Archive of Our Own ^beta

Thursday, 7 September 2023, 19:45

“Lt, you gotta taste this.”

Soap holds out his spoon, homemade—but not, he started from a jar—spaghetti sauce almost dripping off it before Soap wipes it on the side of the pan, then holds it out again. He keeps his hand under it in case it does drip, careful. The kitchenette smells like basil and garlic, onion, faintly of grease and gunpowder. Price and Gaz only half awake at the small table, talking.

Not home, and yet.

Ghost pulls his balaclava up, just enough, and Soap brings the spoon to his lips, not forcing it against them, just waiting, hands steady and eyes crinkled on a half-smile. There’s a streak of something on his cheek, dust or flour, too white to be ash. Ghost blows on the spoon, but watches Soap. Touches his mouth to it carefully, almost apprehensive. Licks the sauce off his lips.

It’s good.

Tuesday, 21 November 2023, 17:15

Everything moves in slow motion.

He yells for Soap, gets behind cover, lays down fire, watches other bodies drop. Gaz beside him, Price getting his weapon—and himself—up to try to take Makarov down, keep him from getting away while Ghost and Gaz deal with the remaining soldiers.

Ghost can’t look, he has a job to do, still on mission, focused and singular. Shoot. Kill. Shoot again. Cover Price, get Makarov, don’t look back, don’t lose sight of the goal. Don’t look.

A train rushes past loud like the blood rushing in ears, the Konni soldiers retreat, Makarov with them.

“They’ve gone,” Gaz sounds relieved, Ghost is anything but.

He turns from where they disappeared from sight, eyes falling to Soap, finally taking in what he saw already and had to ignore.

“Bloody hell…”

Ghost kneels next to him, sinking down slowly like his stomach. Doesn’t need to touch him to know. Couldn’t if he wanted to.

“Johnny.”

Ghost barely hears Gaz yell for Price; the bomb. He stays. Kneeling besides Johnny, the world narrows down to Soap. Tunnel vision, but he can’t look again. Keeps his head raised, his ears ringing, fingers tight around his weapon. Holding on tight to something that’s gone.
“I don’t know how to—” Gaz sounds frantic, scared, enough to bring Ghost back into the present.

He looks down at Soap, sees nothing but blood and wrong, this is wrong, this isn’t real, it can’t be —

The bomb blows, a split second of shock and noise and pain.

Then nothing.

Friday, 28 October 2022, 00:15

“Marines are loading in now. You and the sergeant are leading the way on this.”

“The sergeant?”

“Soap MacTavish”

Shepherd barely finishes speaking before the man approaches him, and Ghost met him before, a few times — briefly, but leaving an impression. Not a good one.

Ghost doesn’t blink, doesn’t offer a greeting, but the sergeant half smiles, squinting in the bright floodlights.

“Let’s get ourselves a win, yeah, Lt?” He bumps Ghost’s shoulder like they’re old friends instead of barely acquainted. “Save ya a seat, sir.”

MacTavish nods at him, then he’s off to join the marines in the helicopter.

Ghost stays behind for a moment. This is the guy they're putting him on the op with. Alone would be preferable.

“Fucking hell…”

He’s sure MacTavish is capable; they wouldn’t have picked him if he wasn’t. But prior experience—however brief—indicates he’ll be a pain in Ghost’s ass the entire time. Insubordinate, loud, stubborn. Hot-headed.

“Ghost, you copy?” Shepherd’s voice comes in over comms, and right.

Ghost is a professional. He can work with this guy, and with any luck, it’ll be brief.

“Yes, sir.”

He starts walking in the same direction, after the sergeant and to the helicopter, trying not to roll his eyes. Both at himself, and the thought of working with MacTavish.

“Any issues?”

“Negative, sir.”

He’ll make sure there won’t be.

Tuesday, 21 November 2023, 06:30, 2

Ghost wakes, heart pounding in his chest, gasping for air, in excruciating pain like he was hit by a freight train, Johnny — it fades, slowly, until he can breathe again. Nothing but a bad dream. He has more than enough experience with those.

His sheets are soaked through, and that’s par for the course. Closes his eyes, inhales, exhales; steady.

They’re home, awaiting word on if Makarov shows up, or if he really was KIA. Ghost’s betting on the former, so are the rest of the 141. Shepherd’s full of shit, nothing new there.

He stretches, muscles tight from the nightmare, leftover adrenaline still ebbing away, and grimaces at the way the sheets stick to him. Shirt too. His legs are unsteady under him when he gets up, a tremble he can’t shake yet, but he heads into the bathroom and pulls his clothes off. Steady.

A shower will make him feel better. Clear his head. Wash it off.

It half works, and by the time Ghost brushes his teeth and dresses, he almost feels like himself again. Lets the dream fade into the others, pushed away to the back of his mind, mixing into the jumble of ’Don’t go there’. He doesn’t, if he can help it.

He runs straight into Gaz on his way out, same as yesterday, and catches him just a second too late, arm coming up to brace him on instinct.

“Careful.”

“Sorry, I’m starving,” Gaz doesn’t look that apologetic, and it feels like a weird déjà vu.

Ghost shakes it off and follows him to the mess hall, a little behind, a little off kilter.

Price and Soap are already seated, trays piled with the same shit food they’re served every morning, and Ghost and Gaz join them when they fill their own. Oatmeal, toast, eggs, sausage.

Someone to his left drops his tea, cursing loudly, mug shattered at his feet, and Ghost startles while he normally wouldn’t. He needs to let it go; Soap is fine, none of them blew up, and a fucking mug on the floor isn’t a trigger pulled.

Ghost turns back to his breakfast, pulling his balaclava up to eat, watches Soap’s eyes rake over him.

“You look tired, Lt. Sleep okay?”

Ghost has his mouth full of oatmeal—undercooked and over wet—and he swallows before answering. “Mm. Just a bad dream.”

Looking at Johnny still stings, memory of the dream settling over his skin like he didn’t wash it off and rinse it down the drain with the others. But he’s okay, they all are, let it go.

Soap nods, short, understanding. Ghost knows he gets them too. Different, but it’s all the same.

“You wanna spar later? Work out some tension?”

It’s not a bad idea; Johnny is the only one who can put up a fight against him. Still doesn’t win much, but it never bothers him. Toe to toe until they aren't, until Ghost tires him out and gets tired of playing with his food.

“That eager to eat the mat again?”

“Only if it’s you making me eat it, sir,” Soap grins at him, and it loosens the knot in his chest.

“Going to make you eat those words, too,” he stares him down, like that’s ever worked on Soap, and takes another bite of flavourless oatmeal.

At least the tea’s good.

“Don’t wear yourselves out, Laswell’s got a lead on Makarov, we could be on the move at a moment’s notice,” Price says from beside him, a warning not given without reason, but one they’re unlikely to heed.

“Anything solid?”

“Not yet, but close. Konni activity on comms picking up, we know what that means.”

Gaz takes a break from shovelling eggs into his mouth. “Time to get this bastard.”

“End of day, sounds like. Maybe sooner.”

Ghost isn’t holding his breath. He's as ready as the rest of them to finally put an end to this, but as always, intel doesn’t mean shit until it’s solid.

“Better finish your food, Lt, I’m not letting you off that easy,” Soap looks eager for the fight, stabbing his fork into something that loosely resembles a vegetable. It could just be green.

Ghost doesn’t mind giving him a warm-up.

An hour later, Ghost doesn’t make him eat his words, but he does eat the mat. More than once.

Soap wasn’t wrong; working out the tension still under his skin like this improves his mood tenfold, and by the end of it—both of them panting hard, a little sore, ignoring Price’s warning—the dream is nearly gone from his mind.

The sense of déjà vu still hangs over him, but life on base is the same most days, even if it feels like he can anticipate Soap’s moves better than he normally does. Telegraphing them more obviously, no real challenge to it, but Ghost switched gears, made him work for it, made him push for the defeat instead of giving it easily.

He’s still on his back on the mat, and when Ghost helps him to his feet, Soap bumps his arm, biting his lip.

“Almost had you.”

Same thing he always says, and Ghost shakes his head. “Almost. Stop dropping your shoulder on the fake-out.”

Same thing he always says, because Soap keeps doing it. It may work for him in the field, but it doesn’t work on Ghost. Not much does, when it comes to fighting Johnny.

“Maybe it’s not a fake-out, maybe I’m just making you get used to it until I get the drop on you,” Soap mimes boxing him, and Ghost smiles under his balaclava.

“How’s that working out for you?”

“It will. Not today, not tomorrow, but it will, mark my words, Lt.”

“Consider them marked. Consider me doubtful,” he looks away from Soap to pick up his water bottle, lifting his balaclava to drink before pulling it back down, “telling an opponent about your strategy is not the best way to win, just a word of advice.”

“It’s a double bluff, false sense of security,” Soap nods, more to himself than to Ghost, assured his plan will work.

Ghost lets him have it. He’ll be glad to get proved wrong.

They part ways, Soap to the locker room, Ghost back to his own to shower in private, like always.

Ghost doesn’t see the others for the rest of the morning, overseeing training by himself; same rookies as yesterday, same idiotic mistakes. One of them is the worst of all, lack of spatial awareness so bad that Ghost wonders how he even made it through basic. He makes the same error he did yesterday, ending up with elbowing his near-equally incompetent training partner in the face. They yell at each other, and Ghost sighs, but doesn’t interfere. Clearly, his instructions aren’t sticking.

Soap pops in near the end of it, like he often does, coming up to half-sit, half-lean on the desk Ghost took to jot down the same notes he took yesterday—back to the rookies like they’re not even here—and Ghost puts his pen down. He’s not gonna get anything done with Johnny here.

“I think one of your rookies is bleeding,” Soap says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

Ghost rolls his chair back and shoots a look past him. Broke his nose again. That’s gonna be a pain to heal, but maybe the lesson of ‘Duck when swung at’ will finally land, instead of the elbow. He shrugs and looks back to Soap.

“Seems so. Pain teaches, appears that I can’t.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, you taught me plenty,” Soap rubs over the fresh bruise on his wrist from this morning, “though, point conceded on the pain front.”

They’ve given each other worse than a bruise over the past year, but it’s true they made each other better too.

Ghost hums. “I can teach you a lot more. Them, I doubt it.”

“Oh, yeah? What are you gonna teach me, Lt?” Soap leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. Below his chest, pushing up like he’s a student trying to seduce a teacher into giving her a better grade.

His grin doesn’t falter when Ghost just stares up at him, unblinking, unamused.

“How to know when to shut your mouth, for one.”

Soap’s reply is instant, like he was waiting for the opportunity. “Could teach me when to open it, too.”

“Don’t seem to have trouble with that, sergeant,” Ghost doesn’t look away, but he can see a couple of the rookies pretending not to listen, stopping mid-exercise, just past Soap’s shoulder.

“Always room for improvement, you taught me that too. Sir.”

Someone snorts behind him, and Soap turns to look at him at the same time Ghost fixes him with a glare.

“Something more interesting than your work?”

The guy honest to God gulps and this is really what he’s working with.

“No, sir.” He quickly turns around, and so does Soap.

He looks much too pleased with himself. “You sticking up for me, Lt?”

“I’m doing my job, I suggest you do the same.” It comes out softer than he means it to, but Soap stands from his desk.

“Alright, dismissed! Training’s over,” Soap stands and directs it to the rookies, motioning them out like he’s the one in charge here.

Training is not over, but Ghost lets them scramble out the door, and spreads out in the slightly too small chair.

“Happy with yourself?”

Soap plants his ass back on Ghost’s desk. “Very. That’s what? Fifteen minutes of free time? You’re welcome.”

It’s not entirely unappreciated, but this isn’t the first time Soap has done this, and it’s setting a bad precedent. He should admonish him. He doesn’t.

“About you opening your mouth—,” Soap perks up instantly, like he knew he would, “—let’s grab an early lunch.”

“You’re no fun, anyone ever tell you that?” Soap pouts, exaggerated, like Ghost doesn’t know he’s plenty food motivated, but slides off his desk.

“Often. Mostly you.”

Doesn’t stop Johnny from seeking him out whenever he can, though, much too close and much too often if it was anyone but him.

Ghost directs him out the door with a firm hand on his shoulder, and pretends he doesn’t notice the way Soap leans into it.

They get the call to move out not an hour later.

The mission is — nothing out of the ordinary, not really. Vague knowledge of what happens a second before it does, too familiar, not enough, unsettling. Déjà vu.

Until it isn’t. Ghost can’t shake the dread settling over him after they recover the flash-drive. Trojan. Tunnel. Makarov.

Bomb.

When Price calls for them, frantic, needing back-up, with Makarov pushing down on them from the other direction, Ghost knows, then denies. It was a bad dream, this is real. The memory of getting there too late, Soap already gone, clouds his vision, but not his instincts.

They push through.

Price and Soap are down. Price gets up. Johnny doesn’t.

“Johnny!” He can’t look, doesn’t have to.

Ghost gets behind cover, lays down suppressing fire, doesn’t look. His heart’s pounding, blood rushing in his ears, blood shining on the cement, and he works on pure adrenaline.

It’s not real.

Makarov escapes. Gaz and Price are on the bomb. And Ghost kneels down next to Soap.

It’s another nightmare.

He shoulders his weapon. Reaches out. Soap feels real. As real as ever. Less than ever.

“Johnny.”

Please get up. He won’t. Ghost knows that even if he can barely look at him. The pain clawing its way up his throat doesn’t have time to settle or spill; Gaz’s shout barely registers before the blast hits him.

Pure explosive force, deafening, a split second of agonizing pain —

Then nothing.

Monday, 6 March 2023, 16:50

“I’d say poor bastard, but what a way to die. Beauty of a shot, sir.”

Soap, over comms. He’s positioned about a hundred meters away, taking the other angle while Gaz and Price wait to make their approach down below.

“Just another day on the job, Johnny. Don’t cream your panties.”

Ghost sweeps his scope over him, checking — Soap is watching him, too, before turning back to find his next target.

“I’m only showing some appreciation. Could show you in another way, if you prefer,” Soap responds while Ghost still has him in his sights, and Ghost doesn’t miss the way he shifts.

Leg drawing up slightly, likely just uncomfortable against the hard ground, always more twitchy than Ghost is. Patient, sure, but only when he needs to be. Ghost could stay here for hours without moving a muscle. It’s meditative almost; find a target, execute. No need for any thought other than distance and wind. Rifle like a well-loved dog responding to his touch.

Obeying his commands without question, as long as he takes care of it.

“You can show me by getting the man at your one o'clock. I might clip the wall if he moves.”

Soap nods, Ghost still watching him instead of the courtyard. “Rog. I see him.”

Ghost adjusts his aim, the soldier barely peeking out from this angle, and watches his face turn to red mist as Soap drops him.

“Well done, sergeant. Talent for destruction.”

“Learning from the best, Lt.”

He looks back to Soap, in time to see him shift again, a clear press of his hips downwards, leg hiking up higher. Either he needs a piss, or — Soap arches his back, only a bit, keeping his shoulders—and weapon—steady, then rolls his hips down.

“There’s another about fifty meters to his left. Get him for me, Johnny.”

Ghost could get this one himself, clear path from here to there, but he doesn’t take his scope off Soap. Watches him adjust his aim, pull back the bolt, breathe in, out, and then squeeze the trigger.

“Got him.”

He’ll take his word for it. “Good boy. But we’re not done yet.”

Soap rolls his hips again, more overt this time, and Ghost watches his mouth drop open. Getting off on the violence, or the praise.

“Got more for me?”

Ghost has a feeling which he’s asking for, and scans the courtyard. “Gotta earn it first. Your two o’clock, take the left, I got the right. See them?”

This would go faster if he didn’t enjoy indulging Soap. A distraction, but worth it for the way he responds, Ghost’s voice in his ear guiding him where he needs to go. Taking it too far, maybe. Not as far as he wants. It’s just a game, but Johnny seems to like playing it as much as he does.

“I see them. On your word.”

“Three…two…one.” Ghost pulls the trigger, and both of the soldiers drop, less than a split second between their shots.

“Now I am creaming my panties for you, sir,” Soap jokes over comms, but judging from the way he sounds a little breathless…

He slides his scope back to Soap. No panties, as far as Ghost knows, but Soap’s ears are pink, and he started moving his hips again. Unlikely to be enough to get results, but a little harder now than he was before.

“I can see that.”

Soap tenses, but doesn’t stop. Speeds up, ass coming up higher like he’s putting on a show, shameless if it wasn’t for the way the pink of his ears spreads to his cheeks. He keeps facing forward; more professional than Ghost, despite what he’s doing.

A hint of moan comes in just before Soap responds. “All for you. Tell me to stop.”

“You should stop. Are you gonna stop?” Ghost doesn’t order him. If he did, Soap would obey, but he wants to see how far he’s willing to go. Wants to see him come, and then have to walk around with the shame of what he did.

“No. Gonna—” He’s cut off by Price, interrupting sharply, voice not quite angry, but close to it.

“We can hear you. Keep it on mission and join us down here. Now.”

“Copy. Moving.”

Ghost stands, quickly adjusts himself, and watches Soap do the same, red-faced and biting his lip. He looks like he was as close as he said, still painfully turned on, like if Ghost told him to, if Ghost told him he could, he might come.

Ghost keeps his mouth shut.

Tuesday, 21 November 2023, 06:30, 3

Ghost wakes, heart fucking pounding in his chest, gasping for air, in pain, in — it fades, slowly, until he can breathe again. Nothing but a bad dream. Again. It’s par for the course; once they start, they can repeat for days before his mind moves on.

The sheets stick to his skin, and so does his shirt, and a shower will make him feel better. Usually does.

He closes his eyes, inhales, exhales; steady.

His muscles are still tight from the nightmare, fight or flight adrenaline slowly ebbing away, and Ghost stretches out before getting up. His legs are unsteady under him; a tremble he can’t shake yet, but he heads into the bathroom and pulls his sweat soaked shirt off, drops his boxers, sets the shower to hot.

