorm. “Where is it?”

Soap unwrapped the roll and waved vaguely at his bed. “Ah keep it under there with all the other shite.”

“Descriptive.”

Soap took a bite. “Not tha’ I’m complaining,” he began, muffled. “But is there a reason yer here? Is there news ‘r something?”

Ghost crouched down, pulling out his knee brace from under the bed. He walked back over. “Nothing worth mentioning. You want me to leave?”

Soap chewed slowly. After a long moment, he shook his head. There was something about Ghost that soothed him. Even his presence now was making how shitty he felt just a minuscule amount better, and he felt himself craving it like oxygen.

“No,” Soap said faintly. “Yer fine.”

Ghost set the knee brace on the table, easy for Soap to reach without straining himself. He rolled up his mask to bite into a breakfast roll that had been left in the bag. He looked weirdly natural, standing here in Soap’s kitchen.

“You don’t have tea in your room,” Ghost noted. His eyes bore into Soap’s with a healthy judgement. Unfortunately, Soap found himself only deeply amused by the confrontation.

“No. More of a coffee person, myself. Calms me down.”

“That’s rubbish.”

The corner of Soap’s mouth pulled up. “It does, though. I wouldn’t lie.”

“You’re a nutter, Johnny.”

Soap huffed quietly, and sat back. “What kind o’ tea d’ye like, then?”

“Earl grey.” Ghost said. “Four sugars, no milk. Naturally.”

Soap guffawed, his eyebrows shooting up. “Four sugars? Are ye a bairn?”

“I have a sweet tooth,” Ghost said flatly.

A laugh fell from Soap’s lips and he dragged a hand over his face, pinching at his brows. Four sugars. Jesus. He wondered if any of the many rookies on base who were, quite frankly, scared shitless of the man, knew that he took his tea like a Silver Spoon advert.

Soap dropped his hand and leaned on it, tilting his head at the man. His eyes scrunch at the corners, he can hardly hide his smile and he doesn’t quite want to, anyways. He was growing increasingly fond of Ghost with every little conversation they shared— which were many.

“Do you have anything that needs doing?” Ghost spoke up, meeting his fondness with a cool indifference. Soap wasn’t phased. Ghost had other ways of showing he gave a damn: the most glaring being the fact he was here at all.

Soap gave a precursory look around his small dorm, which was no messier than usual. He really hadn’t much at all to make a mess with, anyway. He had some laundry he hadn’t done before they were deployed, but it wasn’t enough to make a trip to the utility room worth it.

He also had planned to trim his hair again when he got back, because it was getting too long for his taste. But he’s trying to imagine bending and craning his neck right now, while groggy and in pain, and he just doesn’t have the energy.

Soap pressed his lips together, making a faint humming sound. “Maybe,” he said.

“Maybe,” Ghost repeated.

“Maybe. Ah can do it myself, I’m just—“

“What is it?”

“I can do it myself,” Soap said pointedly. “I usually do. No offense, but it’s highly personal. Ah trust nobody on this.”

“Jesus, Johnny,” Ghost rolled his eyes. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms.

“It’s my hair.”

“Your hair.”

“Needs a trim,” Soap gestured. “Too long.”

Ghost jutted his chin to breakfast. “Finish that, then. I’ll cut your hair after.”

Well, an order was an order; so Soap finished his food. He’s not sure what to expect, but he’s honestly feeling giddy at the idea of Ghost — with his controlled violence and austerity — doing something domestic like cutting hair. It’d be as surreal as waking up and seeing all 6’3” of him hunched over in the kitchen rolling out dough for butteries, lips tight in a frown; which Soap would pay an exorbitant amount to see, by the way.

When he’s finished, he wrapped up the garbage and shoved it into the paper bag. Even sliding off the stool, as careful as he’d been, had sent a shockwave of pain up the nerves of his leg. He winced, clutching the edge of the counter.

“We’re not in a rush,” Ghost said, holding a hand up as if he was ready for Soap to slip and fall.

“I’m fine, quit yer motherin’,” Soap waved him off. He reached for the brace and slipped it on, securing it in place with the straps. He put his good leg on the floor first, and pushed off the stool, his fingers white at the countertop.

Ghost didn’t say anything, when Soap took a long moment to settle himself on his feet. He didn’t flinch, or jump up to try and stabilize him. He waited, like he had nothing he’d rather do than sit here with Soap while his body worked overtime to do simple tasks.

When it seemed like he wasn’t going to fall over, Soap exhaled slowly, and looked up to see Ghost’s arm still held out. He wasn’t reaching for him. It seemed more just like an offering, that Soap could take if he wanted, or leave it where it laid.

Soap’s pretty sure he could make it to the bathroom leaning on the walls. A hundred percent certain, even.

He took Ghost’s arm anyway— if for no other reason than to know what it felt like.

Warm. It felt warm. Ghost took his weight like a champ, remaining solid and steady as they made their way into the bathroom. He left Soap at the sink to lean his weight on, retreated to the kitchen, and came back dragging in the stool.

Soap scoffed slightly, amused and mildly self-conscious, and sat down. “Thanks.”

