Chapter Text
January 28, 2023
Northern Siberia
-25°C / -13°F
“Ghost?”
“Soap.” Ghost’s voice was a low buzz, gravelly with static. In the absolute silence of the snow-covered forest, it sounded both deafeningly loud and intimately quiet.
“What’s your favourite season?” Soap asked.
There was a short pause on the other end of the radio. Soap shifted his rifle the tiniest amount, peering down at the compound they’d been watching for the past week. Soviet-era training facility, low concrete buildings and a shabby obstacle course, alongside a tiny hangar that barely protected the rickety biplane within it from the relentless snow. Several pairs of armed guards patrolled the perimeter. Soap knew their schedules like the back of his hand by now.
He felt calm and prepared, enough to strike up a bit of banter while he waited for Ghost to get into position. And maybe Ghost felt the same, because he wasn’t snapping at Soap to focus or to keep the comms clear. He just answered the question.
“Winter.”
Soap blinked. He hadn’t really expected that. “Aye? Like right now?”
Ghost hummed confirmation. “Surprised?”
“Well…you seem tense, is all. When it snows back at HQ.”
A much longer pause. Soap knew immediately that he’d crossed a line. Having a casual chat with his lieutenant was often like navigating a dark ocean riddled with hazards he had no inkling about until they were upon him. But he didn’t worry about it, hardly even gave it a second thought. He would examine it later, after the mission, if he even remembered it once they were on the transport home.
The guard behind Soap’s scope lit a cigarette, hands nowhere near his weapon. His partner kicked at a snowdrift, clearly bored to death.
Ghost spoke again. “Been watching me, Sergeant?”
“No,” Soap said automatically, even though that was a bold-faced lie. “’S just that other night, I got up for a wee 2AM snack and there you were, sittin’ with your tea, glarin’ at the snow outside like it owed you money. Was like you barely even noticed me. Could’ve snuck up on you if I wanted to.”
A quiet snort. “I doubt that.”
“I’ll getcha next time, sir,” Soap challenged, childish. “Is it your scars?”
“What?”
“You tense up ’cause the cold bothers your scars? Damp weather makes the one on my knee hurt, sometimes. Never had an issue with cold though.”
“Hm. No.”
He didn’t elaborate, and Soap didn’t push. Conversations left unfinished, topics switching without rhyme or reason—it was the norm between them. The meandering talks never felt forced, the long silences never awkward. Soap simply considered the subject closed and cast about for a new one.
But as he nudged his rifle around to observe another pair of guards, Ghost continued, “Out here is nicer.”
“Here?” Soap said archly. “Bumfuck nowhere in the Siberian mountains with four hours o’ light a day?”
“Sure.” There was maybe a tiny trace of amusement in Ghost’s voice. Hard to tell over the comms. “Gear’s more comfortable at lower temperatures.”
“You and your bloody layers. Still cannot believe you packed three pairs of gloves,” Soap muttered.
“It’s quiet out here,” Ghost said, ignoring him. “Don’t like December. But I like winter.”
Soap blinked again. It was rare of Ghost to freely offer up crumbs of personal information like that. Soap used a deliberate pulse of mental energy to file away that little tidbit. Don’t like December. He didn’t ask Ghost why not. Just hummed a little, watching the compound.
“I’m set. Good to go.”
“All right,” Soap drawled, immediately dropping the chitchat. “Let’s give ’em hell, sir. You got eyes on the guards by the western gate?”
“Affirm.”
“Soon as they turn the corner, you’re clear to enter. Direct to the wall with the steel door. Camera’s still out.” Soap glanced at the laptop perched on the security crate beside him just to make sure. They’d gotten access to the compound’s surveillance as soon as they arrived, courtesy of a sophisticated little bundle of malware from Laswell. With one press of a button, Soap could disable the entire thing; but there was no need, since nobody ever manned the security room.
“Rog. Moving.”
Finally, Soap had a visual as Ghost emerged from the tree line far below. Clad in mottled grey-and-white gear in lieu of his usual dark getup, he was almost invisible. He headed straight for the tall chain-link fence surrounding the compound. A few efficient snips with a bolt cutter and he was through, creeping into the obstacle course. No alarms blared, no sensors activated. The fence wasn’t even electrified.