They’re home, awaiting word on if Makarov shows up, or if he really was KIA. Ghost’s betting on the former, so are the rest of the 141. Shepherd’s full of shit, nothing new there. It explains the dreams though; worry nagging at the back of his mind resulting in his brain supplying a worst case scenario.

Normally his nightmares occur in the aftermath, not before.

The shower half works, water rinsing the memory and the pain and Soap’s face from clinging to him, and by the time Ghost brushes his teeth and dresses, he almost feels like himself again.

He tries to let the dream fade into the others, pushed away to the back of his mind, mixing into the jumble of ‘Don’t go there’. It’s harder if they recur, but Ghost is used to riding it out. They’ll finish the mission—and Makarov—and he’ll be right as rain.

He runs straight into Gaz on his way out, and catches him just a second too late, arm up to brace him, keep him from staggering back.

“Careful.”

“Sorry, I’m starving,” Gaz doesn’t look at all apologetic, and it feels like a weird déjà vu.

Again. Ghost shakes it off and follows him to the mess hall, a little behind, a lot off kilter.

Price and Soap are already seated, trays piled with the same shit food they’re served every morning, and Ghost and Gaz join them when they fill their own. Oatmeal, toast, eggs, sausage.

Someone to his left drops his tea, cursing loudly, mug shattered at his feet, and Ghost startles before settling; it’s not that uncommon, in a mess hall filled with sleepy soldiers.

Ghost turns back to his breakfast, pulling his balaclava up to eat, watches Soap’s eyes rake over him.

“You look tired, Lt. Sleep okay?”

Ghost has his mouth full of oatmeal, and he swallows before answering. “Mm. Just another bad dream.”

Looking at Johnny stings, aches, the memory of the nightmare settling over his skin like he didn’t wash it off and rinse it down the drain with the others. But he’s okay, they all are.

Soap nods, short, understanding. Ghost knows he gets them too. Different, but it’s all the same.

“You wanna spar later? Work out some tension?”

It’s not a bad idea, and it worked well enough yesterday. Tired him out until the image of Soap’s death faded into the one of him grinning up at him on the floor, breathless and bruised and alive.

“That eager to eat the mat again?”

“Only if it’s you making me eat it, sir,” Soap grins at him, and it feels wrong.

Bound as they are to routine, so used to each other that they’ll tell the same joke until it’s only met with a groan of disapproval, this is too similar.

“Going to make you eat those words, too,” he stares him down, suddenly feeling nauseous.

Ghost takes a sip of his tea, hoping it’ll settle his stomach.

“Don’t wear yourselves out, Laswell’s got a lead on Makarov, we could be on the move at a moment’s notice,” Price says from beside him, pulling him back into focus.

He sure of the answer, but Ghost asks anyway. “Anything solid?”

“Not yet, but close. Konni activity on comms picking up, we know what that means.”

Gaz takes a break from shovelling eggs into his mouth. “Time to get this bastard.”

“End of day, sounds like. Maybe sooner.”

That’s what he said yesterday. That’s what they all said yesterday.

Ghost is ready as the rest of them to finally put an end to this, but as always, intel doesn’t mean shit until it’s solid. It was just a dream.

“Better finish your food, Lt, I’m not letting you off that easy,” Soap looks eager for the fight, stabbing his fork into something that loosely resembles a vegetable. It could just be green.

Something is wrong. This is more than routine, more than his dream bleeding over into reality. Ghost hopes the feeling will pass once he takes Soap up on his offer; take his mind off it, shrug it off and move on.

But an hour later, it’s worse.

Soap wasn’t right; sparring until they’re both panting hard and sore—ignoring Price’s warning—watching Johnny on the floor time after time only makes him feel worse. It’s like he can still smell the gunpowder and blood. Can still see him lying there, gone.

He’s still on his back on the mat, and when Ghost helps him to his feet, Soap bumps his arm, biting his lip.

“Almost had you.”

He really didn’t, but it’s the same thing he always says, and Ghost shakes his head. “Almost. Stop dropping your shoulder on the fake-out.”

Same thing he always says, because Soap keeps doing it. It’s even more obvious today.

“Maybe it’s not a fake-out, maybe I’m just making you get used to it until I get the drop on you,” Soap mimes boxing him, and Ghost almost flinches.

“How’s that working out for you?” The words are out of his mouth before he remembers he already spoke them.

“It will. Not today, not tomorrow, but it will, mark my words, Lt.”

Ghost pushes down a fresh wave of nausea. It was just a dream. Unless they’re on a mission, every day is largely the same. Déjà vu and routine, that’s all this is. That’s all it can be. He looks away from Soap to pick up his water bottle, lifting his balaclava to drink before pulling it back down.

“Consider them marked.”

The nausea doesn’t ease, but Soap smiles at him like nothing’s wrong and they part ways, Soap to the locker room, Ghost back to his own to shower in private, like always.

Ghost doesn’t see the others for the rest of the morning, overseeing training by himself; same rookies as yesterday, same idiotic mistakes. Exact same idiotic mistakes.

He anticipates the elbow landing before it does, but doesn’t interfere. This can’t be real. He’s still asleep. Has to be.

Has to be.

They yell at each other, shoving blame and one another left and right, and Ghost looks at the notes he’s taking.

They’re date marked, of course they are. His stomach sinks.

November 21.

Not being able to read in dreams is a myth, but the knowledge is of little comfort. Ghost almost wants to slap himself, just to see if he’ll snap out of it, if the world will right itself to its proper position.

He clenches his hands, considers walking out, and almost does, just when Soap pops in, like he often does. Like Ghost expected him to. It does the opposite of easing Ghost’s worry.

Lazy smile, walking into the room like he was invited, coming up to half-sit, half-lean on the desk, he doesn’t notice anything off.

“I think one of your rookies is bleeding,” Soap says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

Ghost rolls his chair back, but he doesn’t need to look to know that it’s true. He does anyway; broken nose, again.

The words are out of his mouth before he thinks them. “Seems so. Pain teaches, appears that I can’t.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, you taught me plenty,” Soap rubs over the fresh bruise on his wrist from this morning, “though, point conceded on the pain front.”

Same bruise, same broken nose, same date. This can’t be real. He needs to get out of here.

“Can you take over? Need a piss.”

Soap raises his eyebrows but nods. “Sure. Be here when you get back.”

He can feel Soap’s eyes follow him out the door, but Ghost doesn’t look back. He’s not sure where he's going until he’s outside, breathing in fresh air. Inhales, exhales. Again. He needs to wake up. This isn’t real.

He doesn’t go back inside until his pulse steadies. There has to be an explanation.

Johnny is still where he left him, but the rookies are gone. He took Ghost’s chair, browsing through his notes absent-mindedly, and looks up when he hears Ghost enter.

Soap leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Took you long enough, did you get lost?”

His smile is easy and carefree; unbothered by the wait, but more than willing to poke fun.

“Today’s the twenty-first, right?”

Soap’s smile doesn’t drop from his face completely, but lessens, a slight look of confusion settling over his face.

“Aye. What, did I forget your birthday?”

Ghost shakes his head. “Never mind. Got my dates mixed up.”

“Feeling alright, Lt?”

Not even close, and yet. Soap’s presence is steadying; he might be losing his mind, but Johnny is here, and he’s alright, and they haven’t heard anything about Makarov. Yet. Nothing solid, but it hangs over his head like a blow just about to land.

“Fine. How about an early lunch?”

Soap brightens at the idea, just like Ghost knew he would, yesterday — today, notwithstanding. Johnny is always easily convinced if he brings up food.

They get the call to move out not an hour later.

Ghost goes through the motions. CCTV, tracking their target.

“Smoking, Johnny?”

“Blending in, Lt.”

“You say so.”

He feels sick to his stomach. Watches Soap pet a dog and follow the hacker.

If he’s right, and this goes the same way it did yesterday…

Ghost tracks the buyer to the pedestrian tunnel, and the team moves in shortly after. He’s not there to help out, but this isn’t where they need him. That comes later. And he won’t be in time.

They recover the flash drive; Trojan horse, train tunnels. Makarov.

“Let’s move, we may already be too late,” Price’s voice over comms sends ice through his veins.

Too late. Ghost knows what’s coming and he’s too late.

Soap is warm and quiet next to him on the ride in the service tunnel, and Ghost wants to warn him, somehow, at the same time refusing to believe it himself. There is no basis in reality for this to be happening, there has to be a reason, and after they get out of here, he’ll have his head checked out.

The only explanation—the only rational explanation—is that he’s somehow experiencing extended déjà vu; present feeling like memory, future almost like present. Brain injury, likely. Could have happened at any time, and surfaced only now.

Tomorrow. This comes first, and the way he can almost-but-not-quite tell where another Konni soldier will pop up to lay down fire has him focused and steady while he and Gaz search the tunnel for a sign of Makarov and the train. They save the hostages — just like yesterday, but this is just the start.

His comms crackle to life just he throws a knife, misses, already knows what he’s gonna hear.

“All Bravo, bomb located in crossover platform! I need cover here - now!”

“Rog, pushing your way!”

Gaz is slightly up ahead, and checks behind him to see if Ghost follows. He stays frozen to the spot, even with the Konni soldiers bearing down on them for a moment, before it passes and he moves. Not a second too soon, bullets flying past him while he returns fire, ducking for cover, trying to make his way up the tunnel.

This is taking too long, there’s too many of them, and only two of them, police littering the tunnel behind them along with Konnis.

There’s chatter up ahead, talk of holding them off before moving out, and Ghost is on comms before they even confirm it’s true.

“Price be advised: Makarov is in the Chunnel, he’s heading your way!”

The push forward is hard going, heavily armoured soldiers keeping them back and away from where they need to be, trains rushing past, blood rushing in his ears.

“Bravo, we need suppressive fire here, NOW!”

Price sounds frantic, angry, but they’re pinned down, and Gaz tells him so while they continue trying to clear the way to the team.

They work fast, fast as they can, but Ghost knows. It’s not fast enough. Wasn’t before, won’t be now.

“0-7 to 6. We’re punching through now!”

“Get here!”

Price’s reply comes an instant before two distinct shots ring out from up ahead in the tunnel.

The voice calling out is Price, then silence, quiet before the storm, then another shot.

Ghost and Gaz finally break out onto the platform, opening fire, dodging returning bullets, and —

“Johnny!”

He gets behind cover. Price gets up. Makarov gets away. Johnny stays down.

Gaz yells out for help with the bomb, and Ghost knows how this ends.

“Bloody hell—,” he kneels down next to Soap, shouldering his weapon; final moments, “Johnny.”

Ghost touches his shoulder, gentle, like there isn’t a fucking hole in his head, like there isn’t a pool of blood flowing under and out of him, like he’s trying to wake him up. Waits for the blast so he will. They both will.

“Red wire. On three. One. Two. Three.”

Ghost flinches.

“Disarmed… Disarmed, we’re clear,” Gaz is breathless, but relief sounds clear in his voice.

Bile rises in his throat. This isn’t how it goes. Price and Gaz turn, and he can’t look at them. Almost can’t look at Soap either, but forces himself to do it anyway. Face reality. This isn’t a nightmare, this is real, and Soap is gone.

Price hits the button to his radio, both him and Gaz stepping closer as it sinks in for them, too.

“All stations, this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralised. Bomb is safe…one KIA.”

The tunnel is silent after Price’s voice dies out, a heavy weight settling over their shoulders, and Ghost doesn’t stand until Gaz comes over to him to help him to his feet.

He doesn’t speak. None of them do. They leave Johnny in the tunnel with the other bodies.

Ghost wishes, selfishly, the bomb would go off. He can do better.

One more chance.

Debriefing takes hours, and Ghost goes through it on autopilot, recounting every move, every kill, every detail. Numb. He shouldn’t be here.

Gaz looks a little shell-shocked still, Price — Price just looks angry, practically snarling every word. Blaming himself. Ghost knows the feeling.

It’s 0300 by the time he’s alone, back in his room, and he undresses without turning on a light. His gear—he—smells like gunpowder and metal. Blood. Nothing unusual. It’s like it’s in his nose, in his throat, smothering him until his breaths turn shallow. There’s a streak of blood at his wrist. From —

He showers in the dark, longer than he needs to wash the grime off him, water too hot, face turned into the spray even when it runs into his eyes. Relishes the way it stings, the way his skin burns, the way he almost can’t breathe without getting water into his lungs.

Ghost avoids his reflection even in the barely there light, and doesn’t close his eyes when he lies down in bed. There’s only one thing he sees when he does, and he can’t.

Johnny.

Saturday, 21 October 2023, 21:15

“Keep still, steamin’ Jesus.”

Ghost moves again, switching the way he's sitting, just to watch Soap’s expression turn to exasperation. Smirks—hidden, thankfully—when it has the desired result. Soap moans, almost lewd if it wasn’t out of frustration, and Ghost relents, shifting to sit up straight, like he was before.

“I need to move if I want to get this done. You’re the one who wanted to do it now. Again,” Ghost shoots him a pointed look, and Soap meets it with determination.

“Can’t help it if you look pretty like this, sir,” he winks, exaggerated, before looking back down to his sketchpad.

Ghost shakes his head, mostly to himself, and folds the rag in his hand. He can wipe the same part of the barrel a few more times. He cleans, and re-cleans, the barrel, listening to Soap’s pencil scratch on the paper. It’s not the first time Johnny wanted to sketch him, but he’s taking his time today.

Ghost lets him.

“Look a little to the left?”

He looks at Soap first, who motions; ‘go on’. Ghost indulges him, even if it means he can’t see what his hands are doing. He doesn’t really need to, either indulge Soap, or watch his hands on his weapon. It’s instinctual. Habitual. Easy as breathing.

But Soap stands up, pencil between his teeth now, lips curved around it, sketchbook in one hand, reaching out with the other. He grasps Ghost’s chin, fingers warm even through the fabric keeping their skin separated, and tilts his face. Up and a little more to the left, Soap standing over him, eyes soft before his hand falls away.

He sits back down, Ghost doesn’t move. “Just like that.”

Ghost watches him sketch, hand moving over the sketchbook with a grace he doesn’t—wouldn’t—usually ascribe to Johnny. Brows furrowed a little, looking between Ghost and the drawing, and Ghost doesn’t even pretend to clean his weapon.

He swallows.

“You almost done?”

Soaps’s hand stills, and he meets Ghost’s eyes, nodding. “I can finish the rest from here. Thanks, Lt.”

Ghost rolls his neck, and returns to the task at hand. He almost asks Soap if he can see it, not because he particularly wants to see himself on the paper of Johnny’s sketchbook, but he wonders.

He wonders what Soap sees when he looks at him.

Tuesday, 21 November 2023, 06:30, 4

Ghost wakes up slowly, groggy and unmoored, like he’s far away on some long-running mission, instead of in his own bed, one too many sleepless nights after days of fighting. He hurts, all over, just the way he does after getting a little too close to a blast — mortar, grenade, bomb.

The bomb.

It didn’t go off, Price and Gaz were quick enough this time. That means.

Realisation hits him all at once, hot, then cold. He presses a hand to his chest, mimicking the weight he feels there, trying to ease it, loosen it so he can breathe. The breaths that do come are too fast, too shallow, burning in his throat, mouth tasting like ash.

Johnny’s gone. Johnny’s gone, and he’s still here. He has to go on without him.

It was always a possibility in their line of work; tomorrow is never guaranteed. But they’re good, they’re some of the best the SAS has to offer. Ghost doesn’t waste time thinking about ‘what ifs’, tries not to waste time thinking about ‘should haves’ either.

But he should have been quicker. He knew what was coming, and he let it happen. Telling himself he tried is not enough when the result was this. He didn’t try hard enough. Brain damage or not, he knew. And wasted the chance to fix it.

He lies still and forces the storm of his thoughts to calm, forces himself to take in air, forces himself to swallow back the despair threatening to undo him.

Enough wallowing. It won’t bring Johnny back.

Ghost sits up, swings his legs over the edge of his bed, stands. He feels unsteady, but his legs work, and he gets dressed, tries to push the memory of yesterday to the back of his mind. Lingering won’t do him any good. It serves no purpose. It fucking hurts.

He doesn’t feel like eating, but maybe working out will — not make him feel better, that’s not on the horizon, but at least allow him to be in his body instead of his brain.

When he walks out of his room, he runs straight into Gaz, and catches him more than a second too late, distracted by his thoughts, mind far from anything but getting out, getting away from the heavy air of his room.

“Careful.”

“Sorry, I’m starving,” Gaz offers a smile, like he doesn’t have a worry in the world other than getting to the mess hall.

Ghost pauses. Lets him walk off by himself. It can’t be. The hope threatening to fill him almost hurts more than the fear that he’s wrong.

He takes a steadying breath, and forces himself to follow Gaz. The mess hall isn’t far, but his feet feel like lead, every step heavier than the last. He doesn’t stop. If there’s even a chance —

He spots Soap instantly, the moment he walks in, the same spot he always is, and Ghost stops in his tracks. Relief, followed by dread. This isn’t real, it can’t be, it has to be.

Gaz is already on his way to the table, tray piled high with food, obscuring his view for a moment when he takes his spot, and it spurs Ghost forward. He doesn’t stop until he’s opposite Soap. He wants to reach over the table and touch him, make sure he’s real and not his mind conjuring up the after image of him where he should be.

“You look like you saw a ghost, Lt. Sleep okay?”

Someone drops his mug, cursing loudly, tea and ceramic shards at his feet, but Ghost barely glances over.

He sits down, even though he didn’t grab food, or at least a tea, has no reason to be here. No reason but to see if this lasts, or if this is the dream, and he’s about to wake up back in his bed, reality settling over and in him, inescapable.

“Bad dream,” his voice doesn’t sound quite right, stuck in his throat like the words he doesn’t speak.

He can’t look away from Soap; it feels like he might fade away if he does, even if Johnny looks solid as ever. He’s here, he’s okay. Maybe Ghost can try again.

Soap nods, short and understanding. He doesn’t, but Ghost can’t explain. Can’t even explain it to himself. This is the third — no, fourth time they’ve had a form of this conversation. He can’t even remember the dream from the first morning. It doesn’t matter.

