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Ghost couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had seen Soap somewhere before. Something about his face was familiar. His eyes, maybe. He just simply couldn’t think where it could’ve been. It wasn’t as if he went many places, after all. He could have seen Soap at some other point during his work but something in his gut told him that wasn’t the case.
Soap was the type of person that usually rubbed Ghost the wrong way. Brash, arrogant and more cocksure than his previous experience gave him any right to be. It was as if he knew something about his own capabilities that everyone else didn’t. Not so much that he had something to prove, but that it was merely a matter of time before everyone else caught up. That sort of person usually made Ghost angry. Usually. With Soap, he believed him for some reason.
“How’d you get that scar on your eyebrow, then?” Gaz asked one day when they were between missions, all holed up at base like greyhounds awaiting their next race. Ghost was, of course, in the corner minding his own business.
Soap snorted. “This one?” he asked, pointing to a faded scar cutting across his left eyebrow. “Nothing exciting. Just some older kids trying to beat me up. Would’ve been worse if some other kid hadn’t stepped in.”
“Trying?” Gaz snorted. “Looks like they succeeded.”
“Nah,” the Scot dismissed him easily, “it woulda been a whole lot worse if that kid hadn’t stepped in.”
Soap no doubt launched into an in-depth recounting of the story, but Ghost wasn’t listening. He didn’t need to hear the story, he remembered it all too well.
Simon heard the telltale sounds of a struggle before he turned the corner. He might only be twelve but he knew the sound of someone being jumped when he heard it. Bracing himself to walk past and pretend he didn’t see anything, he turned the corner and stopped in his tracks.
It was two teenagers, probably only a little older than he was, beating up a kid. To give the kid some credit, they were both sporting bruised faces and it looked like he had broken one of their noses. To take the credit away, Simon knew full well that fighting back only made it worse. That was a lesson that he had learned early. Still, what could this kid have possibly done?
“Fucking bender!” one of the boys shouted, landing a particularly vicious punch. Oh.
Simon’s fists clenched. He didn’t know why words like that got to him so much. Why they made him twitch and come out in a cold sweat. An accusation even if they weren’t directed at him. No, he couldn’t let it go. Not this time.
“Oi! Leave him alone!” Simon called out, his voice shaking as he reached into his pocket for the knife that Tommy had given him.
Ghost was pulled from his reverie by Soap’s loud voice. “An’ then he pulled out a knife,” he chuckled. “Big thing, too. More like a machete. No clue what a kid that age was doin’ with one but I was grateful. The two boys cleared off sharpish, then.”
Gaz snorted, looking torn between amusement and concern. “You got lucky.”
Soap grew quiet. “Yeah, I did. Wonder what he’s doing now. He’s either a crime boss or a copper. He was the type to go either way, I think.”
Ghost smirked under his mask. If only he knew.
Simon put the knife away as soon as the boys had scarpered. He preferred to forget it existed. The kid was studiously avoiding eye contact even as he struggled to stand. He walked over to him, offering him his hand.
The kid looked at him as if he was going to throw a punch but eventually took his proffered hand.
“Thanks,” he said, not sounding like he meant it all that much once Simon had helped him up.
“You live round here?” Simon asked.
“Not really,” he replied.
“You don’t sound like you do,” he pointed out. The kid had the strongest Scottish accent he had ever heard in real life. “I’m Simon,” he offered.
“Johnny,” the kid replied, sniffling slightly.
Simon huffed a sigh, feeling obliged to make sure the kid was ok mentally as well as physically. “Look, they’re gone now. You’re fine. They’re punks so I don’t think they’ll be after you.”
Johnny stared at the ground. “I’m leaving soon anyway. Doesn’t matter.”
“You should get your face looked at, though,” Simon pointed out.
Johnny put a hand to his face, wincing when it came away bloody. “My mum’ll kill me for this. I…”
“It’s fine,” he cut in. “You don’t need to talk about it.”
“Do you think it’ll scar?” he asked, seemingly more chatty now.
“Not the foggiest, mate,” Simon replied.
“You talk weird,” Johnny said, looking at him shyly, judging his reaction.
It wasn’t the first time that he had heard that, but spending most of his time with his mother had made him speak strangely compared to children his own age. Precocious, his teacher had called him. Maybe if he paid more attention in lessons it would be seen as intelligence.
Simon snorted. “You’re one to talk. You barely sound like you’re speaking English.”
Instead of getting annoyed, Johnny smiled. Simon grimaced and shuffled on his feet awkwardly.