“Where do you keep your towels?” Ghost asked.

“Tae press, outside ta’door.”

Ghost left wordlessly and came back to drape one over Soap’s neck. Soap watched through the mirror with pursed lips as Ghost plugged in the clippers and stepped closer to him, seemingly inspecting Soap’s hair.

“You look nervous,” Ghost noted, glancing at his reflection.

“I have a right.”

Ghost made a soft sound, an amused little huff through his nose. “You don’t trust me?” He asked, holding the clippers to the side.

“Yer a wee shite,” Soap said, shaking his head.

“Hmm,” was all Ghost gave back, his eyes glinting in the light of the bathroom. He rolled up his sleeves, and just like that, any thought in Soap’s head had subsequently vanished into thin air.

Scars were commonplace in their work, so seeing them everywhere didn’t phase him too much. Ghost had a lot of scars, this wasn’t new information, just a confirmation that yes, they were everywhere.

On his left arm, a sleeve of tattoos; various missiles, skulls, barbed wire, dogtags, gravestones. It was edgy, ridiculously so. Every military stereotype layered together. Soap wanted more than anything to know the when, the where, the why.

Soap bit his tongue instead. He didn’t want to be jumping on him like an over-excited dog at the sight of a treat. (The treat, of course, being friendship. Being close to Ghost. Talking with Ghost. Knowing Ghost. It all felt like a privilege, and Soap wasn’t going to take too much.)

“Just a trim, yeah?” Ghost murmured behind him. “How much? What guard?”

Soap shook his head. “Usually use four.”

“Alright. Hold still.” Ghost leaned in, a hand coming up to Soap’s shoulder to keep him from any subtle movements. As he dragged the clippers over the overgrown hair at the base of Soap’s neck, he’s balanced, steady— the hands of a sniper usually were.

Soap didn’t speak. He’s found himself entirely single-minded, his attention diverted to watching the focus in Ghost’s eyes and the concentrated furrow of his brow unhidden from his balaclava. After every stroke, Ghost pulled his hand back, inspecting his work, glancing over its entirety, and correcting as he saw fit.

Soap wanted to move. He wanted to fidget, felt his heartbeat in his chest going a mile a minute, felt his fingers twitch. It was taking a remarkable effort to keep himself as still as he was.

Clearly, it wasn’t enough— or maybe Ghost was just doing it unconsciously, because as he moved sides with the clippers, he brought his hand up to Soap’s jaw to keep him from moving.

Well, fuck me, Soap thought distantly, as every function in his body effectively went dark. He went almost slack in the chair, staring at himself in the mirror and recognizing the dazed look on his own face.

It was much harder to ignore the truth when it was, quite literally, staring back at him.

He’d been on fire for a long time. Longer than he joined the service, longer than his dad left. He stoked his own coals and doused himself in gasoline. And that made him a good soldier— an artificial chemical weapon, a Semtex ready to be thrown at the heat of battle. But he could never sit still long enough in his own mind and body to think of what he wanted. It made him itchy.

Ghost forced him to sit still in more ways than one; and what he wanted now was to sit here forever. To be some liquidy, bright, warm thing in Ghost’s hands, natural sunlight in a bottle.

He wanted to sit in this morning, where Ghost cut hair, found his knee brace, brought him food— cared for him, in little stupid ways that Johnny always cared for everyone else. Ghost had a way of making all the most painful parts of him go small.

“Look alright?” Ghost asked quietly, turning the clippers off.

“Oh, it could be much worse,” he said, clearing his throat of the lump. He smiled easily. “Might have a future yet, Ghost.”

“Fucker,” Ghost said back— but there’s a smile in his voice.

Johnny bought tea the next morning. It wasn’t for him.

—

“What does everyone want?” Gaz stood up from the booth. “I know Soap wanted a whiskey. Price, you wanted a London Porter?

“Yep,” Price confirmed. His hand goes rummaging through his back pocket, eyebrows furrowing. “Sure you don’t want my card?”

Gaz waved him off. “Nah, I’ve got it, old man. I owe you for the cigars. Fuck, I don’t even know what Ghost likes, I’ll wait til he’s–”

“Kentucky bourbon,” Soap said, not looking up from his phone. His thumb swiped up absently, refreshing his messages, and he watched as the ‘Your Turn!’ text came up. He realized the table went quiet, so he finally lifted his head.

Gaz was staring at him dubiously. “Is that really what he orders?”

“Yeah,” Soap defended, his eyebrows drawing. It’s not like he would lie. “We go to bars pretty often jus’ the two of us, he orders tae same thing. It’s a Kentucky. He usually goes for whatever they got, but he prefers Buffalo Trace.”

The severity of Gaz’s face increased tenfold. Even Price was looking at him with a mild squint.

Soap put his phone down, making a face. “Wha’ are ye both lookin’ at? I’m not takin’ the piss, he likes bourbon.”

“No, I know you’re not lying,” Gaz said. “You’re being completely serious. It’s just— knowing exactly how your mate takes his whiskey. It’s a bit on the nose, no?”

Price sighed heavily, sitting back in the booth. He pointedly picked up a menu. “Should we order fish and chips? I’m feelin’ a bit peckish.”