Honestly, the whole compound was so sloppily maintained and poorly defended that their diligent week-long stakeout felt like overkill. Soap was quite confident that they could’ve had this mission done and dusted in two, three days max. But Ghost had insisted on being thorough. Given what he’d just revealed, Soap wondered if this was actually Ghost’s convoluted idea of a relaxing winter vacation. How sweet that they got to spend it together, freezing their bollocks off every night in the abandoned hunter’s cabin that served as their safehouse. Nothing cosier than a candlelit dinner of ration packs.
“Two guards headin’ towards your three o’clock. I’ll pop the one on the left, you take the right, aye?”
Ghost crouched behind a slab of concrete and readied his silenced pistol. “After you, Sergeant.”
The muted crack of Soap’s suppressed rifle cut through the still air. One man crumpled, the other following a second later when Ghost shot him in the head. Ghost darted out and dragged them behind a stack of tyres, kicking snow over the thin trail of blood.
“Good shot, Soap.”
“Learned from the best, LT.”
Between them, they made short work of the six guards patrolling outdoors. Ghost didn’t bother hiding the final pair of bodies, instead slipped into the building’s interior. Soap switched his attention to the laptop to guide him through it. It felt familiar, like they’d done in Las Almas three months ago, except this time Ghost hardly even needed the supervision. His sense of spatial awareness was unparalleled, and a solid week spent studying the place meant he strolled along the corridors like he walked them every day.
Ghost cut his way through the compound without breaking a sweat. It was a thing of brutal, gory art. Soap watched hungrily, observing every minute detail through the grainy monochrome screens. It got his heart pounding, adrenaline pumping like he was there fighting by Ghost’s side.
Nobody even managed to pull an alarm until the entire place was down to five guards. Four, after Ghost knifed the alarm guy for his troubles. Three, after Soap returned to his gun long enough to shoot another through a window.
“Target’s makin’ a run for it,” Soap relayed, tracking the smuggler they were here for. “Rest of the guards are rallied with him. Looks like they’re headed for the plane. I haven’t got a good angle on that side.”
“On it,” Ghost said shortly, stalking through the carnage, unstoppable.
The men poured into the hangar. One of the guards hurried the smuggler into the biplane. Its thin aluminium frame bounced as they moved around inside it. The propeller began to spin. The other two guards rummaged through crates stacked at the walls.
“Hold yer horses, LT,” Soap exclaimed. Immediately, Ghost stopped in his tracks. “They just pulled out a bloody RPG, there’s boxes full of ’em—fuck, we should’ve checked those earlier—”
“I’ll go around.” Ghost sounded bored, for fuck’s sake. He kicked open a side door and strode out into the snow. It was coming down harder, dusting the short airstrip in white, obscuring his silhouette.
He took a wide berth around the hangar, jogging towards its open end, where the biplane was rolling out onto the tarmac. The guards were looking the other way, clearly expecting Ghost to come barging through the door any second.
“Careful, Ghost, ain’t no cover out there if they fire that thing at you,” Soap warned.
Ghost grunted in reply, sprinting now, rapidly closing the distance again. He lifted his rifle just as the guards finally noticed him—he fired indiscriminately along the entire length of the biplane, peppering its flimsy hull with high-calibre rounds. The engine belched black smoke and stalled. The guard inside stumbled out of the open doorway and toppled to the ground, dead.
Ghost crouched, sweeping his gun under the aircraft’s belly, shooting out the legs of the last two guards while they tried to run for cover. They fell, bullets tearing through their bodies. The guard with the RPG dropped the weapon—but with his final vestiges of strength, he slapped his hand over the trigger—
“Shit—” Soap gasped reflexively as the rocket shot off. Ghost ducked behind the biplane’s ruined shell—but there was no need. The projectile veered wildly into open air, over the fence, and harmlessly impacted the side of a mountain with a muted boom.
And then it was quiet. Through the comms, Soap could hear nothing but Ghost’s heavy breathing, and small pops and hisses as the plane’s engine caught fire.
Ghost straightened up and peered into the smashed cockpit window. “Target neutralised. That was—”
“Oh, shit,” Soap said again, eyes snapping to the snow-covered mountainside. The entire mountainside that was now sliding down— “It’s a fuckin’ avalanche, Ghost, run! Inside, now!”
Ghost took one glance at the wall of ice and snow racing towards him, and did as told. His gait seemed a little uneven—but Soap had no time for a closer look before he disappeared back into the hangar. The snow came down in a solid wave. It crushed the fence without slowing and crashed against the compound in a great glittering spray, engulfing the low buildings.