“Let’s get you back home,” he continued.
“Nah,” Johnny replied. “Not yet, please.”
Simon considered for a moment. It wasn’t like he had anything to go back home to. Nothing nice, anyway. The kid seemed odd but it couldn’t hurt, right? Unsure of where to go from here, he gestured to the park next to them.
“Come on, then.”
Gaz clapped Soap loudly on the shoulder, bringing Ghost back to reality.
“That must’ve been your guardian angel or something.”
Soap shrugged. “Maybe. He was nice, though. Sat with me for a bit and made sure I was ok. Funny how I still remember it so well. Can’t tell you shit about most of my childhood, but I still remember what shoes he was wearing.”
“Maybe you should track him down and thank him,” Gaz offered.
“I only know his first name, though. Simon.”
“Thanks for helping me, Simon,” Johnny said when they had sat on the swings, both boys lazily pushing themselves. “Ah dinnae ken what their issue was.”
“What?”
Johnny snorted, putting on an affected English accent. “I don’t know what their problem was.”
“They thought you were gay?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Dunno why.”
They can sniff it out, Simon didn’t say. They know even before you do.
“I didn’t even do anythin’!” Johnny huffed. “I can’t wait to get out of here. It’s a shithole!”
“Where are you from?” Simon asked.
“Glasgow.”
“Isn’t Glasgow worse than Manchester?”
“Sure,” Johnny replied, “it’s a shithole too, but at least it’s my shithole.”
Simon didn’t reply, just pushed himself a little higher. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been on a swing.
“Do you think the boys will come after you?” Johnny asked, seemingly incapable of handling silence.
He looked over at him, Johnny’s wide, concerned eyes were extremely offputting. “Why do you care?”
Johnny immediately broke eye contact, looking down at his shoes. “I don’t.”
“If they know my brother they won’t,” he replied.
“Oh. He’s scary, then?”
“Yes.”
“Scarier than you?” Johnny asked.
Simon frowned. “I’m not scary.”
The Scot seemed to consider that for a moment. “Not anymore.”
Simon didn’t want to think about what he meant by that, so he resolutely didn’t.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Johnny asked, breaking the silence yet again.
“What sort of question is that? Don’t they only ask that on American telly?”
He shrugged. “Just askin’.”
He sighed. “I don’t know,” he paused. “Actually, I think I do. I wanna join the army.”
“The army? Why’d you wanna do that? Don’t they just shout at you and make you run around?” Johnny asked, all big-eyed curiosity and Simon felt himself blushing under the scrutiny.
“I wanna get out of here. Do something. Maybe…” Simon stopped, wondering how honest he could afford to be. “When are you leaving?”
Johnny frowned. “Two days. Why?”
Simon nodded to himself. “Ok. Well, I think that maybe I can be someone in the army. My dad says they break you to build you back up and that’s why they’re all pigs but I don’t know…I don’t think I have much to break.”
“More room to build?” he asked.
Simon smiled despite himself. “Yes, exactly. I want to build someone who isn’t this…fucking coward.”
“You aren’t a coward, Simon. What about when you saved me?” Johnny protested.
“I had a knife and they didn’t. It wasn’t hard to scare them,” he pointed out.
“You didn’t have to do anything. That’s brave.”
“Maybe,” Simon muttered, the praise feeling like hands around his throat.
“I should join the army too,” Johnny said brightly. “Could be fun. Especially if they let you blow stuff up!”
Ghost continued to stare at Soap even after the topic had changed. Now that he knew where he knew Soap from, he couldn’t help but see that child in him. Those eyes were all too familiar. The same way he had looked at Simon with awe mixed with curiosity was the same way that he looked at Ghost now. Like he was seeing through the mask. It was offputting. It made him feel like he was itching under his skin.
Soap kept talking to him and Ghost found himself warming up to him more quickly than he would have liked. His usual tactics for keeping his distance didn’t seem to work with the man. He was seemingly immune to Ghost’s intimidating presence and his barbed quips only ever made him laugh.
It was easier during missions to justify their dynamic. It was worked to keep Soap properly focused and it allowed Ghost to relax a little. Win-win. Sure, Soap was obviously flirting with him, but Ghost ignored it. Or pretended to. Soap had a weird sense of humour, he knew that. If he flirted back, well, he was only humouring him. It was harmless. The way he ran through the conversations over and over again afterwards was perhaps less harmless, but then, Ghost had never been the type of person to run away from a bad time.
Still, he should never have allowed his guard to come down as much as he had.