Soap’s face felt hot. His phone chimed, lighting up with a notification. He glanced down at it, fleetingly, and itched to reply, to look at it, but he felt it may not help his case because–

“Are you texting him?” Gaz exclaimed with disbelief, leaning over. “He’s in the loo! He’s barely twenty feet away— bloody hell, Soap. Captain, are you–”

“I’m staying out of this unless it’s about fish and chips,” Price said loudly, his face buried beneath the menu. “What does or doesn’t go on between my subordinates after work is none of my business so long as you don’t make it my business.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

He’s staring at Gaz, his eyes wide, and for once in his goddamn life he had no comeback, no quick wit. His entire plan to get out of this conversation was to just send telepathic waves of his own insanity to Gaz until he took pity on him.

For all intents and purposes, his codependency with Ghost was to remain unspoken because there was no reason for it to be otherwise. At the end of every day, they got their job done without any fuss or hassle. That’s what mattered, right?

What didn’t matter was how Soap knew exactly what Ghost ordered at a bar, or that Soap was the most used contact in Ghost’s phone. Or that Soap had very solid ideas about his place being at Ghost’s side. Hell, Gaz remembered him in basic— Soap was not an easy person to earn the true loyalty of, but being loyal to Ghost was just as easy as his Oath of Allegiance.

It wasn’t like the idea of putting a name to… whatever Soap felt about Ghost made him scared. It’s just that they didn’t have time for whatever “it” was to be a thing. They were busy men with difficult lives, and no value to come from distractions. It’s often a soldier’s first and final lesson— distractions meant dead. Whatever they had, simply existed. Didn’t need a name. Or someone looking at them like they were some hopeless tragedy.

At Soap’s expression, Gaz raised his eyebrows. He looked like he wanted to say a lot more, but his mouth remained shut. Gaz was temperate like that. He understood better than Soap did when to speak and when to observe— this was one of many times that Soap was grateful for it.

“I’ll order a fish and chips,” Gaz said finally. “Beer for me. Scotch for you— sorry, whiskey. London Porter for you. …Kentucky bourbon for Ghost. Anything else?”

“That’s it,” Soap confirmed, giving a small nod.

Gaz nodded back, and left the table.

Not a minute later, Ghost returned from the bathrooms. He slid easily into the booth beside Soap. He smelt like cigarette smoke and the rain from outside, his jacket still damp. “Did I miss anything?” He asked gruffly.

Soap’s eyes flitted to Gaz, and to Price, and then he gave a smile. “Not at all.”

“Mm,” Ghost hummed. Then he lightly kicked Soap under the table, and nodded at his phone. He leaned in slightly to talk lower. “You lost,” he said bluntly.

It was all Soap could do to cast his eyes up at the ceiling and send an honest-to-god prayer. Fucker had him pure done in.

—

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck!” Soap shouted, holding onto the grab handle with white knuckles. The car swerved hard, the driver’s side scraping hard against the wall of a building with a deafening screech. “Ghost!”

“I’ll call out the turns. Start fucking shooting, Johnny,” Ghost yelled back.

Soap swore again and pulled himself out the window. They have two trucks speeding after them, all of them armed to the teeth and actively firing. He trusted Ghost to not have him fly out of the vehicle, at the least. It’s the most he could ask for.

He squinted through smoke and wind and squeezed the trigger on his MP5, aiming for the tires. The enemy vehicle in front began to take evasives, swerving left and right. He’d used four mags already just getting to the damn car, and he only had three more mags on him.

“Left,” Ghost called, giving Soap just enough time to hold on and angle himself properly before the car was wrenched in that direction.

“Steaming bloody Jesus. Switching mags!” Soap shouted, ducking back into the car. He locked the bolt back, loaded a new mag from his vest, and slammed the bolt forward. Then he’s right back to it, leaning out the window and going for the driver.

He managed to get a shot just as the driver swerved, and the enemy vehicle went careening off the road, crashing into a building.

Soap exhaled harshly at the sight of the civilians all scattering away in a panic. “We almost at the edge of the city?!”

“Just about. Get them off our tail,” Ghost commanded steadily. “Right, Johnny.”

Soap gripped the handle again and tilted left, narrowly missing a shot as it whizzed past his face. He swore loudly, dipping back into the car to reload again. “There’s too many civvies to get a good shot at any of them.”

Ghost grunted. “Shoot low, aim for the tires again. We just need to lose them.”

“Copy,” Soap said quickly, and leaned back out again. He fired low, trying to damage the tires or shoot the bumper off– anything that’d slow the car down.

A bullet fired loosely by one of the backseat passengers managed to make contact, grazing his arm. He let out a punched sound, his balance getting momentarily knocked off. Ghost made a sharp, sudden turn, tossing Johnny back into his seat.

“Talk to me,” Ghost barked, his head flashing to the side every second or so to scan his stability.

“Not an artery,” Soap grit out. “Just a–”

A car slammed into their side, and they’re sent careening, broken glass and weapons and empty mags tumbling about. Everything was spinning, the world at some horrible standstill as blood rushed in ringing ears.