“You wanna spar later? Work out some tension?”

It’s a bad idea, but it might make this, make Soap, feel more real. Ground him.

“Sounds good. If you stop dropping your shoulder on the fake-out.”

Soap grins at him, and Ghost knows what he’s gonna say before he does, but the familiarity of the words is a comfort all the same.

“Maybe it’s not a fake-out, maybe I’m just making you get used to it until I get the drop on you.”

“How’s that working out for you?” He frowns, feeling like he’s on a pre-set path as much as the rest of them. Things will be different today. He’ll change the outcome.

“It will. Not today, not tomorrow, but it will,” Soap points at him with his fork, “just you wait.”

Ghost swallows, throat dry, and regrets not having something to drink. He can wait, he just has to make sure Soap will get the chance.

“Don’t tire yourselves out, Laswell’s got a lead on Makarov, we could be on the move at a moment’s notice,” Price says from beside him, right on fucking cue.

“Activity on comms? I think he’s here, in London. And I think he’s planning something big,” Ghost knows they won’t move without solid intel, but he has to try. If they just get there earlier —

“Time to get this bastard,” Gaz says, taking a break from shovelling eggs into his mouth.

Price nods at him, like he didn’t register Ghost’s words at all. “Soon, yeah.”

“Shouldn’t we try to get a head start? No point in waiting around all day without doing something useful,” he tries again; they’re all eager to put an end to this.

Him, most of all.

“A head start on what? We have nothing to go on. Just focus on your duties, and we’ll move out as soon as we can.”

Ghost can’t explain that he knows exactly where Makarov is without sounding like a lunatic, or worse; like he’s in league with him. It’s what he would think, if it was one of them. Not without doubt, but he’d be an idiot to trust blindly.

“Better eat something, I’m not letting you off that easy,” Soap shoves his tray over to him, “left you some toast, sausage too if you want it.”

That’s…different. It’s small—unlike the gesture—but it means things aren’t as set in stone as they seem, and Ghost feels a little lighter. He’s still not hungry, but he takes the offered food anyway, and forces down half of it just to have something to focus on besides Soap.

An hour later they’re both panting hard, Johnny on his back on the mat, Ghost on top of him, holding him down by his wrists, feeling his blood pump under his thumbs. Alive.

Soap struggles in his grasp, tries to buck him off at the same time, and Ghost just holds him tighter. Wishes, stupidly, that he could just hold him here until the day is over, fuck Makarov, fuck the bomb, fuck — no, not the other half of the team. He couldn’t live with himself if he sacrificed them for Soap, and yet. The thought is sobering enough to have him ease up and let go.

“Giving up? Thought you liked pinning me down,” Soap stays where he left him, like he wasn’t trying to get free only seconds ago, and Ghost stands up instead of putting his hands on him again.

“Showing mercy.” He ignores the second part of that sentence. Dangerous waters even in the best of times.

Soap laughs, but takes his hand when Ghost holds it out to help him up.

“Always so generous. I’ll get you next time.”

“Next time,” the words taste bitter in his mouth, but if he uses what he knows from yesterday, if he’s fast enough, if he can just be more effective, that time may come. It has to.

Soap bites his lip and bumps Ghost’s arm, and then he’s off to the locker room. Ghost watches him go.

He showers in his own bathroom, as always, but it’s like he can still smell the blood and gunpowder from last night. Not smells he minds, when he doesn’t associate them with the image accompanying it. Now, though, Ghost has to suppress a fresh wave of nausea.

All he can do is wait for the word to go, there’s no way he can get to the crossover platform without the team, but anxiety crawls up Ghost’s throat. All he does—did yesterday, and before that, and before that—is fucking watch the CCTV and gear up until they go into the service tunnel. There has to be a way to be of more use.

He’s caught between knowing and not being able to act on the knowledge. Leaving base is one thing, but intercepting the flash drive drop-off without being branded a traitor is another.

Ghost barely acknowledges the rookies he’s supposed to oversee, still mulling his options when Soap appears in the doorway.

He points over his shoulder as he sits down on Ghost’s desk, fully this time, ass right on his paperwork, legs dangling over the edge.

“I think one of your rookies is bleeding.”

They could’ve fallen over dead and Ghost wouldn’t have noticed.

“Mm. Appears to be.” He doesn’t bother looking at anything but Soap.

Wants to reach out and touch him again, just to make sure. It’s like he can still see the bullet wound, the blood, smell it. He holds back, but Soap frowns.

“You sure you’re feeling alright?”

Far from it. Ghost has seen enough shit in his life, Johnny dead at his feet isn’t an image he can just push away. Something constricts in his throat, and he tries to swallow it down. He wishes he could tell him. Just tell him not to go there, fake sick, whatever it takes.

“Just tired.”

Nothing else to say.

Soap studies him. Ghost lets him.

Hiding his face doesn’t feel like enough. He looks away.

“Help you take your mind off it? I got jokes. Could get you a tea?”

Ghost reaches out before he can stop himself, fingers connecting with Soap’s knee before wrapping around it. Grounding himself. Knows he fucked up when Johnny doesn’t make a remark about him not being able to keep his hands to himself. He doesn’t pull away, either, just sits still and allows Ghost to dig his fingers in.

It helps, a little. It’s not enough, but Ghost breathes in, slowly, then out, and lets go.

Saying sorry means admitting he did something he shouldn’t have, so Ghost doesn’t, but when he meets Soap’s eyes it doesn’t feel so much like a crossed boundary as it does connection. Like Soap gets it, even though he couldn’t begin to understand.

“Just can’t keep your hands to yourself, can you? I don’t blame ya,” Soap smiles, and it’s an out Ghost takes all too gladly.

“Lack of better options will do that to a man,” he rolls his chair back, needing to put some distance between them, “what do you say we go eat, I can’t teach these kids anything.”

Soap hops off the desk, Ghost dismisses the rookies, and they get the call to move out a little over an hour later.

Ghost goes through the motions, but it helps that he knows the script now. He tracks the hacker to the drop-off point, the buyer to the tunnel, faster and more efficiently, and hopes he bought them enough time.

Trojan horse, Channel Tunnel, Makarov.

He pauses when he overhears Price and Soap in the service tunnel, hand already on the door, intending to be the first through, knowing exactly where he’s headed, where every soldier will appear to slow him down, and he won’t be held back.

“This bastard won’t go down easy.”

He will today. Ghost will make sure.

“Yeah, well, neither will we, sunshine.”

If Price knew what happened yesterday… Previous today, he corrects himself.

Gaz nudges him to move, and he opens the door at the same time as Price does. Lost time, but he still has the advantage.

There’s too many of them, and when Price calls for them at the same exact spot he did yesterday, just as Ghost throws a knife—hitting his target—dread fills him anew.

“All Bravo, bomb located in crossover platform! I need cover here - now!”

“Rog, pushing your way!”

Gaz is a few paces behind, laying down covering fire while he moves up, and Ghost goes. He only kills who he has to, as straight of a line as he can manage without dying before he can get to Johnny.

He hears Gaz shout for him and almost doesn’t stop, but he can’t leave him behind. Sacrificing one for the other is not an option. He drops behind cover, soldiers bearing down on him from one side, and fires into the other until Gaz has room to follow him.

This is taking too long, there’s too many of them, and only two of them, dead cops littering the tunnel behind them along with Konnis.

Ghost doesn’t hear the chatter, but he warns Price anyway.

“Price be advised: Makarov is in the Chunnel, he’s heading your way!”

Blood rushes in his ears, bullets zip past, and they need to move.

“Bravo, we need suppressive fire here, NOW!”

They’re pinned down, heavily armoured soldiers surrounding their position, and time slows down while Ghost and Gaz work to clear a way. Pure instinct and willpower spurs him forward, but it feels like he’s back on rails with no way to pull himself off the path to disaster.

Ghost pushes up, Gaz follows, the soldiers left follow.

“0-7 to 6. We’re punching through now!”

“Get here!”

Price’s reply comes an instant before those same distinct shots ring out from up ahead in the tunnel.

Ghost runs, faster than he thought he was capable of. He’s not fast enough.

Price calls out, then silence, then another shot. The sound resonates down to his bones, he stumbles, rights himself, and then Ghost finally breaks out onto the platform.

“Johnny!”

He opens fire, Gaz shortly after him, and gets behind cover. Price gets up. Makarov gets away. Johnny stays down.

Again. Fucking again, he knew, he tried, and it wasn’t enough. He didn’t fight hard enough, he didn’t warn him. His failure to act caused Johnny’s death more than any bullet did. Makarov may have pulled the trigger, but this is on Ghost.

Gaz and Price are on the bomb, and Ghost shoulders his weapon, kneels down next to Soap, touches his shoulder. Johnny…it doesn’t hurt any less than before, seeing him like this. He failed.

Ghost gently turns him over so he’s on his back, so he can look at his face instead of the hole in his head, blue eyes empty of life, places his hand over his heart like if he just wills it hard enough, he can make it start pumping again.

“Red wire. On three. One. Two. Three.”

Ghost flinches. The blast doesn’t come.

“Disarmed… Disarmed, we’re clear.”

He looks at them, turning together as they exhale the breath they were holding, and Ghost watches as the relief washes from their faces, replaced by defeat. Their pain is on him too. Ghost’s fingers clench around the strap of Soap’s vest.

He doesn’t want to leave him here again.

“All stations, this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralised. Bomb is safe…one KIA.”

The tunnel is silent after Price’s voice dies out, a heavy weight settling over their shoulders, and Ghost doesn’t stand until Gaz goes over to him to help him to his feet.

He doesn’t speak. None of them do. They leave Johnny in the tunnel with the other bodies.

One more chance. Please. One more chance to save him. To fix his mistakes.

Wednesday, 5 April 2023, 07:30

Ghost blinks open still sleep-heavy eyes, sore but warm, and more comfortable than he has been in ages, and stretches out, arms raising up and —

“Ow! I know you’re a big bastard but Jesus, watch out will ya?”

Soap rubs his jaw where Ghost’s elbow connected with it, and right. That’s why he’s warm; Soap is in bed with him. It barely fits the both of them, but after the day they had, neither was too keen to sleep on the floor. Beggars can’t be choosers.

Ghost blames how tired he was for taking Johnny up on the offer to share. It’s half true, that’ll have to be enough.

“You’re the one who insisted, live with the consequences,” Ghost murmurs more than speaks, and he isn’t one to laze around in bed, but he’s tempted to turn over and close his eyes again.

He looks at Johnny instead, messy hair, wrinkles from the pillow impressed on his cheek, thicker stubble after being in the field for days. He tries to find a spot to put his arm back down without hurting him again, and Soap pulls it around his neck, crawling up to use it as a pillow instead. Like it’s a normal thing to do. Ghost doesn’t take his arm back, he lets Soap lay his head against his shoulder—half turned into him, bare legs touching under the covers—and tries to keep breathing.

Scared to stay, scared to end it, too.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable,” Soap says it like it’s obvious, and it is, but Ghost can’t.

“We should get up. This isn’t a holiday.”

He moves his arm a little, not hard—and he could easily push Soap off, if he wanted to—but all it gets him is Soap pressing into him with more determination.

“Five more minutes. No harm in it, Lt.”

Ghost wants to point out that they’re here to work, and that cuddling in bed with your superior officer is not part of that, but more than that, he's not sure that there isn’t harm in it. They’re already too close; Ghost has only known him for six months, but they haven’t been apart more than a week or two, solo ops or injury or leave the only times they’re not in each other’s orbit.

Not like this, though. Soap may be comfortable, but Ghost isn’t. Far from it.

He sits up, jostling Soap off him and back into his own space, and starts to pull his gear back on. Covering up, layer by layer, barrier between him and the world. Armoured, and not bulletproof, but safe. Soap is allowed to be in space, but no further than that.

Boundaries keep him alive.

Tuesday, 21 November 2023, 06:30, 5

Ghost opens his eyes slowly. He barely recalls what he did after — after he left Soap behind, again. Dead silent ride back to base, debriefing, Price’s white-hot anger threatening to boil over, Gaz small and quiet. Washing the grime off, praying to wake up and need to go through it again.

Get another shot. Do better.

He grabs his phone to check the date, for the first time since this started happening, but unable to make himself look at the screen. His heart pounds in his chest at the possibility that he used the last of his chances, that he’ll have to go on from this point forward, without Soap, last image of him still there, like he was just another dead body and not —

Ghost forces himself to face it. Head on, pretends his vision isn’t swimming before his eyes focus.

The relief that washes over him is dizzying, and he presses his fingers into his eyelids until his breath steadies and his world doesn’t feel like it’s about to tip over and slide him off.

Soap is alive. He just has to keep him that way.

He dresses, thinking about how he’s going to do that. Yesterday—whatever that means, now—he knew exactly what to do and where to go, and it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t fast enough. If they can avoid getting pinned down, or if he warns Price earlier, maybe.
Leaving Johnny behind in a pool of his own blood again is — he can’t do it again.

Ghost anticipates Gaz running into when he steps out of his room, and catches him before he makes contact.

“Careful.”

“Sorry, I’m starving,” Gaz shoots him a smile, “good reflexes, Lt.”

Ghost pushes him into the direction of the mess hall, shaking his head. This is the fifth time Gaz was right outside his door, and the first time he caught him in time. Not good at all, but as long he gets them back before tonight, he’ll allow himself his prior slip-ups.

He follows after Gaz into the mess hall, heart beating at the chance that he’s wrong, that he misread the date, somehow, that he’s fooling himself, setting himself up for more pain.

Price and Soap are already seated, trays piled with the same shit food they’re served every morning, and Ghost and Gaz join them when they fill their own.

Despite knowing that Johnny would be here—completely unaware of what already happened, and what might happen again if Ghost doesn’t find a way to fix this—he has trouble believing he’s real. Unharmed and happy.

He looks to his left just as the guy drops his mug, and it shatters on the floor. Ghost pulls up his balaclava to take a sip of his own, feels Soap watching him as he does, and knows what he’s about to say.

“You look tired, Lt. Sleep okay?”

Ghost smiles, feels like it’s the first time in days that he has, and swallows his tea and the ache in his chest before answering according to the script.

“Just a bad dream.”

Soap nods. “You wanna spar later? Work out some tension?”

“Not today.” Ghost does want to, but he has to find a way to change things.

Soap looks more dejected than he thought he would be; they work out together most days, but don’t practise hand to hand every time. Neither of them takes it easy on the other, and they need to stay combat ready more than they need daily sparring. It’s for the best; too often it ends with bruises Ghost can’t stop pressing on. Soap’s fingers lingering on his skin long after they’re gone.

Long after he’s gone, if he fails again and if he wakes up tomorrow instead of another today. Ghost isn’t taking that chance.

“Laswell’s got a lead on Makarov, we could be on the move at a moment’s notice,” Price pulls him from his thoughts, back on script.

“Anything solid?”

“Not yet, but close. Konni activity on comms picking up.”

Gaz takes a break from shovelling eggs into his mouth. “Time to get this bastard.”

“End of day, sounds like. Maybe sooner.”

Sooner, hopefully.

“Soap, can we talk?”

Soap raises his eyebrows, mouth full but clearly saying ‘We’re talking right now.’

“Later, in private,” Ghost adds.

Gaz looks between them but doesn’t say anything, and Soap nods, swallows.

“Sure. Lead the way.”

Soap pushes his tray away, deciding later means now. Might as well get it over with.

He leads the way to his room, and it feels weird having Soap in here. He hasn’t been, ever. It’s one of the few places where Ghost isn’t just Ghost, and it feels more intimate than it should, letting Johnny in like this. He takes a seat on Ghost’s bed, and Ghost pauses before taking his desk chair, sitting down across from him.

Soap might not—likely won’t—believe him, but he won’t tell on him either, Ghost is sure of that much. It’s just getting the words out of his throat that’s giving him trouble, but Soap waits, patient in a way he usually isn’t. Not unless he has to be.

Blue eyes just watching him, only a hint of a frown on his face. Ghost takes a breath.

“Hear me out. Promise?”

Soap nods, instant. “Promise.”

He kicks Ghost’s foot softly, encouraging, and Ghost clenches his hand where it rests on his thigh. Steady.

“Makarov is putting a bomb in the Channel Tunnel. Tonight. And when we try to stop him, you die.” It’s the wrong way to go about this. He doesn’t know how else to do it.

Soap’s eyebrows shoot up, face turning incredulous, and he leans in but doesn’t get up and leave. That’s gotta count for something. Anything.

“How do you know this? And what do you mean I die?”

“It happened before. I’m—I tried to stop it, and I couldn’t. Not on my own. Johnny, I tried.”

“I’m right here. I didn’t die, Lt. It was just a dream, a nightmare, okay?” Soap looks worried now, and that’s worse than just disbelief.

“I know you’re here, I can see you. The first time, I thought it was a dream, too. But this is the fifth time I woke up on the same day. It keeps resetting,” Ghost holds up his hand when Soap is about to protest, “I know what it sounds like. Lost my mind, head injury, mental break. But it’s real.”

It’s real to him. Somehow, Soap must get that he means it. Or he’s willing to indulge him until he can safely get away. Either way, he bumps Ghost’s knee with his fist and offers him an uncertain smile.

“Okay. What do we do?”

Ghost didn’t think he’d get this far, if he’s honest. He pauses to gather his thoughts, to keep steady, keep breathing. Focus.

“We can’t move without the others and backup. We’re gonna get the call soon, track a hacker, and a Trojan horse will be uploaded to control the trains. When we’re in the tunnels, you’ll try to disarm the bomb and Makarov will get there before I — before me and Gaz can. He shoots you. Don’t let him get close. Promise me.”

Soap nods again. “Promise. Tunnel, bomb, Makarov. I won’t die. Not today, anyway.”

Not ever, if it was up to Ghost, and the force of the thought has him look away. He’ll settle for today.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Soap squints at him, like the words are just now setting in, the promise given without full consideration. Out of pure trust.