“You never did say why you were in Manchester,” he said into the comm, there wasn’t anything else to do as he waited for more targets to appear.
Soap let out a surprised puff of air. “What are you talkin’ about, L.T?”
“Your story before,” he clarified. “The scar on your eyebrow.”
“I didn’t say I was in Manchester,” Soap said warily.
“Oh,” Ghost replied, kicking himself, “call it a lucky guess. I’m a Manchester boy myself. If you were gonna get jumped at eleven, it would be there.”
“Sure,” he replied, dragging the word out. “You a lucky person, then?”
“I’m alive, aren’t I?”
The Scot barked out a laugh. “Good one, L.T. Wait. I’ve got movement. Moving forward.”
The topic was dropped after that, which Ghost couldn’t help but be thankful for. His own curiosity had dropped him in the shit. He had wrongfully assumed that since Soap was such a prolific chatterbox that he would have mentioned where it had happened. Stupid mistake. Rookie, really.
Ghost should have expected that Soap wasn’t going to let it go. That man was like a damn Rottweiler when it came to finding out the truth when he was curious about something. So it shouldn’t have surprised him when Soap tracked him down in his room one night after a mission. He just had time to put on his mask again when the door opened after two knocks.
“You never told me that your name was Simon,” he said by way of greeting, stepping into Ghost’s room without being invited.
“It never came up in conversation,” Ghost replied, closing the door quickly. He had a feeling that wherever this conversation was going, he didn’t want it to be overheard.
“You never thought to tell me that you were him?” Soap pressed.
Ah, there we go. Finally out with it.
He shrugged, glad that he had put his mask on. He didn’t want Soap to see his expression.
“Like I said, it never came up.”
The Scot rolled his eyes hard. “Why didn’t you say anything? Or was your weird question the other day your way of dropping a fuckin’ hint?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “It happened a long time ago.”
A lifetime ago for him.
Soap looked ready to snap for a split second before he seemed to control himself. “Is it weird to say that you actually haven’t changed that much?”
You never knew me, Ghost wanted to say. “Yes,” he replied bluntly.
“I mean, sure, you’ve got a new look and you’re probably triple the size you were but…I should have recognised you, I think.”
He snorted. “No, you shouldn’t,” he paused, itching to continue to speak for once. “I felt like I knew you from somewhere before you said. Like I’d met you before.”
“Guess you were right,” he replied.
“Well,” Ghost said, “now we’ve got this sorted out…we good?”
Anything to get Soap out of his room. It felt like the air was getting hot. The sudden confrontation of his old life with his present one was too much. He wished that he had his tactical gear on, he felt naked without it. Too much like a human. With the gear and the guns and the mask, he could almost fancy himself as something other than human. Some creature that was created to kill. Not…not whatever Soap saw when he looked at him.
“I did join the army 'cause of you, you know,” Soap said, almost offhandedly.
Ghost made a vaguely questioning noise, unable to properly speak.
“I remember hearing you talk about it and thinking that maybe I wanted to be built up too. Maybe I could be something. I did shite in school and well…that’s most squaddies’ story, right? I didn’t think you would have actually done it too, Simon.”
The use of his name made Ghost straighten automatically. “You joined the army because of someone that you knew fuck all about, then.”
Soap didn’t seem bothered by his quip, instead levelling him with a gaze that could cut through body armour.
“I still remember what you looked like then. Have you changed much? Guess so, but,” he paused meaningfully, “I think I can imagine.”
Ghost rolled his eyes. “Anyone can imagine what I look like.”
“But I want to know if I’m right,” he replied, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at his lips.
He clenched his jaw. “You want me to take my mask off?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No.”
Soap had the nerve to actually pout. “That’s not fair.”
“You think you…have some right to see my face? Is that it?” Ghost questioned, hardly able to believe what he was hearing, his pulse quickening.
“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s just…it’s a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?” he replied.
Ghost shrugged. “Don’t believe in fate.”
“Hey, I’m not sayin’ we’re soulmates but…you know. It’s a hell of a fuckin’ coincidence, don’t you think? Gotta mean something,” Soap pushed.
“And it means I have to take my mask off?” he said bluntly, hoping that if he put on his best ‘Ghost voice’ that Soap would drop the topic.
“It’s not that,” the Scot protested. “It’s just…I remember you then, and I remember myself then and I know how I’ve changed and I want to see how you have too,” he smirked. “Otherwise, I’ll just be imaginin’ a kid under that mask.”
Ghost groaned. “Fuck off.”
“Gotta give me something else to work with, then,” he said like it really was as simple as that.