Soap’s on the ground, wind knocked out of him. He was so aware of the pain in so many individual parts of his body that it was like he couldn’t feel anything at all– his brain overwhelmed with trying to process too much at one time. He let out a groan and fluttered his eyes open.

He saw dirt and mud, horizontal trees and the door of their vehicle, upside-down, crushed in half. He lifted his head, blinking hard, forcing himself up.

Where’s Ghost, he thought, scanning the wreckage with a hazy, single-minded focus.

He picked up his MP5 where it lay in the mud, and he’s stumbling, breath coming out in painful, harsh stretches. There were people after them, still. They needed to get to cover. He needed to find Simon.

He heard the bullet before he saw the flash of a muzzle, and immediately he fell to the mud, hunched behind another broken off part of the car. The hood, looked like.

“Jesus,” Soap breathed out, sliding around in the rainy slosh. He lifted his rifle up to fire a round of shots back at one of the assailants. They can rematch in hell.

Soap kept himself hunched down, trying his best to push any thought of discomfort away. All that mattered was in front of him. His rifle in hand, his mag count, the steadiness of his breath. He was in the open, too many flanking points, and he was on low ground.

He strained his ears, and when he didn’t hear footsteps, made his next move. He stayed low, his best approximation of a run in his condition to the next closest cover.

He saw Ghost then, kneeling in the dirt, a hand outstretched in front of him, keeping him upright. His other hand was tucked to his side, just under where the tac-vest didn’t protect him.

“Ghost,” Soap exhaled. He quickly looked for any targets in the immediate vicinity, and when he didn’t see any his body moved on instinct. He tripped over himself, essentially, in his effort to get to Ghost as fast as he possibly could.

Soap stumbled to his knees, offering any semblance of his own stability to Ghost so he could stand up.

“Ghost. Are y’broken?” He rasped.

Ghost gave a half grunt, unsteady, dazed. His hand didn’t reach for Johnny, and he didn’t lean on him until Soap basically bullied his shoulder under Ghost’s arm.

“Alright, up we go. Up we go, c’mon,” Soap said firmly, heaving the both of them up and swallowing back the pain from it. Distantly, he could hear people talking– Russian, so he knew that their brief respite for catching their breath had ended.

Ghost was a heavy fuckin’ lad, and Soap was dragging both of their weight in his condition. But he wasn’t stopping, wasn’t slowing down. He kept his fingers firmly gripped on Ghost’s jacket, kept their hips glued together, and marched forward with all the energy he could muster.

“Вот они! Огонь, огонь!”

Soap immediately tugged Ghost down, shoving him behind the car’s wreckage. He swore, scrambling for his gun again. He didn’t have much ammunition left, and he had no fucking clue where his extra mags went in all of the chaos–

Ghost’s hands fumbled over his own vest and then pulled out a spare, holding it out. “9 millimeter," he mumbled.

“Steamin’ Jesus, I could kiss you,” Soap exhaled, taking the magazine and holding it under his arm.

“Not really the time for that,” Ghost said, grimacing as he sat up a bit more. He unholstered his pistol and took a knee, ready to bolt or fire at any given moment. “Take right. I’ll watch left.”

“Aye.” Soap breathed and poked his head out, laying fire down. They push forward, downing soldiers as they go. Soap kept careful count for every one of his shots– running out of ammunition would make this hellish situation even worse.

Adrenaline was about the only keeping Soap up and moving, so he used it to his advantage. Afterall, this was his thing. Close-quarter combat. Taking stock of what he had and making it the enemy’s problem. With Ghost at his side, their chances were pretty good; injured or not.

Soap counted three men he had shot down, with Ghost behind him to finish the job. Then, the place was still, said for their breathing, heavy and labored.

“Clear?” Soap asked, his eyes flitting around the wrecksite.

“Seems that way,” Ghost grunted. “Stay sharp, just in case. Let’s make it to the safehouse, we’ll trek it on foot.”

“Copy.” Soap slung his rifle over his back, and took his previous spot lingering beside Ghost. There was a comfort to the fact that if either of them should fall, they would be caught by the other.

Hiking into the woods was shit. Everything hurt. He’s bruised and scraped and scratched up every which way, and he’s sure Ghost wasn’t faring much better, if the way he was carrying himself had anything to do with it. He still had his hand pressed against his side.

“What happened?” Soap asked finally, breathless from the hill. “Did something hit ye in the crash?”

Ghost shook his head slightly. “Got crushed a bit. Ribs might be cracked.”

Soap winced. “I don’t envy you.”

“Most don’t.”

They keep walking for a time, and then Soap stumbled as Ghost’s steps slowed to a stop. His hand came up to a tree, like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His breathing– slow inhale, tight exhale.

“Ghost,” Soap said, the growing worry suffocating his exhaustion like CO2 to a flame. “What is it?”

“Gonna sick up,” Ghost mumbled.

Soap immediately reached up and tugged Ghost’s mask up off his nose and mouth— and he’s really fucking glad he did, because hardly a second later Simon was tipping forward. There wasn’t much of anything in his stomach to give, other than one or two cereal bars from their rations that probably tasted the same on their way up.