The camera feeds went dark. The avalanche settled with a long rumble. Thick white fog billowed into the air, obscuring all vision.
“Ghost?” Soap asked into the ringing silence.
No reply.
Soap cycled through the feeds, trying in vain to find one that still worked. A couple flickered sporadically, but revealed only empty rooms. “Ghost, do you copy?”
“Copy.” Ghost’s voice floated up from a sea of static. His next words were corroded and incomprehensible, but Soap still breathed a sigh of relief.
“Say again, Ghost, signal’s shit.”
The static swelled then cleared somewhat. “Said it’s bloody cold in here.”
Soap let out a slightly hysterical laugh. Of course their mission couldn’t just end on an easy note. “You good?”
“Solid,” Ghost said, after a pause.
He sounded…well, solid, Soap supposed. Not yelling or cursing or anything, at least. But something about it seemed off. “You sure? Your leg hurt?”
There were some rustling sounds, the click of a flashlight. “Guard in the plane returned fire for a sec. Think a bullet grazed me. Not bleeding much. Can move around fine. Get me outta here, Johnny.”
That was definitely off. “Where are you?”
“Armoury, I think. Can’t see the exits, room’s filled with snow. I’m nearly touching the ceiling.”
Jesus Christ. Soap looked through his scope. The fog was slowly dissipating, revealing a good portion of the compound completely buried. The biplane’s wingtip and bits of fencing poked out of the frothy snow.
He pulled up the blueprints for the main building. “You’re gonna have to do some digging, sir. Can you get to the western wall? There’s a door in the left corner, leads out into a hallway. Follow that and get to the barracks, the exits look clear back there.”
“Copy that,” Ghost said. He didn’t turn off his mic. Loud scraping noises filled Soap’s ears as he began to dig. Soap wondered if he was using his rifle or some other tool, or just hauling at the snow with his arms. The sudden mental image of Ghost tunnelling his way through like a huge, angry snow hare almost made another hysterical laugh escape Soap.
Ghost’s breaths were coming in slow, ragged bursts. It didn’t quite sound like he was exhausted or in pain. There was a measured quality to it, as if he was working through a set of breathing exercises designed to stave off panic. Not that Soap blamed the man, he’d just been caught in a fucking avalanche—but said man had also just single-handedly neutralised an entire compound’s worth of hostiles, had an RPG fired in his general direction, without so much as blinking. This was…new.
Soap hesitated, then said, “Take it easy, LT, don’t tire yourself out. We still got ’bout an hour of daylight left.”
The scraping paused. Ghost panted for a while, deliberate and definitely shaky. “Not tired,” he muttered. “Just…wanna get out.”
“Not a fan of confined spaces?”
“No,” Ghost said grimly, and the digging started back up with renewed vigour.
Anyone who made it into their line of work generally had pesky things like claustrophobia beaten out of them. But Soap knew that it didn’t necessarily mean anything to pass a test one or twice a year. And irrational fears like that couldn’t just be silenced like flicking a switch. He could walk up to the world’s friendliest dog napping belly-up and still have to suppress the instinct to flinch when its nose twitched in his direction. “You must’ve hated that part of training, then.”
“Wasn’t a fan,” Ghost grunted. “But training I can prepare for. This fuckin’ shite, though…”
“Aye, sir, don’t envy ya.” Soap kept the words flowing, memories of Las Almas licking at him like flames. “One o’ these days we’ll have a mission that goes smooth from start to finish, I know it.”
Ghost huffed. “Wouldn’t that be nice.”
“Reckon this one came damn close, apart from…this fuckin’ shite. Guess all that recon paid off.”
“Mm-hm. Maybe next time you might even get through it without complaining.”
“Ach, haud yer wheesht. You—”
“English.”
“I said shut yer face, sir. You were bored too, admit it. A whole week’s a bit much.”
“Nope.” Ghost’s voice seemed slightly steadier. “Like you said, it paid off. The thing with recon, Soap, is you just gotta get in the right mindset. Don’t focus on how your arse has gone numb, sittin’ in the same spot for six hours straight. Focus on the fact that watching the target now will save your life later.”
“Aye, LT, sound advice,” Soap conceded. “Still got a while to go ’til I’m better than you, eh.”
“You’ve come pretty far, Johnny.”
Soap felt inordinately warm for a moment despite the freezing temperature. “Thanks, sir. Speakin’ of progress, how’s it lookin’?”