“Everyone acts like it’s this big fucking deal seeing my face. It’s fucking not,” he muttered.
Soap’s expression softened. “You know the scar on my eyebrow? It’s my favourite one and not just ‘cause it makes me look so distinguished. It’s because when I was stuck in that fucking house, it reminded me that there was someone out there who looked out for me once, who protected me and it made me want to be like you.”
“You want to be better than me, Johnny,” he said, voice rough.
He smiled, taking a step towards him. “I will be. Come on, L.T. The mask…”
Ghost closed his eyes tightly, the material of his mask suddenly a presence against his skin. Something that he had long since stopped noticing.
“Fine,” he said eventually, the words seeming to shock Soap just as much as they had himself.
“It’s really that easy?”
“Don’t make me change my mind,” he snarked, reaching up to take his mask off quickly.
Take the mask off, let Soap have a goggle, mask back on. Sorted. It should be easy.
“Fuck me dead,” Soap said the moment the mask came off.
“Steady on,” Ghost mocked, the humour a safe defence against the sudden magnitude of the moment.
He could swear with certainty that no one had ever looked at him the way that Soap was at that moment. Eyes wide and mouth slightly open. His eyes were flicking across his face fast like he was going to be quizzed on his features later on, or perhaps that he would be tasked with painting a portrait from memory.
“You’re beautiful,” he said eventually, voice quiet like he wasn’t even talking to Ghost.
He frowned, his mask clutched in his hand. “No, I’m fucking not.”
Scary-looking, most would say - intimidating. Striking if you were trying hard to come up with something nice to say. Distinguished, if you were Captain Price. But beautiful? Never. Soap was, though, Ghost had to admit, even if just to himself.
“No,” the Scot said, dismissing him easily. “You are. Bet you cover your face ‘cause no one would take you seriously otherwise.”
Ghost growled. “Get fucked.”
Soap’s expression only brightened at his harsh words, like always. It seemed like he had some fucked up Pavlovian response to his insults.
“Or is it ‘cause everyone would be trying to fuck you all the time?” he continued, always pushing it that bit too far.
Ghost swallowed. “Something like that.”
He smirked. “Smart man.”
Seeming to sense his discomfort, Soap changed tact.
“I never did get to thank you.”
“I remember you thanking me for saving your arse,” Ghost pointed out.
“No, for inspiring me to join the army,” he said, his index finger coming up to rub against the scar on his eyebrow and Ghost couldn’t help but wonder if he had done it on purpose.
“Oh,” he said, dumbfounded. “Go on, then.”
“Thank you, Simon.”
The words were so earnest that it made him reach to put his mask back on immediately. He was out of practice with controlling his facial expressions and he was terrified of what he must be broadcasting at that moment. But Soap reached up and gripped his wrist, stilling his movement.
“Don’t. Not yet.”
Ghost stopped dead. Soap was so close to him. Close enough that he felt like if he took a full breath in, their chests would be pressed together. So he didn’t breathe at all.
“Ghost,” Soap said, almost a plea, “just….”
He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to. Ghost knew what he meant. He could see it in the hungry look in his eyes, a heat that he felt reflected in his own stomach. He should take a step back and de-escalate this situation before it was too late. Soap’s eyes moved from his lips up to his own, the silent question heavy in his gaze. Before Ghost could think it through, he nodded.
Their lips met gently. It was a shock considering the tension that had been simmering between them. He should have known that it wouldn’t last, though. Soap reached up to grip him by the hair and physically turn his head into a position where their lips met more firmly. One kiss turned into two, turned into three, until he couldn’t think beyond where their lips met. He could taste lingering alcohol on the Scot’s tongue and he wondered where he had been before he can come to his room.
Eventually, they had to pull back if only to catch some air.
“Well,” Soap said, his ever-present smirk appearing again, “glad we got that sorted.”
“I…I’m glad?” he asked, baffled. “What exactly is sorted?”
“That I wasn’t imagining that you were flirting with me.”
Ghost snorted. “Everyone knew you were flirting with me.”
He chuckled. “I wasn’t hiding it. I was kind of hopin’ you’d get with the programme eventually.”
“Not likely,” he admitted.
“That’s fine, I’ll drag ya along,” Soap replied, undaunted as always by Ghost’s manner.
And so he did. First, he dragged Ghost to bed. Then he dragged him into the first proper relationship he had ever had, and finally, he was dragged down the aisle. Willingly, of course, but he remained eternally grateful that Soap saw past his facade. There was no one he would rather be dragged around by.