Soap grimaced, squeezing the back of Simon’s neck. “Easy, easy.”

“Concussion,” Simon settled on, his voice rough and disjointed.

“Yeah,” Soap agreed, patting him on the shoulder lightly. “Y’good? Got it out yer system?”

Ghost gave a subdued grunt, his head still hung low.

“We’re almost there, do you need to have a sit?”

“No. Let’s go,” he mumbled, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and shoving his mask back down.

Soap followed behind Ghost for the rest of the hike, hovering as much as he could without Ghost noticing. Which was how he knew Ghost’s concussion was definitely making him feel like shit, because any other time he would have told Soap within the minute to not so subtly get off his arse.

The safehouse looked like nobody had touched it in at least five years, but they’d been assured prior to deployment that it was well-stocked and had adequate fortifications– which meant that there were months worth of canned goods and enough concealed tacticals to hunker down during an attack, but everything was going to be covered in enough dust to maintain generations of mites.

“Home sweet home,” Soap sighed, following Ghost in. “I’ll get th’ medical.”

“Don’t be stupid, sit down,” Ghost said shortly. “You’re bleeding all over the fucking place.”

Soap bristled. “You have a concussion. And I’ve been seein’ ye holdin’ yer side the entire bloody hike up here, so don’ try an’ tell me yer jus’ fine–”

“Jesus, you're incoherent when you’re stressed,” Ghost muttered. “Don’t sit down, then. Do a safety sweep, check all the locks.”

“Ghost—”

“Sergeant,” he said flatly.

Fucker. Soap’s mouth shut, and he respected Ghost, but not enough to withhold the pointed glare. He moved deliberately around him to go do as told, taking stock of every entry point and its security.

There’s a kitchenette with two windows that weren’t preferable to climb through but would do in a pinch. Better to use as a firing point for outside threats. One front door. One open living room, two windows with inside shutters, both viable exits. A small, L-shaped hallway, good for quick cover in close combat. One window at the end for an escape. One backdoor. Everything was fortified as promised, sturdy locks and solid materials.

When he rounded the corner, Ghost grabbed him by the arm and sat him down on the dusty couch. Soap made a noise of offense, and looked up to catch Simon’s bare face again, his intense eyes and jowls like a dog. He looked paler than he usually was, which was a real feat for someone whose skin hardly saw the sun.

Soap frowned. “Get sick again?”

He’s not sure how he felt about his very concussed friend being stuck in the middle of nowhere with no exfil on the way. No, that wasn’t true. He knew exactly how he felt. He hated it.

“Strip,” Simon only said, opening up the first aid pack.

The speed of which he shut down his initial reaction to say something unsuitable ought to win its own damn ribbon. Soap bit his tongue instead, pulling off his tac-vest and shirt. It hurt like hell to move his arms and his neck, not to mention his entire spine. His biceps and shoulders tingled with numbness as he removed the garments, dropping them lamely off to the side.

“Definitely got myself a case ay whiplash,” Soap sighed.

“Yeah. Me too. Stay still,” Simon told him, before he’s cleaning up the blood on his arm where the bullet had grazed earlier. Jesus, he’d nearly forgotten. Adrenaline still had his head buzzing. “You have glass in your skin. I’ll have to fish what I can out.”

“Goodie.” Soap looked over him with strained eyes. He’s trying to stay still under the sting of the cloth dabbing against his skin– even more so trying not to squirm under Simon’s eyes. “What about you? Did ye give yerself a onceover?”

“Bruised ribs. Muscle tears, probably. Concussion. Nothing else that I could tell,” Simon said shortly, as if he was documenting the injuries of someone else. His movements were careful as he cleaned up Soap’s wounds, and Soap was again faced with the dichotomy of Simon’s hands; how gentle they could be when given the chance. When they weren’t shoved a gun and given a target.

And Soap knew he was really glaikit from the adrenaline crashing now, because for whatever reason, he couldn’t stop imagining other things he wanted to see Simon do with his hands. Nothing lewd (this time)— but simple, domestic things, like how he’d cut Johnny’s hair. He’d reckon Simon would look quite bonnie scritching at a cat, or playing a guitar, or…

He wanted to see Simon in the warm light of a kitchen, rolling out the dough for shorties with his hands like his Mam taught him. He wanted to see him fold laundry of wool sweaters and socks. He wanted to see him make the bed, where all the sheets are quilts gifted from various nans in the neighbourhood. He wanted to see him hold sugar in his palm and shave sheep and pull a fish from a hook.

“D’ye ever wish we were..” Johnny started faintly, trailing off. He couldn’t find the word. “Easier?”

Simon narrowed his eyes, as if he was parsing this, turning it over in his mind to make sense of it. He’s since set down the cloth, now working with the tweezers and just as gingerly plucking out bits of glass from Soap’s skin.

“What’d’you mean, Johnny?” He mumbled.

Soap went quiet for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said finally.

He felt… despondent. Like he’d caught a glimpse of something he’d been very careful to avoid, because it was complicated and tangled up and looking at it made his chest hurt.