“Getting there. Can see the doorframe now. It’s just a lot of fuckin’ snow.”
“Just think of it like a PT session. Mindsets and stuff, right?”
“Fuck off, Soap.” Ghost dug for a while then paused again to rest. “Can see light.”
“Oh? That’s good, means the hallway’s not buried.” Soap pasted some code into the laptop, remotely resetting the cameras. Most of them stayed stubbornly dead. “Still don’t have visual on you, but just keep heading west.”
“Rog. Out.” Finally, Ghost clicked off the comms.
Soap used the time to scan the compound’s surroundings in more detail, planning an exit route for Ghost to actually leave the area with. He couldn’t go back the way he’d come—the avalanche had flowed across that side of the land, forming a huge icy wall. The western mountain was too steep to climb. That left the northern end, where the slope was manageable, but Ghost would need to circle around a long stretch of forest just to return to Soap, and then it was an hour-long march back to the safehouse. He glanced worriedly at the shifting grey clouds, snowflakes dancing in the strengthening wind.
“Got through the hallway,” Ghost reported, sounding out of breath. The static was clearing up—he was away from the worst of the snow. “The barracks next, right?”
“Affirmative.”
“Interior here’s mostly clear. Won’t be a moment.”
“If you pass the mess hall, grab me a snack.”
“No bloody chance, MacTavish.”
Soap looked through the grimy, frost-edged windows. Finally, he found movement, a pale shape hurrying along the corridors. He grinned. “I see ya, LT. Welcome back.”
Ghost shoved open one last door and stumbled outside. He grumbled something indistinct and sagged against the wall, tilting his head skywards.
Soap frowned. Ghost never sagged. “Your leg still okay?”
“Yeah. Just enjoying the fresh air.”
Soap wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm or not. “Well, hate to cut your break short, but it’s forty minutes ’til sundown. Less if this weather gets worse. And you got a bit of a trek to make.”
“Forty?” Ghost said slowly. “I’ve only been in there twenty minutes?”
“Yes, sir. You’re a fast digger.”
Ghost made a short, strange noise. A rasp of a laugh, maybe. Before Soap could comment on it, Ghost straightened up and looked at the metres-tall snow piled up by the fence. “Where to?”
“North, up that slope and through the forest, it should connect back. I’ll be right where ya left me.” Soap bit his lip, deliberating. “Or…I’m thinkin’ I come down to you, and we’ll shelter in the base for the night—”
“No,” Ghost said immediately. “I am not spending one more fuckin’ second down here.” He turned and began to stomp his way through knee-high snow.
Soap spluttered, “But—pretty sure a blizzard’s gonna hit tonight. Your leg—”
“For the last bloody time, the leg’s fine. You go ahead first. Get the cabin warmed up, I’ll need it. I’m covered in this powdery shit.”
“Ghost—”
“Don’t make me order you, Sergeant.”
Soap bristled at that. “All due respect, Lieutenant, yer not being very logical righ’ now. Base is cleared of hostiles, got food an’ blankets, maybe even hot water—”
“Fuck’s sakes, stop nagging and go,” Ghost repeated. “If you come here, I’ll just walk right past you, and you can enjoy your little sleepover by yourself.”
Soap opened his mouth to argue. But ultimately, he gave in with an exasperated huff, only because he knew Ghost didn’t make idle threats, no matter how insane they sounded. He snapped the laptop shut and stuffed it back into its case, shouldering his gear. “Fine. But check in so I know you’ve not turned into a popsicle somewhere on the mountainside.”
“Fine,” Ghost returned. “Out.”
Soap rolled his eyes and made his way back to the safehouse, alone.
Night descended quickly and aggressively, grey afternoon light fading into blue then indigo then pitch black. The wind started to howl through the swaying trees, bringing heavy waves of snow. The temperature dropped to dangerous levels; even with his state-of-the-art protective layers, Soap began to shiver. It wasn’t much better inside the cabin. He stripped off his gear and replaced it with his spare parka, scarf, beanie, and just about every last thing he’d packed.
He built the largest fire he could manage with their low stack of damp firewood. They’d been spare with it throughout the week, but now it was time to go all out. If exfil was delayed tomorrow, which might well happen if the blizzard didn’t clear up, he would bodily drag Ghost back to the compound before they both froze to death, Ghost’s unexplained defiance of common sense be damned.