“As a heart attack, Johnny.”

“Figured if you wanted to get me in your room, it wouldn’t go like this,” he leans back on Ghost’s bed in mock invitation while he speaks, and Ghost stands up.

“Want you out of my room, actually. Don’t forget what I said.”

Soap makes a face at him, but when Ghost opens the door and motions for him to leave, he goes.

The hours before the call pass in a haze of routine mixed with worry, and Soap doesn’t drop in to interrupt his training duties.

It’s different, even if Ghost misses his presence, and that might mean things can change, tonight, too.

They have to.

They don’t.

The entire mission starting from the call down to him not being fast enough is the exact same. The exact same. No matter how hard Ghost tries to push ahead, no matter that he warns Price almost as soon as they’re inside, no matter that he fucking warned Johnny about what would happen.

Soap lies at his feet—at his knees when he drops to them—and Ghost holds onto him, fingers twisting in his gear, gloves wet with blood from the other wound, like this is the last time. It could be. He almost wishes it was, just so he doesn’t have to see this ever again. Hates himself for the thought as much as he hates Soap in that moment for not preventing what he couldn’t, either. It’s unfair, Ghost knows that.

He’s tempted to shoot the bomb, or Price, make it go off so he doesn’t have to spend the next few hours with Soap’s blood on his hands.

The only thing holding him back is doubt that he’ll wake up to a new chance. Ghost doesn’t want to die, he wants — he needs Soap to live. He’ll take the pain and the rage and the failure as long as it means he gets to try again.

Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, not even if tomorrow is more today.

He stands before Gaz comes over to pull him away, and it feels like a betrayal.

Tuesday, 15 August 2023 22:45

Ghost sways on his way back to the booth, sloshing the pitcher so that beer spills over his hand and down his wrist, and he’s not drunk so much as bone achingly tired. Sore and bruised up. And maybe a little drunk.

He sets it down heavily before dropping back into his seat, next to Soap, a little closer than he needs to be, but Soap doesn’t push him away, just leans into his side, warm and happy, solid.

“Missed you,” he says half into his ear, even though Ghost hasn’t been gone for more than five minutes, breath too hot and moist against his skin because he forgot to pull his balaclava down between here and the bar.

What he needs is fresh air, what he does is stay and fill everyone’s glass until they’re topped off, Soap inconveniently leaning against him the entire time. Too fucking close. He nudges him back, softly at first, harder when Johnny doesn’t budge. It’s only the third round, but lack of sleep and adrenaline wearing off mix with the alcohol to make everything a little out of focus, fuzzy around the edges.

It’s not a state Ghost enjoys, normally. Still doesn’t, not really, but they’re alive, the mission is behind them, and he’s safe. Here, in the middle of nowhere, some pub filled with people he’ll never see again, in a town he won’t remember the name of, let alone visit, he’s safe with the team to let the mask drop for an evening.

Ill-advised as it may be.

They talk about God knows what. Price regaling them with some story they’ve heard before, more than once, more than twice, but entertaining enough tonight to sort-of listen to, sort-of let wash over him in favour of feeling Soap breath next to him.

Until he presses a hand to Ghost’s shoulder, asking him to make room so he can slide out of the booth. Ghost goes, but instead of sitting back down, he watches Soap go outside and follows.

He’s not out front when Ghost steps into the humid night air—almost as hot outside as it was in the pub—but he hears the click of a lighter and finds Soap leaning against the wall, barely in the alley.

“Smoking, Johnny?”

Soap doesn’t startle at the intrusion, but he does stand up straight. Not at attention, but reminding Ghost of it anyway.

“Want one?” Soap takes the pack out of his pocket and offers it to him.

Peer pressure shouldn’t work since they aren’t peers, but Ghost takes it from him, fingers brushing as he does, and he should go back inside. Soap’s face is barely illuminated, shadows falling over him like the heat of the night, and Ghost takes out a cigarette and hands the pack back, but holds out his hand.

“Got a light?”

He doesn’t move back when Soap steps closer, into the light just reaching the alley, and brings his own cigarette to his lips. Ghost mirrors him, still waiting for a light, figures Soap will light it for him.

He does. By tugging Ghost’s chin down—fingers curled over it, gentle enough that Ghost could pull away, hard enough to force him to move—touching the tips of their smokes together, and waiting for Ghost to inhale.

It takes him a moment, reflexes slowed by the alcohol and by…this. By Johnny, too close, blinking at him slowly, fingers on his face, too close.

Ghost holds his cigarette steady with one hand, Soap’s wrist with the other, sucks in until the tip lights, and then Soap’s moving back. Not enough, not disappearing back into the shadows, but keeping his hands to himself.

“Didn’t know you were so easily influenced, Lt.”

He isn’t.

“Didn’t know you were such a bad influence, sergeant.”

He did.

Ghost takes a drag, inhales deeply, exhales slowly. Just alcohol and lack of sleep.

“I could be worse. If you want me to be,” Soap pulls him from his thoughts, back to blue eyes and dark lashes and stubble and a sweaty neck shining in the dim light.

He inhales again, just air this time, presses Johnny to the wall, lets himself dig his thumb into the dip at Soap’s throat, just above his collarbone, and feels him swallow.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Soap stays put, takes a drag from his cigarette before flicking it away, blows the smoke to the side, and fucking grins at him like he does when Ghost praises him. Or like he does when he watches Ghost sink his knife into a man’s spine.

Hungry for more.

He should go inside, listen to Price’s story, have another drink, and pretend he isn’t hungry, too.

He leans in, watches Soap’s eyes drop closed, and sinks his teeth into his neck. Too hard; he’ll leave a mark Soap can’t hide. He bites down harder. Soap moans under his lips, grabs at his neck, and pulls him in closer, until Ghost is blanketing him against the brick, solid weight keeping him trapped until he begs to be let go.

Ghost isn’t sure he’ll listen.

Tuesday, 21 November 2023, 06:30, 6

Ghost wakes up, checks his phone, puts it down. Relieved. Not.

Telling Soap hadn’t worked. He’ll just have to try again. Make him listen and take this seriously.

He gets dressed, and when he steps out of his room, Gaz is just coming down the hall. Ghost doesn’t wait for him.

Soap is right where he should be, already seated, talking to Price and eating.

They speak at the same time.

“You look tired, Lt. Sleep okay?”
“You look tired, Lt. Sleep okay?”

The look on Soap’s face would be funny if Ghost was in the mood to laugh, but as it is, he pushes on.

“We need to talk, in private,” it’s not a question, and Soap takes it as the order it is, putting down his halfway raised mug.

“Sure. Lead the way.”

“Don’t tire yourselves out, Laswell’s got a lead on Makarov, we could be on the move at a moment’s notice,” Price says from his spot at the table, looking up at Ghost with a single raised eyebrow.

Ghost isn’t sure where he’s getting that implication from, but it doesn’t matter. More important things to deal with than his captain apparently assuming he and Johnny —

“Anything solid?” It’s Soap asking.

That’s Ghost’s line.

“Not yet, but close. Konni activity on comms picking up.”

Gaz walks up, tray piled high, balancing his tea carefully, and Ghost looks to his left just in time to see the man that always drops his mug do it again.

“Time to get this bastard,” Gaz says as he sits down next to Soap, who just started to get up. “Where are you going?”

“Ghost wants me,” he wiggles his eyebrows at Gaz, and okay, maybe Ghost can see where the idea came from. Soap isn’t subtle, and often, he isn’t subtle about letting him get away with more than he should.

“At this hour? You didn’t even eat yet,” Gaz frowns.

Ghost feels like he's losing his mind. Or losing it more. Do they all just assume Johnny and him are fucking? Banter aside, neither of them has done anything to suggest that much.

Months ago, when Gaz asked about the bite marks Soap came back inside with, Ghost told him nothing happened, and Gaz seemed to believe him, then. Or maybe he just let Ghost think that he did.

“Soap. Now.”

“Comin’, I’m coming, Jesus.”

He grabs two slices of toast before he follows Ghost out of the mess hall and to his room, nudging him to take one when they get inside.

Ghost takes it, even though he’s not hungry. It’s less strange having Soap in here a second time, but it doesn’t feel right either. Less so knowing that the other half of the team thinks this is about something else entirely. And he didn’t bother correcting them in his haste to get this over with.

Tomorrow. If today works out.

Soap sits on his bed again, casually like he belongs there, like he’s done it hundreds of times before, and Ghost forces his mind off it. He sits down on his desk chair. Looks at Johnny for a moment, considers his words again.

“Guessing you didn’t actually bring me here to have your way with me,” Soap breaks the silence, kicking at Ghost’s boot to prompt him into talking.

“Hear me out. Promise?”

Soap nods, instant. “Promise.”

“Remember when I knew what you were gonna say? Just now? That’s because you’ve said it before. About six times now. I’ve lived this day five times.”

Soap’s eyebrows shoot up, face turning incredulous, but doesn’t get up and leave. It has to stick today. Has to.

“What do you mean, you’ve lived this day five times before? Are you alright?”

“I know how it sounds. But Johnny, you have to listen to me, I’ve watched you die five times. We need to stop it.”

“I’m right here. I didn’t die, Lt. It was just a dream, okay?” Soap looks worried now, but Ghost pushes on.

“It wasn’t a dream, it’s not a head injury, I haven’t lost my mind. Makarov will take control of the trains and plant a bomb in the Channel Tunnel. And when we try to stop it, he kills you.”

Soap doesn’t look convinced in the least. “And you know this because you saw it. Because this is the same day? What am I gonna say next?”

Ghost didn’t expect a test; if anything, the mess hall should have been proof. And Soap isn’t following yesterday’s script.

“I don’t know. I only told you once before, and you believed me, or pretended you did. But I can tell you what will happen. When it does, you’ll know I’m right.”

It’s the best he can do, now that they veered off course. Ghost thought talking to him sooner would help, but this went a lot better last time. Soap trusted him, or seemed to, but there’s clear doubt on his face today.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Ghost smiles; not that far off course after all. “That’s what you said yesterday.”

“Yeah? What’d you say?”

“As a heart attack.”

“Sounds like you. Nice flair for dramatics,” he kicks Ghost again, softening the blow that isn’t really a blow, “alright, tell me what’s gonna happen.”

Maybe the trust is there, after all. Maybe he’s just humouring him.

Ghost tells him in detail which events will transpire; tracking the hacker, him and Gaz blending in, smoking, petting a dog, the drop-off point, the buyer, the flash drive. The service tunnel, the hostages, the bomb, Makarov. That he won’t be there until it’s too late.

“Promise you’ll watch out. When you’re working on disarming the bomb, he’ll come from the other direction. Keep your head on a swivel.”

Soap nods. “Promise. Tunnel, bomb, Makarov. I won’t die. Not today, anyway.”

Back on script. It’s almost comforting, if it wasn’t for what else that means. Could mean. Today has to be different. Has to be.

“All I’m asking.” Don’t make me live through it again.

Five times is already more than he can take. If it happens again, he’s locking Soap in a room until the day passes. There has to be a way out.

“Hey, you wanna spar? Take your mind off things?” Soap looks hopeful, like he’s sure things will work out fine, and Ghost wishes he could spare some of his optimism.

Sparring might be nice. He’ll take it easy; Price is right, they shouldn’t tire themselves out or get hurt, but he’d rather pass the time with Johnny than getting lost in his thoughts. All of them are about him anyway. About tonight.

“If you think you can take me,” Ghost knows as soon as the words are out of his mouth that he should’ve considered them more carefully.

Soap doesn’t waste the opportunity, never does. “I can do more than take you. Sir.”

It’s the cheeky ‘sir’ that almost has him respond in kind. Or worse.

Ghost refrains. Soap leans back on his elbows, on his bed like he belongs there, and Ghost stands, nods his head in the direction of the door, indicating him to leave.

“Meet you there.”

Johnny goes, obedient for once, and it shouldn’t affect him but does. He’s not sure in what way. Not sure that it matters, either.

By the time he changes and makes his way to the gym, Soap is waiting for him, and Ghost warms up quickly. Basic stretches, loosening his muscles, more eager than he should be to put his hands on Soap. He promises himself again that he’ll hold back.

Ghost might, but Soap doesn’t.

And Ghost can never resist putting him in his place a little. He wouldn’t enjoy it half as much if Soap didn’t put up a good fight, be it here or with words. Soap likes pulling on the leash as much as he likes heeling when made to. He’s not subtle about it.

They don’t usually take it this far, Ghost makes sure of that. Most of the time.

He has Soap in a chokehold, on his back on the mat, Soap on top of him, one leg twisted around Soap’s to keep him from twisting out of it. He needs to let go. But more than that, he wants to hold on. Keep Johnny right here, panting hard, pulse beating, alive, fully. Ghost doesn’t go easy on him, but he’s not choking him to the point of passing out, either.

Soap can tap out if he wants to. He doesn’t, so Ghost tightens his arm. He should know better. Soap is never the one to pull back first unless he's left with no other options. All push and no pull. Bark and bite.

Which is what he does to a T when Ghost chokes him a little harder. The sound it pulls from Soap’s throat is less a moan and more a snarl, and when Ghost loosens his grip in surprise, he sinks his teeth into his bicep. Sharp and without remorse. Pain a bright flash shooting through him like lightning, nerves on fire, crackling under his skin. He was half-hard before, but this has him throbbing against Soap’s ass, grinding up into him without meaning to.

He’d never let anyone else do this, he’d let Johnny do it as much as he likes. Much as he pretends otherwise, most of the time.

Soap moans around the flesh of his arm still firmly in his teeth, and pushes into him instead of away. They’re in public, and yet Ghost doesn’t want to stop. He wants to —

He releases his hold, lets go when all he wants is to hold on, and Soap’s jaw loosens on his arm before he rolls off him.

More than teeth marks, he left the skin pricking with blood, already bruising, red, raw, and wet with spit. They look at each other for a moment, breathing hard, before Ghost pushes himself to move, to get up. He leaves Soap on the mat, can feel his eyes on him, and doesn’t turn back.

It’s in no way similar, and yet it feels too close to leaving him behind in the tunnel.

Making his way back to his room with an obvious tent in his sweats is… far from ideal, but better than staying in the gym, Soap’s eyes burning like fire through the cinder pile of a wall between them, carefully constructed but gone all too fast in the fire. He can’t give in without giving himself away.

This isn’t the time for any of this. Saving Soap’s life comes before anything else. He can’t lose himself — lose his focus when this much is at stake. There’s no place for desire to take over when rationality is needed.

Ghost tries not to touch himself when he rinses off the sweat, the drying drops of blood on his bicep, the image of Johnny panting on the mat, own cock visibly straining in his shorts, just waiting for Ghost to put his hands on him again, and fails. It’s quick, at least, furrowed brow and bitten lip, pent-up, angry at himself, pissed at Soap for not letting sleeping dogs lie.

Wonders if Soap did the same thing, maybe right there in the gym showers, and if he thought about him if he did.

Ghost pushes the thought out of his mind, and dresses slowly, intently. Layer after layer, bricks instead of wood. No skin left exposed, no gap for Soap to worm his way into. Skull mask instead of balaclava; he’ll have to wear it soon enough anyway.

He arrives late to his duties, and Soap doesn’t show. It’s for the best.

He follows the script once they get the call, exactly how he told Soap it would happen, doesn’t rush, doesn’t push, makes sure to hit every checkmark, hopes it sticks.

The ride into the service tunnel is quiet and tense. They’re all on edge, but Ghost knows the motions to go through. He has to trust he can do it right. Has to trust Soap will put his faith in what he told him. Has to believe he’ll get it right.

He makes eye contact with Johnny for what feels like—what is—the first time since he left him, and Soap nods. Clear eyed, face open like a book, words implicit; ‘I trust you’.

Ghost nods back, they separate, Soap joins Price, he joins Gaz. Game on. Final round.

He moves on pure instinct, mind on one thing and one thing only. Makes sure Gaz follows; not even saving Soap is worth sacrificing another member of the team, but he doesn’t stop. Reloads, dodges, keeps going. Reloads, dodges, runs.

Two shots sound before he pushes through onto the platform, Ghost doesn’t pause.

When he emerges, Makarov stands over Price, talking — Ghost doesn’t hear him, doesn’t stop to listen.

Aims, pulls the trigger.

Makarov moves. Soap, coming up right behind him, doesn’t. It’s a clean shot, centre forehead.

Johnny drops.

So does Makarov, a split second later; Gaz’s shot. He gets some of the soldiers, too, others flee, Price gets up. Soap can’t. Ghost doesn’t move. Weapon still raised, aiming at nothing, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but blood rush in his ears, deafening.

He expected pain at another failure, relief if they pulled it off, together this time. He feels nothing. White noise down to his soul. No burning pain, no lack of air from his chest seizing up like he’s drowning. Pure emptiness.

It doesn’t hit him until Gaz comes up to his side, hand carefully lowering his gun to the floor.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

The sob rising from his throat sounds inhuman, mangled and twisted beyond recognition, cut off as soon as it erupts.

“All stations, this is Bravo in the blind. Makarov is down. Threat neutralised. Bomb is safe…one KIA.”

They move out, and Ghost forces himself to look. Actions have consequences. He did this. He has to live with it.

Johnny’s eyes are still open, and they follow him down the tunnel when they—when Ghost—leaves him there. The only company, more corpses. If Gaz wasn’t guiding him with a hand on his shoulder, he’d join them. Tomorrow be damned.

After getting back, after debriefing and recounting his actions, his mistake, his fault, his finger on the trigger, his shot as the reason Soap isn’t here with them, left behind, betrayed, Ghost doesn’t sleep. Not until fatigue pulls him under, blanketing him under a smothering embrace he doesn’t want to accept.

Friendly fire.

Friday, 17 November 2023, 00:30

The plane is loud, but they’re quiet on the flight back home. Price is chewing more than smoking his cigar, the frown not easing from his face once. He has a bunch of folders and files in his lap, but he doesn’t seem to be reading them so much as trying to ignite them with his eyes.