“You hit your head too?” Simon asked, shifting to look at Johnny’s face. His eyebrows are furrowed, his lip was jutted out in a way that Soap was beginning to learn meant he was concerned, or thinking, or both.

Simon’s own eyes, should it be noted, were dilated as naturally as anyone with a concussion— which was to say, not at all. But he hadn’t been putting any thought to it, leaving it to the side. Which either made him an excellent Lieutenant, or a very selfless man.

Johnny gave a weak smile. “Must’ave.”

“Hm. I’ll inform HQ we need a medevac as soon as I patch you up,” Simon murmured, and settled back to the tedious task of picking glass from Soap’s arms.

He could sit here forever.

—

The brass, of course, have a mind of their own. Not every deployment landed them together, even if most of them did. Just this last week, Ghost had been sent out to Kosovo on an op that Soap was fairly certain he would have been sent on too— if not for a minor injury he had yet to be cleared for.

Soap had spent the week doing physical therapy, sleeping, and being properly scunnered. He checked his phone, saw nothing new. Took a lap around his room. Repeated. Felt like a bloody dog waiting for his person to come back.

The text did arrive, eventually, the buzzing waking Soap up from his monotonous, unbothered rest.

Simon

Soap. Youwake? [03:43 AM]

Soap squinted back at the text, feeling the back of his neck prickle. There was something unsettled in him reading through the message, and not just because he’d been woken abruptly.

You ok? [03:43 AM]

NSI. [03:43 AM]

Jst got bsck [03:44 AM]

Did you see medical? You don’t sound alright [03:44 AM]

Johnny stared at the screen for several minutes, his body tense. At any moment, he’s waiting to get up, to move. Pull the trigger, toss the frag. He didn’t like the way Simon was replying to him, like they were talking through water and Simon’s words were struggling to float.

Tired [03:47 AM]

That’s that, then. Soap pulled himself out of bed in an instant.

Sit tight. Omw [03:47 AM]

The walk to Simon’s barracks felt far shorter than it really was. Soap’s mind had been pulled taut, a knotted thread come undone for one purpose. The same sort of single-minded focus he had before running into combat, really. It demanded an intense defense, and Soap was more than willing to provide that.

He knocked on the door, listened carefully. When it was silent, he tried the handle. He’s questioning the idea of Simon leaving it unlocked for him, but it does creak open.

Simon’s room was dark, the lights shut off, the blinds all closed, blocking any hint of the rising dawn. There’s a faint glow from the bathroom, which is the only sign of life at all.

Soap stepped in tentatively, locking the door behind him. “Ghost?” He called out, walking towards the bathroom. He kept his voice quiet, low.

When there’s no response, Soap’s lips pull into a small frown.

“…Simon,” he said, leaning into the door. “D’ye mind if I come in?”

Soft rustling, and the click of the handle. Soap carefully pushed the door open, so as to not accidentally hit him with it, and poked his head in.

Simon was standing at the sink, masked, eyeblack streaked messily across his lids that he hadn’t bothered to wash off yet. His shoulders hunch unnaturally, his head sagged. In the harsh light of the bathroom, he stood less as an eldritch shadow, less as a Ghost.

He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days.

Soap clicked his tongue softly, glancing at him through the mirror. “Yer in quite th’ state, big guy.”

Simon’s fidgety, as he stood. Quiet, clenching and unclenching his fists. He kept staring at his own reflection, though his eyes were bloodshot and blank. Startlingly blank, almost hazy.

Soap watched as Simon swallowed thickly, and he waited. He’s not good at vulnerability; he was always too rough, too quick to fix the problem, force the broken pieces together to make them right again–

(He’s making her tea, he’s trying to pull her from bed. He’s upset, he’s yelling, he’s arguing with her every other week. He doesn’t understand, but he’s turning seventeen, and all of his mam’s clothes hang off her frame, her mattress is sunk in, and he’s scared.)

– but there was something about Simon that for whatever reason, unequivocally steadied him. He can feel the dormant energy under his skin, the nerves used to lighting like a firework, but it remained contained. A spark without oxygen.

Simon cleared his throat quietly. When he spoke, his voice was rough, and small. His voice was shot. He’d clearly been yelling orders all week and no longer had the voice for anything than this gravelly mumble. “I want to… have it off.”

Soap kept looking at him. In the reflection of the mirror, he can see the openness on his own face. He was so much gentler than he thought he could look.

“The mask,” Simon mumbled, blinking long and slow. “But it’s… heavy.”

“Heavy,” Soap repeated carefully. Simon hadn’t ever told him the reason for the mask, just that he seldom took it off.

There were only a handful of reasons why someone would wear a mask as if it were a cross– which is what Simon did. He had called it a penance, once. There was nothing heavier than a penance.

“You want me to take it off?”

It’s a genuine offer. He had no expectations. This was such unknown territory he felt as though it could be taken either way. From an outside perspective, maybe it was silly. Physically, it was only an article of clothing, and Simon was a grown adult– one with a blood trail, no less. But there were layers to this. It meant something, and they could both recognize the other’s awareness with that.