He checked in with Ghost twice via the struggling comms, getting clipped but calm responses that he was on his way. It helped, until the signal gave out entirely, engulfed by the storm. Then there was nothing left to do but try to coax warmth out of the sputtering fire and keep the cabin’s temperature above freezing. Soap poked at the smoking logs, a little irritated, a little concerned, a little confused. Mostly, he cursed out that godforsaken avalanche for ruining their otherwise perfect mission.
Ghost came in a long hour later, damn near shoving the door off its hinges. He kicked it shut, batted roughly at the bolt lock until the rusted metal clicked into place. His gear was caked in snow. It flaked off his frame in small streams—he was shivering so hard that his entire body quaked.
“Bleedin’ Jesus,” Soap muttered, waving him towards the fire.
Ghost lurched over, almost stepping into the hearth, and fell to his knees in front of the meagre flames. He hugged his rifle to his chest to conserve every last bit of warmth.
“Lemme grab that,” Soap said, carefully prying the weapon from his death grip. The icy metal was cold even through his gloves. When the gun was free, Ghost tucked his elbows in and hunched over, his breaths shallow and shaking.
Soap removed his helmet next, then worked clumsily at the straps of his tac vest. He could feel the cramped muscles of Ghost’s abdomen, probably seized too tightly for speech.
“How’s the leg?” Soap peered around him, eventually locating a tear in his uniform, near his ankle. A patch of blood darkened the fabric.
Ghost jerked his chin in what was simultaneously a nod and a shake of the head. Soap took the non-answer as a fine and shut up, Soap, stop asking. He grinned a little.
He tried for some levity, though it was hard when his teeth were beginning to chatter, now that Ghost was hogging the fire’s warmth. “Kinda jealous of your mask right now, LT. Is it thermal fabric?”
“No,” Ghost rasped, coughing at the end of the short word. He reached up and yanked the mask off unceremoniously. Soap’s surprise was wiped away when he saw that Ghost’s hair was wet, matted down in clumps. Ice crystals clung to his eyelashes. His skin was pallid and blotchy.
“Hell’s bells, what were you thinking?” Soap had meant to tease him about this whole ordeal, rib him for his uncharacteristic slip in judgement, but it only came out worried.
He abandoned the vest and grabbed a towel from the sparse kitchenette, pressing it to Ghost’s head to absorb the moisture, tucking it under his collar to catch any drips. Ghost knelt there and let him do it.
“Rest of you dry?” Soap asked, returning to the straps, commanding his numb fingers to obey.
Ghost nodded, coughed again. “’M fine. Head’s clear. Just—fuckin’ cold.”
“Get ya nice and toasty in a minute,” Soap promised, finally getting the tac vest open. He managed to wrestle it off Ghost’s body, but when it came to the plate carrier underneath, Ghost curled up a little tighter, resisting his attempts to remove it. Soap pried at his arm. “C’mon, LT, that shit’s not keepin’ you warm.”
“It is,” Ghost mumbled, swaying closer to the fire like he wanted to crawl inside it.
Soap tugged off a glove and pressed his fingers to Ghost’s neck. Ghost flinched like he’d been branded, cursing at him. Soap ignored him and counted his pulse. It was slower and weaker than he liked, but by his reckoning it wasn’t in life-threatening territory. Yet.
The wind whistled angrily through what felt like a million gaps in the cabin’s walls. It was still early in the evening. The temperature had ample time to keep dropping and murder them both before dawn. Ghost’s shivering hadn’t eased up one iota. And maybe Ghost’s head wasn’t as clear as he claimed: the fact that he still hadn’t reached for a spare mask felt abnormal, to say the least.
Soap made the decision. He stood and went to the cot they’d been taking turns sleeping on, pulling it in front of the fireplace. He made a circuit around the cabin, gathering all their bags and gear, placing it into a pile within easy reach. He took every blanket, towel, and article of clothing he could find and layered them over the cot’s thin mattress.
“Up ye get, LT,” Soap said, patting the sad excuse of a blanket fort.
Ghost glanced over. Finally, he deigned to move, shuffling back to sit on the edge, although he immediately hunched towards the fire again. Soap shoved the cot a little closer and climbed in behind him.
“All right. Take off your gear. And lie down.”
Ghost stared at him. His eyes were a little unfocused. “W-why,” he said, the word trembling out of him. He was shivering hard enough to make the flimsy bedframe rattle.