Gaz looks angry too, but he keeps falling asleep, head tilted back, then forwards, then awake again. Arms crossed over his chest tightly, like he needs to hold himself up, like maybe if he squeezes himself hard enough he’ll calm down or stay awake, or maybe just to keep from punching something.

The only one seemingly at ease is Soap. He unclipped his seatbelt to stretch out his legs on the seats to his right, and didn’t ask before using Ghost’s thigh as a pillow. The answer was implicit, anyway. Long plane rides, shorter helicopter ones, it doesn’t matter; Soap will nap, and Ghost will let him rest against him. Won’t move a muscle until Johnny wakes up.

Ghost looks down at him—a hand on his chest to keep him from falling if the plane jostles, or if he rolls over in his sleep—studies him. The scar on his chin, the lines at his eyes, days old stubble on his cheeks. He’s breathing deep and slow, chest rising and falling under Ghost’s hand, steady, and steadying Ghost as well.

He wouldn’t move for the world. This is his world, right now; high up in the sky, night black and blue like a bruise, the noise of the plane pressing in on him, ache in his chest a comfort. Familiar.

The plane shakes with a sudden bout of turbulence, and Soap startles awake. He stays where he is, but shoots Ghost an apologetic smile. He has nothing to apologise for.

Ghost feels like he does, weight around his neck pulling him under. There’s nothing to say. Nothing he’s willing to put words to, in any case.

“Go back to sleep, Johnny. I got you.” He taps his fingers on Soap’s vest. ‘Right here. Safe with me.’

Like he doesn’t want to carve out a hole right between his ribs and climb into it, wait for it to heal over so he can never crawl back out.

Ghost can keep him close and at a distance at the same time. Wade in without getting pulled under. Whisper behind a fist.

Tuesday, 21 November 2023, 06:30, 7

Ghost wakes up and wishes he didn’t.

Soap died by his hand, when he was sure this time he would save him. He doesn’t need to check his phone, and does anyway. Whatever this is won’t let him go until he succeeds, he’s sure of it.

Or until he lets go. It’s the first time he considers the possibility this isn’t about saving Johnny at all. That the only way out is through.

He’ll live this day until he dies, permanently, before he accepts that. He’ll take the pain. If tomorrow means Soap is gone forever, he doesn’t want it.

Ghost doesn’t go to breakfast, doesn’t go to the gym, doesn’t bother training the rookies. Doesn’t tell Soap about what’s coming, either. He knows he’ll have to look at him at some point, but until he does, he won’t.

Hiding his head in the sand. Ghost hates himself for it, but not as much as he hates himself for what he did, accident or not. It’s unforgivable. He’ll have to live with it. Not even saving Soap will fix what he did. His chest feels empty, no air, no heartbeat, nothing but void of his betrayal, pulling him inside himself, taking over.

When the call comes, he gears up, but he doesn’t try to fix what’s set in stone. Ghost goes through the motions, lets the events wash over him, numb until he isn’t.

Watching Soap lie dead—cooling body on cold ground—by someone else’s hand doesn’t make him feel better. Knowing he’ll have to do it again feels like penance.

He kneels beside him, bows his head, and accepts his punishment.

Tuesday, 15 August 2023, 23:05

Soap’s hands scramble over him, pulling at his arms, his shoulders, his back, at the nape of his neck, fingers slipping under the balaclava to scratch. None of it is to get him to let go, and Ghost doesn’t. He bites down harder, licks the mark, licks the sweat off his neck, breathes him in, bites him again. And again.

Soap keens, cants his hips up, and Ghost notices for the first time that he’s hard. Soap’s cock presses, insistent, into his thigh, and then—when he shifts and presses up—against his own. This has gone too far already; threshold crossed not like dipping a toe in the water but diving head-first into the current. He’s not stopping.

Ghost steps back, and keeps Soap to the wall with a hand on his chest. Firm, has to be, when Johnny tries to follow after him.

They look at each other, a little breathless, Soap’s eyes dark, pupils blown wide, jaw set. Even in the cover of night, Ghost can see the impressions of his teeth on Soap’s neck, overlaying mouth-shaped indentations, red and angry, bruised. Marked. He rubs his fingers over them, and Soap’s head tilts back against the brick, but his eyes don’t leave Ghost, heavy-lidded, and near obscene.

“You gonna kiss me or do I have to beg?”

Ghost can’t. Won’t. He leans in and does. Licks into Soap’s mouth like he’s starving, like he’s punishing Soap for asking, like he could drown in him. He wraps his fingers around Soap’s neck to hold him where he wants him as much as to feel the marks he left on him, and kisses him until he forgets he shouldn’t. Until all he can taste is Johnny. Drinks his fill.

He breaks away before he does, mouths wet kisses over his jaw and down to his neck, bites him again before he eases back.

“More,” Soap looks blissed out and ravished, and Ghost did that to him.

He shouldn’t have, but he does want to do it some more.

Soap’s lips part, maybe to say something else—or beg like he offered—but Ghost refuses to hear it. He rubs his thumb over Soap’s bottom lip, until he licks at it, and Ghost presses it into his mouth.

Neither of them breaks eye contact as Soap’s lips close around it, tongue rubbing slick and hot at the pad, sucking him in deeper. Ghost wants to replace it with his cock, straining in his jeans since he tasted Soap’s flesh.

Judging by the way Soap’s cheeks hollow around his thumb and his eyes drop closed when Ghost thrusts it in and out of his mouth, he might want the same thing.

Ghost lets himself be pulled under by the wave of greed coming over him—thumb glinting with saliva when he pulls it from Soap’s lips, knuckle scraping against his teeth—and pushes on his shoulder.

“Down.”

There isn’t much space for Soap to move, caught between the wall and his body, but Ghost only eases up enough to allow him to slip down. Soap goes anyway, sliding his hands down Ghost's body to steady himself, landing on his knees more gracefully than a man of his size should, and looks up at him before pushing his face into Ghost’s crotch.

He mouths at his cock through the fabric, teasing like they have all the time in the world, like the spell isn’t in danger of breaking at a moment’s notice, like he could be satisfied with just this. Ghost can’t; with Johnny on his knees for him, one hand already between his own legs, the other curled around his hip, mouth so close to where he needs it, he has no time to be patient.

He tugs Soap’s head away by his hair.

“Get on with it before I change my mind, sergeant,” he says it like he doesn’t want this as much as Soap does. More.

Soap smirks up at him, hand still rubbing his dick. “Yes, sir.”

His cock twitches hard at that, and Ghost suppresses a shiver despite the heat. Tugs at Soap’s hair again to make him move, make him obey. It works; Soap stops touching himself to get Ghost’s jeans open, down enough to make it easier to get his cock out, and licks a wet stripe up it when he does.

He holds Ghost steady with one hand, drops the other back between his legs—and that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but it has Ghost leaking already—and takes him into his mouth. It’s hot and wet and slick and good, and Ghost uses his free hand to brace himself against the brick wall, the other to keep Soap where he wants him.

He thrusts in and Soap moans around him, dropping his hand to allow Ghost to go deeper. And to get his own jeans open, the sound of his zip clear in the night, even over the wet sucking noises Soap makes on his cock.

“You gonna come with my cock down your throat?”

Soap doesn’t try to pull back, just makes a choked noise as his arm speeds up, and Ghost thrusts in until Soap’s nose is pressed into the hair at the base of his dick, holds him there until he gags, eases up a little, does it again. Soap gags a second time, but still doesn’t try to make Ghost pull out. Takes it like he’s meant for it.

Meant for Ghost.

He pushes the thought out, and his cock in deeper, until Soap’s throat relaxes around him, swallowing, spit dripping down his chin, eyes closed tightly in concentration.

Ghost twists the hair between his fingers tighter in his grasp, and Soap moans into it, blinks up at him and puts the hand he's not jerking off with on Ghost’s hip. He blinks again, eyebrows raised, asking.

He doesn’t have to ask twice, and Ghost starts to fuck into his throat. Tries to stay gentle at first, but Soap makes a noise—between a moan and a sob, choked off by Ghost’s cock—and his arm speeds up, and Ghost can’t hold back. He’s been holding back for months. Every time he got too close to giving in, to taking what Soap offered, to allowing this, any of this to happen between them, consequences be damned.

His thrusts turn from careful to rough and claiming, getting off on the way Soap lets him do it as much as on the way it feels to be inside him, using him the way Soap has been asking for — pushing for, ever since…too long. Unrelenting.

Soap’s throat constricts on his cock, a shuddering half moan, half gag, nostrils flaring on heavy pants, before his hand stills and joins the other on Ghost’s hips. Hot, slick fingers on his skin.

Ghost ruts into his face, sharp, a little frantic, mouth open on a groan, fingers too-tight against Soap’s scalp, and comes, cock pulsing with every spurt, first on Soap’s tongue, then fucking in again to push it down his throat. He keeps going until he’s spent, and only notices the tears on Johnny’s cheeks when he pulls out.

“Christ, Johnny, you should've — I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Ghost tucks his cock back into his jeans as he speaks, stepping back to make room for Soap to get up.

Soap rubs a hand over his face before he does, tries to get rid of the mess of spit and tears and cum he didn’t quite manage to keep inside, wiping it on his already none to clean jeans.

“Happy tears, Lt,” he jokes, “promise. I liked that, if you couldn’t tell. Always knew you had it in you.”

Back on his feet now, he leans against the wall, taking out the pack of cigarettes again before offering it to Ghost.

Ghost’s head is still buzzing, and he takes one before answering, deadpan. “Think you were the one that had it in you.”

Soap laughs at that, a sudden bark erupting from his chest, before licking his lips and lighting up, holding out the lighter for Ghost to take.

“Aye, took you long enough.”

Tuesday, 21 November 2023, 06:30, 21

Two weeks that aren’t weeks go like this: Ghost wakes up, and fails.

He tried, he didn’t try. He told Soap, he didn’t tell Soap. He fought, he stayed behind.

Every iteration ends the same way—if different—with Soap dead. Sometimes the others, too.

The day starts with him, and ends without him. Sometimes not until Ghost falls asleep, other times it’s the bomb blowing before they can stop it. Ghost almost prefers that. Quick instead of dragging on. It’s what spurred him on last night, at Gaz’s call and relief that they disarmed it.

Coward’s way out.

Ghost goes through the motions of getting dressed, joining the team for breakfast, doesn’t look up when the mug shatters, follows the path set out before him. Hollow shells of people.

Soap looks more real than Ghost feels. He’s living up to his name.

He watches him too much, maybe. Soap catches his eye a couple of times, but doesn’t question it. Never does.

Ghost doesn’t take him up on the invitation to spar again, not after — After what he did, touching him feels wrong, even if Ghost didn’t put his hands on him. His hand pulled the trigger.

Some mornings all he smells is blood.

Some mornings, he doesn’t feel anything.

Some mornings he feels like he’s drowning, so deep underwater that he can’t see the light, gasping for air that won’t come, reaching out for someone that isn’t there.

Repeat turns into routine. Pain into familiarity. Death into relief, almost.

If letting go is the way out, Ghost vows to stay forever.

Friday, 21 July 2023, 8:45

Ghost wakes up, back sore, neck aching, too hot, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is.

The smell of eggs and slightly burned toast wafts through the muggy air, and the flat comes into focus. Soap’s flat. It’s small, but everything in here is him; not all of it is picked with care, clearly, and yet speaking volumes. Not bare, not busy either—serving a purpose—but very much a home in a way Ghost’s own flat isn’t.

He could use a nicer couch.

Ghost sits up, stretching his arms out, high first, then grabbing each elbow in turn, pulling to relieve the sore muscles of his shoulders, rolling his neck. It doesn’t help much, but he stands and stretches again.

His shirt sticks to his skin, sweat soaked, and he needs a shower, badly. Breakfast first.

It’s not the first time he's barefaced around Soap, but the lack of his balaclava still makes him feel more naked than walking around in a threadbare shirt and boxers. Not insecure, but exposed. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Johnny. With his life, with his face, with knowing him better than anyone. But there’s a reason he wears it, and it’s more than just remaining anonymous, a call sign and nothing more.

He shouldn’t be here, but Soap asked.

Soap asked and he accepted, and he’ll have to live with the consequences. Live in the space Soap made for him, here.

Breakfast first.

Soap isn’t dressed yet, either, and cooking shirtless is asking for trouble, not to mention slightly unhygienic, but Ghost admires the view all the same. Feels guilty for doing it, too, but not enough to stop.

“Morning, sleep well?” Soap greets him when he notices Ghost standing in the doorway, and both of them pretend they don’t take too long to look. Ghost more than Soap, who lets his eyes trail over his face again, then down, before turning back to the stove.

“You need a better couch, I’m feeling muscles I didn’t even know I had.”

He moves closer to look into the pan, hungry, and instead his eyes catch on Soap’s neck, his shoulders, the way the muscles in his back move when he pokes at the eggs, the slight sheen of sweat on his skin, and he should step back to a safer distance.

Soap glances at him, too fucking close, over his shoulder. “I did offer to share my bed. Big enough for two, even when it’s you bein’ the second.”

Not even hell freezing over could make Ghost take him up on that offer.

“Didn’t want a repeat of last time. You’re clingy in your sleep.”

“Not my fault you can’t appreciate a cuddle,” he nudges Ghost with his elbow, right underneath his ribs but not hard, “Grab some plates?”

Ghost hasn’t been here for more than a day, but he already knows which cupboard they’re in. It’s less concerning than it should be, terrifying at the same time. It’s just plates, for fuck’s sake. This scares him more than any combat situation he’s been in. Not the plates, but the ease with which Soap makes space for him in his life, and the ease with which Ghost allows himself to take it up.

He sets the table.

Ghost finishes putting away the dishes, a little buzzed, a lot tired, and tries not to look at the way Soap’s eyes are soft around the edges.

They spent the day walking the city, Soap showing him around, not full tourist mode, but all the hidden good spots. He wanted to pull his—just surgical, not balaclava, let alone full skull—mask down and kiss him at the bakery, on the trail, up in the bell tower, and when they got home, most of all.

They had take out for dinner, ate on the couch, watched some shitty action film, had a beer, which turned to two and then three. Not enough to get drunk on, but combined with the heat of the day, spent in Soap’s company like so many others and completely different, it feels like sinking into a pool of chlorine water. It fills his senses, pricks at his skin, envelops him.

Even shallow water is enough to drown in.

Soap’s skin is sun kissed, which is still up outside, but setting soon, casting a hazy warm glow through the flat, and Ghost yearns for the dark just so he won’t have to look at him. There’s being close to your team, and then there’s this. And yet it isn’t close enough, barely separated on the couch, miles from where he wants him.

It was easy to let Soap pull him under, but hard to surface. Drowning holds its appeal, here.

Soap looks over at him, catches him watching him, and Ghost takes comfort in the fact that he’s always watching Soap. Nothing unusual about it, as long as he doesn’t read his mind.

“Something on your mind?”

He forgot he’s not wearing a mask. Wonders what Johnny sees when he looks at him. His eyes betray nothing, and Ghost isn’t about to ask.

“No, just work.”

One more day. He wants to stay forever.

Tuesday, 21 November 2023, 06:30, 31

Today would mark a month, if the date changed. It doesn’t, and nothing else does, either.

Ghost hasn’t tried to change it these last few days. Made his peace. Not with Soap dying, never that, but with his life. Figures he must have done something to deserve it. Hell, with the shit he’s done, he deserves it a hundred times over. More so, after. After failing, after being the one to kill him, after letting the others die, too. Selfish despair, numb uncaring, pain and grief and anger.

What doesn’t sit right with him is that Johnny doesn’t deserve this.

Soap doesn’t know that he dies every day, over and over again, but that doesn’t take away that he never gets to see tomorrow, through no fault of his own.

Soap’s death, no matter how it happens, doesn’t change anything. Neither did his own, either when they failed to disarm the bomb, or when he quit early. Maybe dying before Soap does will allow him to move on.

Ghost might not wake up tomorrow — either real tomorrow, or today, again, but Soap might. He has to give him that chance. It’s all he has left; granting Soap the opportunity to finally move on, even if he won’t get to see him do it.

He could do it here, in his room, quick and easy, leaving the mess for someone else to deal with, but if the day doesn’t reset, Ghost doesn’t want to be a burden to anyone. Not any more than he already has, whether Soap knows it or not.

There’s the river nearby, and it feels fitting. Wash away with the current, cleanse himself of his sins.

Ghost leaves a note, figuring it’s the least he can do, doesn’t explain, just writes down his plan, apologises, short and to the point, leaves it folded but visible on his desk.

Dresses, full mask like he’s on a mission, checks his sidearm, and leaves before the base comes to life with people. He wants to stay, not to say goodbye, just to see him one last time. Step out with the image of Soap alive and well, instead of with a hole in his head. But this is easier. Nothing to keep him from the path he’s chosen.

He doesn’t want to die, but dying is easy if it means a shot at life for Johnny.

The river water is freezing cold when he steps in, the current so strong it almost makes him stumble when he wades in deeper, and he looks up to the sky, white-grey above him. Prays to a God he doesn’t believe in. Not for absolution, but deliverance.

Ghost wants to feel hope, but he doesn’t feel anything when he raises the gun to his temple, and he doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t hesitate, just squeezes the trigger.

Murky blue rushing water is the last thing he sees. Bright blue is the last thing he thinks about.

Wednesday, 2 November 2022, 23:25

Graves betrayed them.

Ghost is crouched behind the car, rain beating down on him, on them. Soap’s down, but not out, not if he’s quick.

“Go, Johnny! Get out of there!” He needs to move, now, before Graves is on him. “Soap, go!”

He does. Soap pushes the dead guard off him and fucking launches himself over the barrier, and out of view.

Gunfire rings out from behind Ghost while he retreats, and he has to trust that Soap gets away. He can’t help him from here.

Ghost’s radio crackles to life just as he steps out of the shadows to take out two guards, one after the other, silent and quick.

“This is Bravo 7-1, in the blind… How copy? Ghost, this is 7-1, do you copy?”