Simon was silent. It’s so quiet a pin could drop and its fall would echo. After a moment of deliberation, he jerked his head; a short, hesitant motion that would’ve easily been missed if Soap hadn’t been closely following his every tick.

Then he bowed his head.

Jesus Christ, Soap thought distantly. Jesus Christ.

He brought his hands up, slowly, stepping up to the sink. Soap gently turned him– and Simon was taller and broader, but he moved under Soap’s hands like he weighed nothing, merely a puppet on strings. It didn’t even seem as though Simon was aware of the trust he was placing in Soap to keep him upright and stable and safe. Or, if he was aware, he was too tired to think of doubting it.

Soap carefully peeled up the mask, gently rolling the fabric from his neck, and slipped his fingers underneath. From there, it was easy to pull the rest up, his thumbs brushing over Simon’s temples as he lifted the balaclava over his head.

Simon’s eyes remained closed, but he shivered, his pale eyelashes fluttering– and Soap couldn't help but keep at least one hand on the side of his face. His palm pressed against the warmth of Simon’s textured cheek, his thumbprint saying a greeting to the scars.

He took note of every detail. The exhaustion in Simon’s face, the bags under his eyes, the creases in the greasepaint over his eyelids from at least forty-eight hours of sweat. His hair, short blond curls grown just enough to tease past his hairline, the humidity from the mask having made them stick to his forehead.

“You look knackered,” Soap said quietly, his eyebrows creasing. “What did they hae ye do out there?”

Simon only sagged deeper into his touch, if it were at all possible. The faintest line around his mouth tightened.

“Alright,” Soap murmured. His thumb moved of its own accord, gentle strokes across his rounded cheekbone. “Alright. Reckon ye need a shower, hm?”

Simon nodded slightly, his throat working around another thick swallow.

“Ok. Dae ye need help undressin’?” Soap asked.

“No,” he mumbled, dragging his eyes open like it was the last thing he wanted to do.

Soap nodded, working with the ache in his chest. “I’ll set out some fresh clothes for you, then. Don’t worry about it, just get yourself clean. You stink,” he added lightly.

“Johnny,” Simon said roughly, as Soap stepped back.

He immediately paused in the doorway, looking up, waiting for Simon to say anything else. He had this look on his face, like he had so many things in his head but none of them concrete enough to string into words. Gratitude, maybe, and something guilty, and distinctly lost.

“I know,” Johnny promised, because he did. And then, as an afterthought: “Am happy to do it.”

He left the bathroom door closed, but unlocked, and went searching for the garderobe. The shower faucet shuttered on after about a minute or so, and Johnny was pulling open a drawer. He rifled through plain black t-shirts, old jeans, feeling for anything worn enough to be soft. Soap settled on a pair of briefs, grey joggers, and a long-sleeved jumper with well-loved threads at the ends.

“Comin’ in,” Soap spoke up, cracking the door open. He kept his eyes low for privacy’s sake, and left the clothes on the sink counter. He’s slipping out in the time it took for Simon to mumble a thank-you.

While Simon showered, he found himself gravitating towards the kitchenette. There’s an electric kettle. A small amount of silverware. A cooktop, one that plugged into an outlet, and at least one readily visible pot and pan. Soap hadn’t known that Simon liked to cook.

He poked around in the cabinets until he found what he’d been looking for— Earl Grey tea bags (though he noted that there was also a box of Yorkshire, green, and peppermint), a box of cube sugar, and a single mug. The only mug Simon had, apparently, and it looked stolen right from the mess hall. The idea of Simon smuggling a mug back into his barracks had Johnny smiling as he warmed up the kettle.

Johnny debated whether he should try and make up something for Simon to eat when the man in question trudged out of the bathroom, lingering in the space across from Soap like he wasn’t sure how to belong there.

“Made ye tea,” Johnny said, pushing the mug across the countertop.

Simon blinked at it slowly, and then drifted to sit down. He held the mug in his hands, just feeling its warmth. He looked unmoored. His gaze had that hazy quality to it that made Soap question how much of him was really present.

“Simon,” Soap murmured.

His brown eyes flit up, tired.

“Hey,” Soap gave him a soft, easy smile. He paused, thinking. “Ye ken, ah was thinkin’ th’ other day about coos.”

Simon stared back.

“Where ah grew up, we had some folk jus’ down th’ brae, they had coos. Two, if ah remember. Spent summers an’ springs sometimes milkin’ them for a wee bit a’cash,” Soap explained, idly scratching at the clean countertop. “Had t’sit on a stool for what seemed like hours. Th’ ones for millkin’ coos have three legs, ye’know? It’s ‘cus the coo’s got th’ udder.”

Simon’s eyes flicker, and he dipped his head down, scrubbing at his face slowly. “Christ, Johnny,” he mumbled. “Your timing.”

“Don’ seem to recall you givin’ so much as a single fuck makin’ jokes in my ear any other time,” Soap goaded, leaning forward with a smile. “Fightin’ fer my life an’ all that.”

“It eased the tension.”

“Aye,” he agreed. He left the silence that followed open, hoping it would be steady enough that Simon would trust it to hold him.