“Storm’s getting worse. You’re going hypothermic. I’ve grabbed every last scrap of cloth in this place and it’s not gonna be enough. Need to do some tactical cuddling, or we’ll end up a couple o’ ice sculptures come morning.”
Ghost swallowed and seemed to steady his voice through sheer fucking will. “Sure that’s the right term for it?”
“Tactical?” Soap grinned. “That’s the term you’d use, LT.”
“Cuddling,” Ghost clarified flatly.
Soap snickered. “Just callin’ it like it is. Gear off, sir. Clothes too, or you’ll drip all over the place. Keep the thermals on if you’re shy.”
Ghost looked away. He sat there and didn’t move a muscle, aside from his whole body trying to shake itself out of its own bones.
“Ghost,” Soap implored, exasperated again. “Come on. You’re the one who dragged us into that arctic survival course before we left, you know the drill here.”
Ghost took a long breath and slowly began to remove his kit like Soap had ordered him to his execution.
Soap wasn’t sure what to make of the strange behaviour, but he let it slide for now, watching with a careful eye as Ghost undressed. The outer layer of his gear was wet with snowmelt, the second layer damp in spots. Thankfully, the thin thermal layers were dry. As Ghost lay down stiffly, Soap rolled up the hem of his pants to check the wound on his shin. There was a nasty tear in the skin, but it wasn’t deep enough to need stitches, and the cold had stopped the bleeding completely. He took Ghost’s IFAK and gave it a perfunctory clean and wrap. Ghost stayed as still as a corpse. A violently shivering corpse.
Soap settled down beside him, shedding his own outerwear. The clothing was piled back over them, insulating the crude nest they were curled up in. He tucked a blanket over the whole ensemble. Finally, he squirmed up close, slinging an arm and leg over Ghost, locking their bodies together.
Immediately, warmth seeped through the contact. He let out a satisfied little hum and rested his head on the corner of the pillow, next to Ghost’s shoulder.
Ghost was tense against him. He was doing those breathing exercises again, silently, but Soap could feel it clear as day. Repeated cycles of inhale, hold, exhale, hold. As if Ghost was captured behind enemy lines, preparing to be interrogated.
Soap murmured, “You okay, LT?”
“Believe that’s the third time you’ve asked me that, Sergeant,” Ghost said tersely.
“Aye, ’cause ye keep givin’ me reason to. Relax, would ya, I ain’t gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely.”
Ghost ignored that last bit. “I am relaxed.”
“Sure, and that’s why you feel like you’re ’bout to sprain every muscle in your body,” Soap retorted.
“Just cold.”
“Put your arm ’round me, it’ll speed this along. Christ, cannae believe I have to explain how cuddling works.”
Ghost didn’t move. He breathed in, paused, breathed out, paused.
Soap sighed a little, dropping the humour. “I’m not tryin’ to make you uncomfy or anything, sir, I ken you like your space. Just don’t see another way, the fire’s not gonna do much for an hour at least, and—”
“’S not you, Johnny.”
Soap stopped. He stared at the fabric of Ghost’s shirt. “What is it, then?”
Ghost said nothing.
Soap chanced a glance up. Ghost’s face was still uncovered. He was gazing at the far end of the cabin. The deep shadows made his eyes look hazy and exhausted. Usually, when he got all distant like this, it wasn’t a good idea to engage with him. But Soap had never quite followed the unspoken rules surrounding Ghost that others tiptoed so carefully around. And pressed together as they were, it felt like the normal boundaries weren’t there.
“Is that breathing pattern helping?” Soap asked quietly.
“Dunno,” Ghost replied, toneless. “Not really.”
Soap tucked his nose into the crook of Ghost’s neck, because it was warm there, because he just wanted to. “Try matching mine, then. Stop counting it. Just…feel it.”
He took a deep breath to demonstrate, his chest expanding against Ghost’s. And out again. A steady, natural rhythm that he didn’t need to think about. Ghost’s breaths stayed artificially measured. But his hand twitched, hesitantly coming up to rest on Soap’s hip. Soap shifted closer with a small hum of encouragement. The shaking hand wandered up his side, rising and falling with the movement of his ribs.
Very gradually, Ghost’s breathing fell into sync with his, then drifted out again as it evened into its own rhythm. He was still tense and shivering, but it was better than before. The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and the muffled noise of the storm outside. Soap idly considered cracking a joke or two, maybe throw in a couple of flirts for good measure, but as the minutes slipped by, he found he liked the silence more. He even began to drift off, the anxiety in his gut having faded away.