Soap’s alive. He means to respond, but two more guards appear around the corner, and Ghost needs both hands free to take them out, then moves into cover again when a third shines his torch into the room.

He turns his back, and Ghost throws a knife into it, watches him go down and the torch up before it falls down next to him and rolls away.

Clear.

He hits the button to his radio, keeps moving.

“Soap — This is Ghost, how copy?” A beat, then, “Johnny?”

He doesn’t respond, and Ghost pushes worry down. The city is crawling with Graves’ men, the five he just dealt with were less than the tip of the iceberg. A trail of them marks his way, and there’s sure to be more ahead, for Soap too.

Ghost steps into an alley and tries again. “Johnny, how copy?”

“Solid.”

Thank fuck. “Thought we lost you.”

He keeps moving, needs a vantage point, something recognizable for Soap to find him.

“You injured?”

He knows he is, but he wants to keep him talking.

“What’s the difference?”

Fair. Not like Ghost can do much to help him from here. “Life or death. Keep your blood in, you’ll need every drop”

“Thanks for the tip,” sarcasm, so not too bad, “Where are you?”

That’s not the right question; it’s where he’ll be. No point waiting around to get caught, for either of them, not with this many enemies—not to mention Graves himself—roaming the streets.

“There’s a church, I’m heading to it. Let’s RV there. You’ll need to improvise to survive.”

Soap doesn’t respond, and Ghost picks up the pace. Make it to the church, regroup, get out of here. Straightforward, as long as they’re careful.

“Creepin’ Jesus…”

Ghost can only guess what he stumbled upon. “What’re you seeing?”

“A bloodbath.”

Guessed right, then. Not hard, when the entire city looks like one.

“Watch your arse, you got exactly zero allies down there.”

Soap’s reply is instant. “We’re friends, no?”

No. Ghost hardly knows the man, and friendship is reserved for a select few.

“We’re teammates. Friendship’s not in the field manual, Johnny.”

“Neither is mask making…”

Neither are a lot of other things. Going by the book only gets you so far. Ghost knows that better than anyone.

“I trust the captain, if he knew, he’d be here.”

Soap is likely right, but —

“Be careful who you trust, sergeant. People you know can hurt you the most.”

He’s getting closer to the church, but there’s a lot of ground to cover, and a lot of Graves’ men between him and it. Soap needs to focus.

“Good advice, Lt, I wanna be like you when I grow up.”

Soap should aim higher. This happened on his watch. “You wanna be better than me, Johnny.”

Ghost ducks down, throws a knife, moves to the next shadowed corner.

“I will be.” He sounds sure of it.

“Good boy.” Not what he meant to say, but Soap doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Think I’ll live that long?”

Maybe, if they get out of this. “Probably not.”

Soap’s talkative, for someone who needs to stay quiet and deadly. Ghost doesn’t mind it as much as he should. He’s making good progress, and Ghost has the feeling their conversation keeps his mind from wandering. His does, when silence falls.

“Rain’s good. It’ll cover your tracks.”

The square is empty, for now. Ghost took out who he needed to on his way up, but they’re bound to discover him. It’s not difficult to figure out a sniper would pick a bell tower to hide out in.

“Covers theirs too.” Soap points out.

As long as he’s careful, that won’t matter. “Let’s worry about you, Johnny.”

“So, you do like me?”

“I like you alive.”

Tuesday, 21 November 2023, 06:30, 32

Ghost wakes up and the relief washing over him is cleansing like fire. Burns like it too, right in his chest, pain swelling rapidly before subsiding. He isn’t the one keeping Johnny trapped here. He gets to see him again.

And again.

It’s a sobering thought, but not enough to stop him from getting up like some days. Things might not change. But something in him has. Ghost can’t put his finger on it. Doesn’t want to, either, for fear of poking at it too hard and letting it slip from his grasp.

Soap is here, today, maybe forever. But at least he’s here. They both are.

He dresses, and for the first time in a while, he picks up his balaclava instead of the mask. Ghost half expects to see the note he wrote still on his desk, like it was a dream, and he didn’t —

It wasn’t. He did. It changed nothing, as far as he can tell. The moment between the shot and waking up in his bed felt — not instant, not quite, something there he can’t touch, but separated by only a flash of…something.

It doesn’t matter.

When he steps outside, Gaz isn’t there yet, jarring enough to stop him in his tracks. Gaz is nearly always here, sometimes further down the hallway, sometimes just past him, but always here. Part of his routine, even when he rushes. A comfort.

Ghost swallows down the panic rising in his throat. It can’t be. He’s unharmed; Soap has to be as well. The day doesn’t reset on Soap’s death. It can’t have continued without Ghost. It can’t. He can’t have traded Soap—or any of them—for the chance to escape without him. That’s not what was supposed to happen.

He all but runs to the mess hall, couldn’t care less about the stares it gets him. He has to see.

His eyes land on Soap as soon as he pushes through the doors. Right where he should be, Price with him. Soap looks up, meets his eyes from halfway across the room, and his face brightens instantly, his smile pulls Ghost forwards until he’s at the table, sitting down without even thinking to get food, first.

“Morning, Lt. Sleep well?”

He’s off script, if not by much, but he sounds…weird, like he's holding back, or angry, not short and curt when agreeing to an order he rather wouldn’t take, but off. It’s not quite what he’s supposed to say, it’s not his usual either soft or cheerful tone. Ghost doesn’t know what’s different; he’s been early before. It doesn’t change things.

He’s not sure what he does between resets can even be described as sleeping, but Ghost nods, and Soap pushes his tray in his direction.

“Eat something, if only to make me eat the mat later. If you’re up for sparring?”

Ghost pulls his balaclava up to take a bite of toast. Watches Soap watch him do it. Swallows. He hasn’t taken Soap up on the offer since he killed him. Weeks ago for him, never happened as far as Soap knows. He’s not sure if he can, if he can bear it. Wants to try, anyway.

“I’ll take you up on that. If you can put up a fight.”

Ghost knows his moves by heart, but if something is different today, he’s not skipping the chance to see how far that goes.

Gaz—finally—joins them, and a second later the mug shatters. Ghost doesn’t even blink, just waits for Price’s line.

“Don’t tire yourselves out, Laswell’s got a lead on Makarov, we could be on the move at a moment’s notice.” Exactly on cue.

“Anything solid?”

“Not yet, but close. Activity on comms picking up.”

Gaz barely sat down, but he takes a break from shovelling eggs into his mouth. “Time to get this bastard.”

“End of day, sounds like. Maybe sooner.”

Back on track.

“Better get an early start, Lt,” Soap picks up the last piece of toast from the plate they’re sharing, standing up, “I’m not letting you off that easy.”

Ghost stands, too. “Better make good on that promise, Johnny.”

He means it more than Soap knows. It’s not about the fight, not even about getting his hands on him after he couldn’t make himself do it. It’s not even about taking the punishment he feels he deserves; no amount of it made him feel better, no amount of it changed anything about the outcome, in the end.

But he’s here, again. And so is Johnny. Both the cause of the ache and the balm that soothes it.

Just like before.

They walk out of the mess hall together, in sync, natural, fluid, before separating to get changed.

Sparring is the same. Each move matched, Ghost holding back at first, until something shifts and clicks in place. Soap is solid and quick and fucking intent, pushing him to give as good as he gets.

Ghost delivers.

It feels…good. Touching Johnny again like nothing changed—it hasn’t, for him—going for his weak spots, knowing he can take it. Knowing he can give it without Soap falling apart in his hands. Bruised and sweaty and alive. Just how he likes him.

The memory of those words courses through him, fresh and ice-cold, like he said them only yesterday, but instead of easing up on Soap he pushes him harder.

Dodges a jab, tackles him down, drinks up the sounds Soap makes when he lands hard on the mat, something between a gasp and a bark, knocked from his lungs and throat by the force of it, Ghost on top of him, between his legs, splayed wide instead of wrapping around him to reverse their position.

“If you wanted me on my back that much, you could just ask, you know,” Soap’s out of breath, they both are, but he finds enough air to push some more.

Ghost does know. He knew—and ignored—it before, but he knows. It’s not what he wants. It is today.

“I know. But you like it when I make you.”

They’re not alone here, but they might as well be. It doesn’t matter, come tomorrow. If Soap wants to do this here, Ghost is past the point of holding himself back. Not today. He shouldn’t, but he wants.

“Thought you never would. After you did, I mean,” Soap pouches his hips up, bucking, but not to make Ghost get up.

He’s hard, already, when Ghost hasn’t had him pinned for more than a minute. Always so eager for it, for the wrong thing. Giving in once—more than once, he corrects himself, memories flooding and blending—harms no one but himself, in the end.

Some private looks at them, red-faced, averting his eyes when he notices Ghost staring him down. Their position isn’t much more compromising than some others when sparring turns to wrestling, but the way Soap lies back and takes it is.

“Changed my mind. You’ve been begging for it like a dog yapping for scraps.”

It’s not Soap who has to settle for only a mouthful when he’s starving, but he responds like Ghost finally threw him a bone to chew on; open-mouthed, wide-eyed, reaching out to pull Ghost down on top of him fully. No mistaking what this is to any outsiders, and seemingly as uncaring about the consequences as Ghost is.

He grinds down into him, cocks rubbing together through sweats and nylon shorts, and Soap moans beneath him, deep rumble through his chest setting Ghost ablaze. He presses his face to Soap’s neck, bites down through the fabric covering his mouth, just as hard as when he had Johnny up against that wall, months ago, then harder to make up for the bluntness of his teeth.

Soap whimpers, and pulls at his shoulders, his neck, trying to get him closer when they’re already pressed flush together, bringing a leg up to hook around Ghost’s hip, arching into it.

“Fuck, harder. Please.”

Asking for harder bites, or the way they hump against each other, Ghost obliges on both counts. He’s sure people are watching, and sure he couldn’t stop unless Soap asked him to. The world narrows down to Soap’s sounds beneath him, Soap’s arms around him, Soap’s bucking hips into his own. Johnny’s heartbeat against his chest and between his teeth.

Ghost pulls his balaclava up, licks at Soap’s throat, his neck, his mouth, and watches him come undone underneath him. He bites him again, wants to shake him in his teeth, wants to keep him right here, on edge and safe in his hands.

Soap jolts up beneath him, clawing at Ghost’s back through his shirt, his own coming up off the floor despite Ghost’s weight on him, and Ghost can feel his cock pulse against him, for him. He gives in to the pull of the tide, Soap going limp and boneless, Ghost’s mouth soft on the bites on his neck, thrusting down while Soap holds him close past the edge, filling his boxers like he wants to fill Soap.

They stay like that for a moment, Ghost still between Soap’s splayed legs, coming down from the rush, not wanting to get up and deal with the mess he made not just in his sweats but of the situation. Keeping Soap right here and doing it again sounds more appealing, but he pushes at Ghost’s shoulder.

“I think we’re catching some stares, Lt,” his voice is soft, still a little breathless, and Ghost finally raises his head.

He doesn’t look up much, just at Johnny, and pulls his balaclava back down before he can lean down and kiss him.

“Are you guys done, or do I have to get the hose? Jesus Christ.”

Gaz.

He’s not usually here, often going on a run before hitting the gym, but they did get distracted, or maybe Gaz is early. It’s been a weird day, for being the same as all the ones he already lived.

Ghost sits up and back, on his knees, and tries and fails to pull his eyes away from Soap. He looks — pretty isn’t the right word, but he does; messed up and sweaty and marked up by Ghost’s teeth. The wet stain shining through his shorts would be evidence if the look on his face wasn’t enough. Or the sounds he made with Ghost on top of him.

He finally looks over his shoulder at Gaz, along with some privates, expressions ranging from disgust to delight at the gossip material. Gaz’s is a mixture of both, but not surprise. Maybe a hint of shock, though.

“Done. Mind looking away?”

Gaz obliges, and at Ghost’s glare the rest of the guys watching them go back to their work-outs, or pretend to. Good enough.

He helps Soap to his feet, and throws him someone’s towel; they can find another one, Johnny can’t walk around like this. Ghost wouldn’t want to either, but it’s not like the embarrassment will last more than a day. He’s felt worse.

“Not that I didn’t enjoy that, but can we do it somewhere a little less out in the open, next time?” Soap motions between them, at their crotches, both of them still visibly half hard through the wet fabric. “Get our cocks out too. Just a thought.”

Soap doesn’t look like he cares that much, eyes still a little glazed over, barely using the towel to cover himself, and clearly not in a hurry to get cleaned up.

“Thought you were into that. Let’s worry about getting through the day first, sergeant.”

Soap grins at the perceived promise, and Ghost lets him believe it. No harm in it if there’s no chance of moving on from today. Nothing to ruin when every day ends the way it does. One more way in which he has Johnny, yet doesn’t have him at all.

“Aye, but I’m taking you up on that. Sir.” Soap hands him the towel back. “Here, you need it more, unless you wanna get in the shower with me.”

“Cheeky.”

Tempting, too. The memory of Soap on his knees for him flashes past, and he swallows it down. A moment of weakness much like this. Giving in was all too easy when Soap looked at him like that, but resisting had been for the best. He’s not sure that it matters much, now.

He watches Soap disappear into the locker room, and heads to his own to clean up. After what they did, he’s not telling Soap about the upcoming events. It feels like taking advantage; even though Johnny clearly wanted it—has been wanting it—he doesn’t have the context for why Ghost gave in.

He shouldn’t have. Not like this.

The thought settles uncomfortable and heavy in his stomach. One more thing to add to a miles-long list of regrets, one more thing that, in the end, affects no one but him. One more weight to carry, alone.

Ghost arrives late to training, only going to have something to do while he waits. He follows the path carved out, but Soap doesn’t show up. He hasn’t for a couple of the recent repeats, last one notwithstanding, since it ended before he ever got here. Ghost isn’t sure why, and it doesn’t help that the past few days melt together into a muddled picture, broad strokes and blurry shapes, before he decided to make the biggest change he could think of.

Burning it down did nothing to make the image clearer. Ashes as unclear and unreadable as any meaning to be gleaned from this.

He doesn’t see Johnny at all until they get the call to move out, but when he does, he sticks by Ghost’s side until they separate to track the hacker.

Ghost watches him on the CCTV, and he does the same things he always does; light a cigarette with Gaz, pet a dog, browse some souvenir cards, follow their mark. Almost too quick, like he's in a rush but holding back. Moving just a step before he normally does.

Ghost didn’t tell him, but something spurs him on. It’s egotistical to think it could be this morning's not-promise, but Ghost doesn’t have another explanation for his behaviour.

He stuck to the path set out, but now Ghost changes gears, too. Tells them where the hacker went for the drop, skips through the footage of the buyer disappearing into the tunnel so fast he has to backtrack for Laswell to see what he does.

They get to the flash drive too late, Trojan already uploaded, but the fight inside went faster, and they’re on their way into the service tunnel almost fifteen minutes earlier than even when Ghost still thought he had a shot, using prior knowledge and practice like all of it was a simulation.

He pushes down the hope rising in his throat like bile, sour, bitter, suffocating, and steps out of the car. Soap looks at him before following Price, and Ghost overhears them while he joins Gaz at the opposite entrance.

“Time to take this bastard down.”

Soap sounds so sure that Ghost almost believes him.

“Gotta find him first, sunshine,” Price reigns him in, but finding him won’t be the issue.

They move on Price’s word, Ghost first through the door, Gaz right behind him.

“Gaz, stay on me. No matter what, we move.”

It gets him a confused look, but Gaz nods. “Rog. Lead the way, Lt.”

He doesn’t run like the time he got there early, doesn’t want to believe he can make a change, doesn’t want to make the same mistake, but Ghost chooses his targets carefully, quickly, deadly.

“All Bravo, bomb located in crossover platform! I need cover here - now!” Price calls out to them over the radio, and he’s early, too.

“Rog, pushing your way. Be advised: Makarov is in the Chunnel, he’s heading your way!”

He warns Price and Soap ahead of time; if there’s even a chance…

The push forward is hard going, heavily armoured soldiers keeping them back and away from where they need to be, trains rushing past, blood rushing in his ears like the river around his legs when he stepped into the water.

“Bravo, we need suppressive fire here, NOW!”

Price sounds frantic, but even with his knowledge of where they get pinned down, it happens. They get out of it, Gaz closer by than he was before, working in tandem to clear a way. It may not be good enough. It has to be. Has to be, today. The fight is far from smooth, but it feels closer than any other time. Practised, not to perfection, but close.

“0-7 to 6. We’re punching through now!”

“Get here!”

Price’s reply comes an instant before a shot rings out from up ahead. Then another. Ghost runs, dropping behind cover when he breaks out onto the platform, can’t look, fires back at the soldiers making their retreat, cops littering the ground, and —

So is Makarov. So is Johnny.

He’s vaguely aware of Price, unharmed, moving to the bomb with Gaz on his heels, but Ghost drops to his knees next to Soap. He’s bleeding heavily but alive. He’s alive.

Ghost presses his hands over the bullet wound at his shoulder, blood seeping through his gloves, too much of it, too dark, flowing like the pressure isn’t there at all.

“Stay with me, Johnny! Stay with me. We’re gonna get out of here.”

Soap’s face is pale and clammy, shock setting in. He’s losing too much blood, looks disoriented, breaths coming fast and shallow, hands pulling at Ghost’s arms, and Ghost pushes down harder.

“Stay with me!” His voice sounds broken and strangled to his own ears, throat closing up around the words. Not a command but a prayer.

“Red wire. On three. One. Two. Three.”

Ghost flinches. Anticipates. Doesn’t know which is worse, not seeing it through or facing what’s coming.

“Disarmed… Disarmed, we’re clear,” Gaz’s relief sounds clear in his voice.

Ghost doesn’t feel the same way, doesn’t look away from Soap’s face, whiter now, soft gasping breaths the only sound he makes.

“See you tomorrow, Johnny.”

Soap’s eyes widen, a strangled gasp falling from his lips, hands grasping at Ghost’s arm and vest with the last of his strength before dropping, and the flash of life fades out while Ghost clutches onto him. Soap’s eyes still stare up at him, bright blue, wet. Empty.