Simon exhaled , looking down at his tea. A minute passed of just this; them sitting in the quiet of his kitchen.

“It was a shitshow,” Simon finally said, his voice quiet and rough. “So many bodies. Most of them didn’t look past primary school.”

“Jesus,” Soap mumbled, the levity in his face just falling. This part of the job was definitively the hardest, and it never got easier. Even someone as unflappable as The Ghost wasn’t immune to how… fucking awful it all was.

Simon shook his head slightly, his eyes blank as they stared at the steam rising from the mug. “The way they did it, just… brought me back to somewhere I’d rather forget.”

Maybe one day, Simon will tell him about it. About his past, his life before joining the military, before the SAS, before the 141. There was so much of him that was still drenched in shadow, and Soap wanted to know all of it— but on Simon’s time.

He remembered something his mam told him, once. About how the only thing more important than a story, was how it was told. Something told Soap that Simon was indebted to this more than most; so he didn’t push, now.

“Simon,” he started, and hesitated. He pursed his lips, unsure whether this was the right time to push on their fragile-laid boundaries.

Johnny was very physical. It was well-known. He always had his shoulder or knee pressed against someone else’s, always sidling closer for warmth like the runt of the pack. Touch was how he functioned best, how his mind cleared.

Simon wasn’t like that. He was notably a solid few feet away from anyone unless the situation dictated he be closer; to listen for orders, to watch someone’s six. (To cut someone’s hair, to drag their drunken ass back to their room).

Simon’s eyes flicker up from his tea.

“D’you mind if I–?” Johnny gestured, his hands lifting towards him.

Simon didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing– his eyes imperceptibly squinting, his lip twitching. Johnny stilled, his hands caught in the air, waiting. After a beat, Simon gave a small nod.

Johnny moved closer, standing just to the side of him now. He swept his hands over Simon’s shoulders, with the same tenderness and timidity of lukewarm water to a skin burn. The tips of his fingers brush over his clavicle, press at his trapezius, and settle finally at the base of his neck.

Holding Simon was the easiest thing he’d ever done. The warmth seeped into his joints, and Simon, still damp from the shower, was like sun on his skin after a light rain. Simon was trembling in his arms, Johnny could feel the way he swallowed and breathed like each slight adjustment of his own body took the strength of a mountain.

Johnny rested his head on Simon’s freshly shampooed hair, the wet curls tickling the scar on his chin. He kept himself a solid weight for Simon to sink against, his thumbs dragging against the skin under Simon’s sleeves.

“It’s alright,” Johnny murmured. “It’s over now, yer back.”

Johnny’s lips together for a moment, thinking. Then:

“It’s not yer fault,” he added, quietly.

Simon shifted in his arms, and Johnny immediately adjusted, so he could push out of the embrace if he wanted– but he didn’t. He only fidgeted, and let out a quiet, done-in sound, almost involuntary. A large beast with a thorn in its paw, and the yip that followed.

“Johnny…” he said hoarsely.

“It isn’t,” Soap said firmly. His hand came up, his fingers loosely tracking through the wet hair.

“I know that.”

“It’s not yer fault.”

Simon quietly shuddered. He shifted again, pressing his face into Johnny’s sweater like it would help him catch his breath. Johnny was steadfast. He doesn’t think about what he’s saying, but he knew he was talking— an unwavering stream of quiet words.

“Just breathe,” Johnny repeated quietly. “Ye still tired?”

Simon nodded stiffly into his chest.

Soap ran a hand over his head. He pulled back enough to look at him, his hand finding its place on Simon’s cheek again. “D’you wan’ to sleep? Y’can finish yer tea later, I’ll reheat it fer you.”

“Johnny,” Simon spoke again. His voice was raspy, caught low in the back of his throat. He sounded so tired.

“Yeah?”

Simon swallowed thickly. “You can stay. If you want.”

It was such an easy request, and Johnny knew why. From the moment they met, it had been a constant. In Las Almas, in Chicago, in the halls of the barracks, in the lowlight of Johnny’s bathroom, at the bar. Johnny, stay close. Soap, you better be right behind me. Soap, you with me? Hold still, Johnny.

Always a them, a we, an us. He’d been by Simon’s side before he even had to ask. His Oath of Allegiance.

Johnny almost smiled, the way his entire nervous system lit up. Purpose and loyalty was a powerful drug when it was paired with something as reverent as this. Of course he would stay.

He leaned in, his eyelashes brushing kisses on the skin of Simon’s forehead. “I’ll be here,” he promised. “No where I’d rather be.”

They won’t talk about it in the morning.

Simon will wake up and pull on a clean balaclava, and Johnny will mourn the skin for a moment and then eat breakfast in his kitchen. They’ll drink tea that’s too sugary and Johnny will be happy to do so.

When they’re done, Simon will fill out his paperwork, and Johnny still won’t have up and left— he’ll be sitting next to him with his legs sprawled out comfortably over Simon’s lap, doodling out the floorplan of his barracks. Maybe Johnny will ask to draw him, maybe Simon will let him.

Simon will tell a new joke. Johnny will laugh.

They could both get used to this.