And then Ghost stuck his frigid hand up the back of Soap’s shirt.
Soap yelped, hissing, “Fuckin’ son of a devil—”
“You’re warm,” Ghost said.
“And yer a block o’ pure dry ice.” Soap shuddered, goosebumps racing over his entire torso. He scowled when a single huff of laughter shook Ghost’s chest. “Enjoying yerself, are ya?”
“Mm-hm.” Ghost’s bare hand travelled further up his spine, pulling him in, his other arm burrowing underneath him to finally enclose him in a proper hold. “Like a fuckin’ furnace,” he mumbled into Soap’s hair.
Soap’s slew of colourful insults died on his tongue before he could unleash it. He felt heat rush through him again, suddenly glad that Ghost couldn’t see his face. He cleared his throat. “Aye, well, tha’s the point. Ye feel better now?”
“A little.”
“Might take a while ’fore the shivering stops.”
“I know.”
“Your head’s still clear?”
“Yeah.”
Soap wriggled in even closer. Ghost’s arms were wrapped around him—he was going to selfishly enjoy this moment, never mind that it was a medical necessity or whatever. He only wished that Ghost would enjoy it too, but tension stubbornly lingered throughout his body, even as his shivering began to ease.
“What’s eating you, LT?” Soap mumbled.
“Nothing.”
Soap accepted the non-answer silently, pressing his face against Ghost’s shirt.
Ghost heaved a sigh, cool breath rolling down Soap’s neck. “The avalanche. All that snow coming down, it…blindsided me, is all. Jogged some…stuff.”
“What kinda stuff?” Soap asked carefully.
“Old stuff. Stuff that makes the…tactical cuddling…” Ghost huffed. “More difficult than it should be. Sorry.”
Soap swallowed down his astonishment. Sorry was not a word that often came out of Ghost’s mouth. Part of him wanted to hear the details, but he already knew this was all Ghost was going to give. “You dinnae need to apologise, sir. All cosied up now, that’s all that matters. I’m with ya.”
“Yeah,” Ghost whispered, almost to himself. “It’s just you.”
“Just little ol’ me,” Soap confirmed, squeezing Ghost to him.
The quietness stretched on for a minute.
Ghost broke it first. “You did good back there, Johnny. Switching between the cameras and the gun like that. Solid overwatch.”
Soap chuckled. “Not that you really needed it.”
“Not my point. And I did, when…the snow came in.” Ghost swallowed, but his voice had finally lost its ragged edge. “And you got me out. Needed that.”
“Happy to help, then,” Soap said. “Still think we should’ve camped in their barracks.”
“Not happening.”
“I bet you’re regretting that hike, though.”
“Not one bit. I love a good stroll through nature.”
Soap snorted. “Love turnin’ yourself into a snowman, is that it?” Impulsively, he drew back and touched his fingertips to Ghost’s face, brushing over his ears, grazing his thumb across the tip of his nose. “You’re lucky the important bits didn’t freeze off.”
Ghost shook him off like a fly. “Whatever.” He reached into the mound of fabric piled over them and rescued one of his balaclavas. Soap stared shamelessly until he pulled it on. Then stared some more, until Ghost shoved his head. “Stop gawking, Johnny, it’s rude. Get back here.”
Soap tucked himself back in with little more than a snide yessir. He could behave sometimes. Especially when behaving meant that he got to cuddle Ghost in a blanket fort.
They didn’t speak again. Ghost’s shivering tapered off into small bursts. Eventually, it stopped altogether. Without the tiny movement, the silence seemed even thicker. It closed around them, trying its damnedest to be oppressive, but really all Soap felt right now was extremely cosy. It was utterly bizarre, but most things in his life were. It made him smile.
Slowly but surely, the fire warmed the room towards a saner temperature. The pots of snow that Soap had set within the hearth earlier were beginning to steam. Soon, they could get up and make some hot beverages, prepare a couple of ration packs. Another lovely dinner by firelight. But not yet. Soap wanted to stay here a little longer.
Ghost let out a long breath. All at once, the last of the tension drained out of him, his muscles going lax, body slumping against Soap. He was heavy, and Soap absolutely loved it.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Ghost said tiredly.
“What’s that, LT?”
“My favourite season,” Ghost grunted. “Winter can fuck right off. Favourite season’s summer now.”
Soap’s smile turned into a tiny laugh. He tightened his limbs around Ghost and shared as much heat as he could.