“All stations, this is Bravo in the blind. Makarov is down. Threat neutralised. Bomb is safe…one KIA.”

Ghost doesn’t look up. Couldn’t see anything past his swimming vision, anyway. He closes Soap’s, smearing blood over his face like war paint. Like a death mask. Considers taking his gun and starting the next loop, just so he doesn’t have to sit with the pain of another failure after getting so close. Closer than ever. Nowhere near enough.

He moves for it just as Gaz crouches down beside him, hand on his shoulder, voice so small it makes the tears finally fall, wet streaks through the grease paint, running down into the fabric beneath his mask.

“He’s gone, Lt,” Gaz sounds like he doesn’t believe it yet, like he’s saying it more to convince himself than Ghost, and even with the knowledge that Gaz won’t remember any of this if he goes through with it, Ghost can’t.

Not today, not after how close he got. How close they got; he was going through the motions, but Soap was the one moving like — like he knew.

It doesn’t make any sense, but Ghost can’t think past another failure. Tomorrow won’t come, and he almost made his peace with that, but this felt like there was a chance, only for the rug to be pulled out from underneath him again.

Johnny dying under his hands, waiting for him to save him.

When Gaz and Price leave, he doesn’t join them. They don’t try to force him. Under normal circumstances he would never lay a finger on either of them, but if it’s between them and leaving Soap one more time, the choice is clear.

Ghost lies down next to him, closes his eyes, and runs through what he could’ve done differently. Over and over and over.

Over and over.

He presses a bloodied hand to Johnny’s chest, the other to his own, tries to match his lack of a heartbeat.

Ghost stays there a long time. It feels endless, time stretching on and warping around him, every instance of the end result blending together until he feels none of it and all of it at the same time. The weight of his grief, of his failure, of living like this, of Johnny next to him but already gone, even when he’s grinning at him across the table, or pressed into his side, or panting underneath him, presses down on him until he feels one with the concrete.

Soap dies, but he’s the one who stays; a ghost haunting this same day, unable to move on.

He’d laugh at the irony if there was anything left in his chest but flood water, muddy and choking everything in its path.

Friday, 4 November 2022, 03:15

“Perfect shot, Lt,” Soap’s voice over comms, still in Ghost’s scope.

Hassan’s down. Objective completed.

“You called it, Sergeant.”

Ghost calls in the kill, and a moment later his radio crackles to life again. He was midway through getting up, to heading downstairs to regroup and get out of here, but Ghost crouches down again, gets Soap back under his scope, thinking —

“Saved my ass back there. Wouldn't mind repaying you.”

Not danger, then.

“Just doing my job, Johnny. But you can buy me a pint, so get your arse in gear.”

He watches Soap make a face, unsure if he’s aware that Ghost’s scope is still on him.

“Always bossing me around, sir. Good thing I’m into that,” he winks, way off mark, but clearly intended to be in Ghost’s direction.

Not unaware then. Or making assumptions. Ghost did the same thing only a week ago; assumptions that were mostly unfounded, unlike Soap’s.

“Following orders has its merits. Kept you alive. I suggest you keep doing it,” he wouldn’t shoot Soap, but threatening him might wake him up to the fact that they’re not here to play around.

“Aye, I will. Don’t shoot,” Soap holds up his hands in a mock surrender, “meet you outside.”

The news of Makarov’s return dampens their already tired spirits, but it doesn’t keep Soap from making good on his promise, sliding the pint over to Ghost when the bartender sets it down n front of him. He presses his leg against Ghost’s when he nods at him in thanks, and Ghost doesn’t pull away.

He’s only known him—more than brief encounters—for a week, but Soap takes up the space Ghost carefully keeps around himself, the barrier between him and the world, as if there’s no question he belongs in it. Not suffocating but safe. Concerningly so.

Laswell leaves first, Gaz and Price not long after, and Ghost means to join them; head back home, catch some sleep, back to work tomorrow, but Soap stays put. Ghost sits back down.

“Another round? They’ll wait for us,” Soap pauses, eyes crinkling on a grin, “probably.”

Ghost orders this time, a silent agreement, back to something stronger than the piss they consider beer here, raising the glass to his lips—balaclava raised, not off, still feeling more exposed than he’d like to be—and watches Soap do the same.

There’s something in his eyes, a thought he can’t quite read but wants to.

“I’m sure I don’t want to know,” he says just before Soap opens his mouth to speak, and it’s far from the truth, but not a lie, either. Soap’s trouble, steady until he’s not, easily ignited, explosive power.

Blast so pretty that Ghost will burn his eyes just to take it in.

“You’re not bad looking, you know. Shouldn’t hide a face like that,” Soap’s eyes drop to his mouth while he speaks, and Ghost hides it behind another sip of his drink.

He downs the rest of it before answering. “Better forget you ever saw it, it’s not happening again.”

“What if I ask nicely? Promise I won’t tell.”

Ghost pulls the fabric back down over his mouth, more to avoid giving Soap the wrong idea than because he minds him looking at him the way he is. Heated like the alcohol flowing through him. Danger close.

“Negative. Finish your drink,” Ghost makes it an order, not a suggestion, and Soap’s nostrils flare.

It’s not annoyance, as Ghost first thought, when Soap meets his gaze, pupils blown, looking —

“Yes, sir.”

He does as he’s told, sets his glass down and slides off the barstool. He doesn’t speak when he turns and walks into the restrooms instead of to the door, doesn’t glance back, and Ghost shouldn’t follow after him.

But he does. Only half sure he read him right, at the same time unquestioning. Soap said he likes it when he orders him, and he just did, for no other reason than to test how much. Ghost wants to find out. Wants to dig his fingers in and unravel him so he can see inside, below the surface of him. An open book with hidden pages, begging to be turned.

When Ghost walks in, he finds Soap leaning against the sinks lining the wall, no one else around. Waiting for him.

Neither of them move, a beat, and then Ghost pulls him into a stall. Soap lets him push him up against the door, lets Ghost unzip his jacket and push his hands under his shirt, pays him back in kind, fingers over scars, mapping each other out like they’re studying for a mission.

They don’t kiss—can’t really, without Ghost exposing his mouth again—but Soap doesn’t force it. Just breaths in each other’s space, gazes focused until Ghost trails his hand down to palm over the bulge in Soap’s jeans and his eyes slide shut while his mouth drops open.

“This what you wanted?”

Soap makes a soft sound, pushing his cock into Ghost’s hand. “Not even close, don’t stop.”

The encouragement is appreciated, if unnecessary. Ghost gets his jeans open, underwear down enough to pull his cock out, and strokes him loosely, slowly, rubbing his thumb over the head where Soap’s already leaking, slick and eager, twitching in his hand, hips hitching forward for more.

“Ask nicely.”

Soap replies almost instantly. “Please. Need you.”

He doesn’t stop touching Ghost, fingers exploring his skin, rubbing through the hair on his stomach, then up to grab at his chest, squeezing before letting go and digging his fingers under Ghost’s arms like he fucking knows, and if he didn’t, he does after the sound Ghost makes betrays him.

His cock jumps in his underwear, and he just meant to get Johnny off, but —

But Ghost can’t resist, Soap looks too good, touching him like every spot is new and familiar at the same time, pink lips parted, lashes fluttering on his cheeks when Ghost tightens his grips for a few strokes before releasing him to unzip his own jeans.

He wraps his hand around both of them when he gets his cock out, hurried, too dry even with Soap’s precum slicking them up, and takes it away again to hold up in front of Soap’s face.

“Spit.”

Soap opens his eyes, head raising from the stall door, and does as he’s told. It fans the flames heating him, no chance of dousing them, fire hot and devouring.

“Again, Johnny.”

He doesn’t stop looking at Ghost while he gathers more spit in his mouth, bends over Ghost’s hand, and lets it drip slowly from between his lips to gather in a pool in Ghost’s palm.

“Good boy,” Ghost’s praise turns to a groan when Soap pushes his fingers deeper into his armpits before grabbing at his chest again, and he almost lets the saliva slip down his wrist when Soap pulls at his nipple.

The restroom door opens, and Soap does it again—both this time—grinning when Ghost can’t keep in another noise, choked off but not nearly enough to be quiet. The man pauses, and Ghost brings his hand down to slick their cocks, Soap’s first, rough; punishment.

Soap drops his head back against the door with a loud thud, and doesn’t bother keeping his voice down.

“Fuck, just like that, Lt.”

Not punishment at all, then. Ghost jerks him a little harder, and Soap moans, thrusting up into his fist, shameless but pink-cheeked with pleasure. Whoever’s outside the stall doesn’t leave, sounds of a few more steps, his fly, and then piss hitting the urinal clear in the silence before Soap moans again when Ghost adds his own cock into his hand.

They barely fit, but the pressure and spit and the fact that it’s the two of them, both getting off on this, is enough to make Ghost’s dick twitch hard, adding his own precum to the already slick mess, and he bucks into his grip, against Soap.

Soap pushes up too, before Ghost presses him back down with his free hand, hard enough to shake the door on its hinges, and the urinal flushes, a muttered “Jesus Christ” audible over the water, and then the man leaves, hurried, door slamming shut behind him.

“That get you off?”

Soap licks his lips, and Ghost wants to lick into his mouth.

“Not yet, but don’t fuckin’ stop.”

Stopping is the last thing on his mind. Ghost jerks them off faster, a little too tight, a little too rough, but he’s not gonna last much longer with Soap still playing with his tits, pulling at his already oversensitive nipples, and looking at him like he’d do anything Ghost told him to, right now, like all he has to do is give the order. Any order.

This isn’t in the field manual either, but judging by Soap’s soft gasps and panting breaths, he’s not doing too bad.

He wraps his fingers around Soap’s throat, a little too mean, a little too forceful, or just right; Soap keens into it, choked off when Ghost squeezes tighter as soon as the noise spills from his lips, and his hips come off the door pumping up hard, cock spurting sudden and messy over Ghost’s fingers, on their shirts, coating Ghost’s own cock, easing the slide. Ghost works him through it, fucking into his hand and up against Soap’s still twitching erection, both of them coated in his cum, right on the edge, so fucking close —

“Wanna see you come, Lt,” Soap barely gets the words out with Ghost still gripping his throat, and he releases his hold on him right as Soap twists his nipples and his orgasm hits.

He comes with a groan, mouth open behind his balaclava, breathless and seeing stars from the force of it, balls drawn up tight, thighs trembling, cock pulsing his release and mingling with Soap’s. They’re both soaked and lucky they’re wearing jackets to cover up what they just did.

Ghost steps back, out of Soap’s space, and grabs some toilet paper to try to wipe up the worst of it, at least from his hand and cock, before pulling his jeans up. He hands some to Johnny, too, and he cleans up half-heartedly, lazy movements looking more like he’s playing with himself than getting anything done.

“We should be getting back,” Ghost breaks the silence.

Not like he can leave if Soap doesn’t move from the door. Not like he’d leave him behind even if he could. Had to once, won’t again.

“Give me a second, I didn’t come like that in ages. You’ve got a gift, sir.”

The flattery doesn’t work on him as much as the ‘sir’ does, and Ghost watches him until Soap finally tucks his—still—half hard cock back into his jeans. He resists the urge to reach out and touch him some more. Pretends he doesn’t notice the way Soap looks like he might want him to.

Something shifts inside of him, not shame, not quite guilt either, but this was wrong. He’s Soap’s superior, if only in title. More than that, Soap is his friend, after the week they had, Ghost can call him that, even if he didn’t think he ever would when he first met him. This was…something else. Something too close to settling where it shouldn’t.

There’s a space for Johnny he already carved out himself, but he threatens to spill over into the cracks, seeping in like there’s a leak Ghost can’t patch up quick enough.

It won’t stand.

Tuesday, 21 November 2023, 06:15, 33

Ghost wakes up to a knock at his door, disoriented, memories blending together into one—Soap’s flat, Soap’s death, Soap on his knees for him, Soap’s death by his hand, Soap telling him to take off his mask, Johnny’s life ebbing from him under his hands—he almost chokes on the air still filling his lungs despite the pain and the regret and the guilt.

The knock comes again, then turns to banging, insistent and fucking loud, and Ghost gets up, annoyance almost washing out last night’s pain, this morning’s fear; this doesn’t happen, it can’t mean —

He checks his phone, fast, needing to get it over with and bracing himself at the same time.

Tuesday, 21 November 2023

Soap’s alive. That’s all that matters. Whoever’s at his door can wait the thirty seconds it takes him to pull his balaclava over his head, even if the banging only gets louder. Fire, bomb, natural disaster; none of it matters in the end.

For some reason, he expects Gaz when he opens his door—it’d be early, but he’s usually the first one Ghost sees—instead it’s Soap, pushing him back inside with so much force behind him that Ghost goes without resisting.

“We need to talk.”

Ghost blinks at him. Tries to recall the last day, the last real day, before this, if anything happened to upset Johnny enough that he would suddenly change from the path he always follows, and comes up empty. They resolved their fight, and their last missions together went off without a hitch.

Soap doesn’t continue, seems to be waiting for Ghost to read his mind, but he’s never been more unreadable than in this moment.

“What’s on your mind, sergeant?”

The breath Soap huffs out doesn’t give him a clue, but it does tell him that Soap doesn’t know where to start. He sits down on Ghost’s unmade bed, and Ghost realises he's still in just a shirt and boxers. It feels too naked for whatever Soap’s about to say, but he takes his desk chair and waits.

Nothing but time.

A good thing, when Soap stays silent, frowning, breathing a little too fast, and unable to meet his eyes.

Ghost kicks him, gently, a mirror of the times Soap was in here to hear him out while he explained the loop in the hopes to pull them from it.

It’s enough to jar Soap from his thoughts. “Hear me out. I know I sound insane, but hear me out.”

Dread fills him. Ghost nods. “Promise.”

This can’t be real.

“I think I’ll die today. I think I died today before. More than once. I think you died today, too.”

Soap looks on edge, frantic, desperate for him to believe him, and Ghost does. Of course, he does.

“How many times?” He has an inkling, but he needs to hear it.

Soap’s eyes widen, realisation or shock, disbelief. “I… I think this is the fifth time. Twice, before—,” he swallows, pushes on, “I found your note. Did you. It was real?”

Four deaths. Unless he didn’t die when Ghost killed himself.

“I thought it might be me. Keeping you here, I mean. It’s been longer for me,” Ghost averts his eyes, swallows back the guilt, “clearly it didn’t work.”

“You killed yourself so that I might live? How long have you been here?” Soap’s voice sounds strangled, but Ghost can’t look at him.

At least he doesn’t know Ghost was the cause for one of his deaths. Maybe he should know. It’s not something Ghost can come back from, and if Soap knew, he wouldn’t sound this upset at what ultimately was punishment for his own mistake.

“A little over a month. It was me, once. You died because I thought I could stop it. Johnny, some days I didn’t try at all. I’m sorry.”

He finally meets Soap’s eyes, owning up to what he did, what he didn’t do, what he failed to do. A month. Thirty times Soap lay dead before him, thirty times he was too late. Over and over again, he failed to do the one thing he was meant to do: keep Johnny alive.

Nothing in the world could prepare Ghost for the look on Soap’s face.

It’s not blame, or rage, or disappointment, or even disgust. It’s understanding. It’s the last thing that passed over his face yesterday, just before the life drained from him, his blood once again on Ghost’s hands.

“I’m here. I’m alive. We can do this together. And if we can’t, we can try again tomorrow,” Soap sounds determined in a way Ghost hasn’t felt for a while, and it’s a small comfort.

But a comfort nonetheless. Something to cling to. Something other than the brief relief of getting to see him again before the day ends like it always does.

Ghost pushes down on everything else he wants to say. Needs to say. Soap’s right, there’s always tomorrow. For better or worse.

“We need a plan. Price and Gaz need us there, they can’t do it alone. You need to disarm the bomb before it blows. I can’t get to Makarov before he gets to you.”

And that’s the thing. No matter how fast he is, it’s not fast enough. Not even last time, when Soap knew what was coming too, was enough to stop him from dying. Ghost wills away the despair threatening to spill over and out of him.

“You’ve done this a lot. On your own. Did you ever tell me?”

What he's really asking is if Ghost trusted him to believe him, like Soap did with him, today. If he stepped out without even talking to him.

“It didn’t change anything. Not enough. You always believed me though, eventually,” it’s true; most times he didn’t even ask for proof.

Soap looks relieved to hear it. “So. Together, then. You think there’s any way we can get Price to take the other side with Gaz? I can handle most of the bomb by myself, you can provide cover fire. We’ll be done before Makarov even shows up.”

Ghost considers it. It’s an angle he hasn’t tried yet, too focused on perfecting his own path to Soap, keeping Gaz alive at the same time. It’s a risk. If it doesn’t work, they can try again.

“How do we get him to do that? Price is more stuck than any of us. You, Gaz, you change things, sometimes. He doesn’t.”

Ghost can see the exact moment Soap’s brain goes off track here, eyes unfocusing a little before coming back.

“Speaking off. Yesterday, when we—in the gym. Did we do that a lot?”

Jesus Christ. “No. I wouldn’t do that, it wouldn’t be right. It wasn’t right. Felt like I took advantage.”

“When you thought I wouldn’t remember, but I do. I was right there with you, Lt.”

In more ways than one. It’s a relief, in a small way. This isn’t the time to get into it. “Focus, Johnny. Tonight, how do we make Price go with Gaz?”

Soap makes a face, like he wasn’t done with the topic. Dog with a bone. Ghost stares him down. Later.

“I reckon we just ask him. Nicely. Works better on him than you,” Soap says it matter of fact, like it won’t be an issue, and maybe it won’t be.

Ghost hasn’t ever been good at asking. Fixing his own shit always worked out better, until now. He trusts the team, but he trusts himself more. Used to. Ghost isn’t sure he still can, after everything.

But he trusts Soap. They have a shot at getting it right, together.

“Okay. We ask him, we go together. You get the bomb, I get Makarov. You live,” Ghost wants to make him promise, but he doesn’t want him to have to break it, “Did you? When I—?”

He has to know.

Soap shakes his head, drops his eyes to his hands, folded in his lap. “No. I…let’s not get into it. But it didn’t work, so don’t fuckin’ do that again,” he meets Ghost’s eyes now, pain clear on his face, eyebrows knitted together, determined, “promise me.”

“Promise.”

It’s one that’s easy to keep; they’re stuck here together, and Ghost won’t turn his back on him. Not ever. Not again, even if when he did, it was only because he thought it might save him.

“What do you think it means?” Soap looks less troubled now, though the frown hasn’t eased from his face altogether.

In all this time, Ghost hasn’t found an answer to that. Nothing he’s willing to say out loud, in any case. It doesn’t matter.

“Means we get as many chances as we need to make it right. Means we don’t get to quit.”

“What if it’s not about me? What if we both live, and tomorrow is the same?” Soap worries his lip between his teeth, worry — no, guilt weighing him down physically, wringing his hands, shoulders dropping.

Always so easy to read and so hard to figure out.

“Then we know what to do, and we’ll do it again and again. Or,” Soap raises his eyebrows when he pauses, “or we’ll take a trip and let them all blow up together. Not our problem.”

The joke lands, and Soap chuckles. “Tequila on a beach somewhere. Not bad, Lt.”

It’d have to be a close beach, or they’d fall asleep on the plane and wake up back on base before they even got there. Still, it’s not a bad thought, for if this doesn’t work out the way he hopes it will.

“We should eat. Meet you there?” Plan set, nothing to do but get on with the day. Ghost doesn’t dare to feel true hope, but something close to it.

Soap stands slowly, but he nods. “Save ya a seat, sir.”

He stands too, following after him like letting him out of his sight means losing him again, despite Soap being closer today than he has been in more than a month.

This time it’s Johnny who Gaz runs into, and Ghost almost laughs.

“Jesus, careful.”

“Sorry, I’m starving,” Gaz looks between them—Soap coming out of the wrong room, Ghost still in the doorway, in just a shirt and underwear—and snaps his mouth shut before opening it again. “Uh. Morning, Lt. I’m just gonna.”

He points his thumb into the direction of the mess hall and follows after it.

Soap turns back, a smug grin on his face. “Think he thinks we fucked?”

“Pretty sure he already did, he wasn’t surprised yesterday, either.” Grossed out, sure, but he didn’t even bring it up again.

Unlike Ghost did, just now, and judging by the way Soap’s eyes go dark before raking down his body, it was a mistake. He tries to close the door before he pulls Soap back inside his room, but Soap reacts fast, holding it open with a palm planted firmly against the plywood.

“You did promise a next time. I’m not letting you off that easy.”

Ghost sighs, and pushes Soap’s hand away from the door. “That was when I thought it wouldn’t come. We have a job to do.”

He closes it before Soap can argue, or before he can give in, and shakes it off. Ignores the way Soap had him chubbing up at the thought already, both the way he had him underneath him yesterday, and what else he’d like to do to him, despite everything. Because of everything.

Resisting was never harder. Yesterday wasn’t supposed to have consequences, but actions always do. Ghost should know that better than anyone by now.

He dresses, and by the time he makes it to breakfast, the rest of the team is already seated and eating. Talking about whatever it is they always talk about before Ghost arrives. He grabs his own food today, figuring both of them need all the energy they can get, and sits down opposite Soap.

They look up at the same time, seconds before the mug guy drops it, and then at each other when he does, like they’re sharing an inside joke.

Ghost pulls his balaclava up to eat, and almost chokes on the first bite when Soap speaks.

“You look good, Lt. Sleep well?”

Gaz groans, even if what Soap’s implying didn’t happen. Ghost kicks him under the table, but can’t help piling on just to make Gaz suffer. His own fault for making assumptions.

“Never better.”

Soap grins, pleased with himself, but Gaz grimaces at his plate, and Ghost decides it was worth it. Even if he might remember this tomorrow, if they pull it off.

“You wanna spar later? Work out some tension?”

Bait. It’s bait and Ghost should say no, but he wants to. It’ll do the opposite of getting rid of the tension, but he wants to. Consequences be damned.

“That eager to eat the mat again?”

“Only if it’s you making me eat it, sir,” Soap’s grin widens, cat with the canary, and Ghost can play this game.

“Not the only thing I’ll make you eat,” too far, in public like this, but worth it for seeing Soap’s grin drop from his lips and turn them into a soft ‘oh’ shape, fork paused halfway to his mouth, before he licks his lips and swallows.

Ghost takes a sip of his tea.

“Some of us are trying to eat,” Price speaks up from beside him after taking the conversation in stride for longer than Ghost would have, “don’t tire yourselves out, Laswell’s got a lead on Makarov, we could be on the move at a moment’s notice.”

“Anything solid?” Soap looks like he wants to say something to that, and Ghost kicks him again to shut him up.

“Not yet, but close. Konni activity on comms picking up.”

Gaz takes a break from shovelling eggs into his mouth, ears a little pink. “Time to get this bastard.”

“End of day, sounds like. Maybe sooner.”

They’ll be ready today. Ghost shouldn’t allow himself to get distracted, knows he will anyway. Already is. He meets Soap’s eyes over the table and he wants to bend him over it right here. If there wasn’t a chance that the day won’t reset, he might actually have done it.

Soap looks like he’s having a similar thought.

One more time, get it—get Johnny—out of his system, clear his head for what they’re up against tonight. If everything goes right, tomorrow will be a fresh start. Clean slate.

Neither of them holds back when they hit the gym. Ghost is far from scared of touching him, and yet Soap keeps pushing for more. It’s almost a real fight, tension from earlier translating into something violent and hungry, dogs at each other’s throats, trying to taste blood.

Not anger, but burning heat fuelling them.

Ghost pins him, Soap escapes, reverses their positions, Ghost frees himself, they stand and go again. And again, and again. He feels the bruises already blooming on his ribs, his shins where Soap kicked him to bring him down, sees his own fingerprints on Soap’s biceps.

They’re speaking without words, but Ghost isn’t sure what’s being said. Violence is a language he understands well, but Johnny’s specific dialect is lost in translation. It seems to go both ways, blows exchanged like phrases, landing, but not where they need to, to get their meaning across.

For as much as they cleared up any misunderstandings this morning, the air between them feels thick with them now. Rushed movements, unpredictable, unable to finish each other’s sentences.

Punching harder like talking louder makes their message clear.

Ghost sweeps Soap’s legs out from under him, gets Soap down to the mat for what feels like the hundredth time, all previous todays blending into one—even if Soap hasn’t dropped his shoulder once—and straddles him to hold him down just as Soap turns over to get back to his feet.

It’s a position he didn’t intend to get into, not here or now, not when he wants him exactly like this, not with the way it’s not clear what Soap wants from this, from him, and that’s the crux of things. Soap has never been afraid to say what he means, never holds back until he’s made to. No hidden agenda, nothing left unclear, a front for everything that is. Not a puddle but a coursing river.

Despite himself, he keeps Johnny down with a hand to the back of his neck when he tries to get up, and he expects Soap to struggle harder, find a way to free himself, land another blow just this side of too mean, use his actions to get his words across.

Instead, he melts into the mat. Ghost presses down harder. Hips too, stiff cock right up against Soap’s ass.

Message clear as the one Soap sent by giving in. Clearer still when he pushes into it.

“Had enough?”

“Not even close, sir,” Soap’s out of breath—they both are—panting open-mouthed against the mat beneath his face, head turned sideways but unable to look back at Ghost with his hand still firm and unrelenting on his neck.

Keeping him right where he wants him.

Not even close.

“Bet you’d let me fuck you right here,” Ghost leans in closer to say it, pressing himself down like he’s already sinking into him, aware of the stares they’re getting again.

If they make it out today, there’ll be no escaping the judgement, maybe even punishment, coming their way, but Ghost doesn’t care. Not enough to stop himself. Yesterday was a bite he shouldn’t have taken, today the hunger compels him to eat. He wants this, wants Johnny. Wants him to feel the same way so bad it’s clouding his mind until there’s nothing left but the way he feels underneath him.

Nothing but Johnny moaning under him, wanton and near lewd, hitching his hips into the floor, clearly trying to get off.

“Say it, Johnny.”

Soap doesn’t respond, just keeps moving underneath him—as much as he can—pushing back against Ghost’s cock and rubbing himself into the mat, eyes closed, breath wet. Close, Ghost realises, just from this. Barely even touched other than the preceding fight, fucking desperate for more.

He isn’t done with him yet, but it’s tempting to see if Soap would come right here, without Ghost doing much more than holding him down. People are watching them, but no one dares intervene. It only adds to the thrill of taking something he shouldn’t, of giving over for Soap, the knowledge that he likes it this way both a recent and distant memory.

Ghost squeezes down on his neck, digs his fingers into the tensing muscles, hard enough his nails leave indents in his skin, maybe more, and Soap opens his mouth wider, tongue barely out, searching. Ghost knows what for. He sits up enough so he doesn’t need to brace himself to keep from breaking Johnny, and uses his freed hand to slip two fingers into Soap’s mouth.

He fucks them into Soap’s mouth like it’s his cock, deep and keeping them pressed to his tongue so Soap can’t close his lips around them, can’t suck, can’t do anything but take it. He’s drooling around them, eyes shut tight, trying not to gag when Ghost pushes them deeper.

He doesn’t, and Ghost can’t keep from praising him like he deserves.

“Good boy.”

The sound Soap makes is loud and shameless, between a sob and a whine, eyes squeezing shut tighter, and saliva and sweat are no longer the only things on his face when a tear slides out and over his nose, mingling with the puddle of spit already on the mat.

Ghost grinds down into him, thrusting against him and into his mouth at the same time, and Soap has nowhere to go, can’t do anything but lie there and rub his cock into the floor.

“Just like that. You can do it, Johnny.”

He wants to see it, needs to see Soap come just like this, held down and claimed for everyone to see, yet putting on a show just for Ghost. No one else could have him like this; desperate and crying and begging if he could get any words out. Ghost’s cock throbs, making a wet mess in his boxers; pent-up and close, too.

Whatever they couldn’t get across with violence, things left unspoken, this is what Ghost can’t say out loud. Soap is his, and he won’t let go of him for anyone, even himself.

Soap makes another sound around his fingers, and Ghost adds a third, gives him what he wants, holds him open, pushes in, using his other hand to dig his nails in to scratch at Soap’s neck before pressing down on his pulse points, and Soap comes undone underneath him.

He gasps, choked off by Ghost’s fingers, hips grinding back into Ghost’s cock instead of down, muscles tight and straining up, shuddering through it until he slumps down and Ghost lets him suck in air and loosens the grip he has on his neck.

Loosens, but doesn’t let go. This was about making Soap lose control, but Ghost is the one who can’t hold back now.

He eases back enough to tug Soap’s shorts down—strokes Soap neck when he whimpers in protest at the loss of his hand on his neck—exposing his ass, and then his sweats to pull his leaking cock out. Soap had the merit of staying covered while he came, but Ghost doesn’t care who’s watching. He needs this.

Consequences be damned.

He slicks his cock with the leftover spit still coating his fingers, and slides it between Soap’s cheeks, spreading them to give him access, then squeezing his ass with both hands to make the fit tighter. He nudges over Soap’s hole on the upstroke, past it, again. Just the tease of it drives him to speed up, but he won’t press in, not here, not without prepping him properly.

Soap pushes back like he wants him to; Ghost can feel him flutter every time he slides past it, begging for him, and if he wasn’t as close as he is, he’d take his time, get him somewhere private, finger him open until he was hard again. Fuck him until he cried again.

He speeds up, leaking so much he’d be tempted to try it anyway—maybe just the tip, give Johnny a taste of what he’s saving for him, for later — but he won’t hurt him. Never again, not unless he’s sure Soap can take it. Not unless Ghost is sure he can take it, himself.

A soft sound falls from Soap’s lips, and when Ghost looks up from the way he’s burying his cock between Soap’s cheeks, he is crying again, more than just a tear, soft sobs, still pushing back for more, and then getting a hand down between his body and the mat and fuck. He’s jerking off, hard again, or still, and Ghost is right on the edge, but he holds off.

“Again, Johnny? Need it that bad?”

Soap moans, nodding, hips twitching like he can’t decide what he wants more of; his hand, or Ghost’s cock rubbing over his hole, thrusting against and past it with every push into him.

“Need to make it quick, I’m not gonna last with you crying for it like that.”

Not to mention that at any moment someone might decide they’ve seen enough and do something about it. Ghost isn’t stopping until they do. Doesn’t look away from Johnny to check, either. Eyes on them or not, this is about him and him alone.

Ghost keeps his pace steady, stomach clenching from the effort of not giving in, cock throbbing and wet between Soap’s cheeks, kneading his hands into his glutes, encouraging him to keep going, make himself come again.

Soap arches for him, searching for more, trying to get him inside, and his arm speeds up. He didn’t even stick his hand into his shorts; only his ass is bared, working his still trapped dick through the slicked fabric. Ghost reaches down, foregoes keeping his ass tight around his cock, and wraps his hand around Soap’s, forcing him to make his grip tighter, helping him go faster in the limited space he has to work with.

“Go on, wanna hear you,” Ghost’s cock catches at his rim again, and he stills his hips, keeps it pressed right there, restrains himself, but lets Johnny feel just how bad he wants to do it.

The noise Soap makes is wet from his sobs, pulled deep from his throat, and then he tenses all over, shaking as he comes again, hole clenching on nothing but the pressure of Ghost’s tip rubbing over it, spurting so hard through his shorts that it covers both of their hands.

Ghost isn’t far behind, and he squeezes Soap’s cheeks back tight around his cock, sliding through his crack, fucking against him instead of into him like he wants with deep, rolling thrusts, while Soap lowers back to the floor, spent and panting. Lets Ghost take what he wants, tears slowly drying on his face.

Ghost finally gives in, wants to make an even bigger mess of Johnny, needs to show him how he belongs to him, needs to tell him —

His cock pokes at Soap’s hole again, slips over and past it, head poking out between his cheeks, and he pulses over them, on Soap’s back, his ass, before sliding it back down and letting more of his load coat the tight crack, and then right up against his entrance, slick and relaxed enough now to just barely nudge the tip in, letting Soap have a taste of what he wants to give him.

Ghost keeps his cock right there, not moving, but pumping the last of his cum into Soap before sitting back and admiring the wreck he made of him, before reluctantly pulling his shorts up to cover him back up. He puts his cock away, too, and finally unstraddles Soap, sitting down on the mat to catch his breath.

The gym is nearly empty now. No Gaz today, thank Christ. The guys left are steering well clear of them, pretending they didn’t see or hear any of what just went down.

Ghost nudges Soap’s shoulder. He looks like he’s trying to have a nap, arms under his head now, eyes still closed but no longer shut tightly, no longer crying or panting for breath. Boneless and relaxed.

“Johnny, you okay?”

Soap turns over, face halfway between pleased and grossed out at the mess, and gives him a thumbs up.

“Never fuckin’ better. Can’t believe we did that,” Soap’s voice is soft and low, a little raspy, a little lazy.

He looks filthy; tears, spit, and sweat on his face, shirt soaked with it too, and his shorts are so soaked it almost looks like he did more than come in them. Twice. It’s on the mat too, the wet smears more evidence of his desperation.

“You still want to try to fix it, tonight? We could reset, let everyone forget that we did.”

Not like either of them will.

Soap meets his eyes, more alert than he was a second ago. “Nah, I’m not dying again if I can help it. Neither are you, remember?”

He does, and Ghost nods. “No regrets, then?”

“Only not getting you inside. Make it up to me later?”

Not letting himself have this didn’t get Ghost very far, in the end. Johnny still may not want more from him, but the pain of losing him is a stark contrast to the pain of only having part of him.

Agreeing is easy. “Promise. If you’re good.”

He says it half for the way Soap’s eyes instantly darken, like if he keeps it up he could have him right here, again. He’s likely slick enough for it too, wouldn’t take much to get him ready, but this isn’t the time or place.

Later.

The doors to the gym open, Gaz’s eyes widen when he spot them, and he walks right back out. Considerably worse than what he saw last time, even if he wasn’t present for anything but the aftermath today.

Soap laughs, like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and the tension of remaining doubt, remaining here, snaps sudden, not painful but a relief.

“Let’s move. Get ready for tonight, deal with this tomorrow. Real tomorrow.”

Ghost stands up, helps Johnny to his feet, a sharp nod—copy—and watches him disappear into the locker room. Wants to follow, but doesn’t.

Later. He did promise.

They go over Soap’s side of the tunnel; even though he hasn’t gone through today as often as Ghost has, if there’s anything they can do to be as prepared as possible, they should. Ghost doesn’t want to fail again.

No matter how many more chances he has, no matter if they can do this now until forever, the thought of watching Soap die even one more time is unbearable.

They have to get it right. They have to move on. Together.

The call comes at the same time it always does, but today they’re still bent together over the notes they’re alternatively jotting down at the desk in Ghost’s room, and it feels final even if this whole thing has been anything but.

Soap pulls him from his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder. Face open and bare, while Ghost’s is safely covered up and hidden away. Nothing to betray him, and yet.

“Hey, Lt. If I don’t make it — if we don’t make it. I’ll be right here again tomorrow. Right here with you. You’re not alone.”

Not alone. Something inside him unravels, the last thread holding him together, keeping him from unspooling and spilling out, overflowing, seams bursting from everything he can’t put thoughts—let alone words—to.

Ghost pulls his balaclava up. Then off. Johnny has seen his face before, but this is different, and the shock on his face tells Ghost he knows it, too. It isn’t like the other times—greed and craving and fire—but it’s heat of the moment all the same. He closes the distance between them, and presses his mouth to Soap’s, a quick press of lips, intending to pull away as soon as he does it.

Soap doesn’t let him.

He grabs at Ghost’s neck to keep him close, and slots them together into a proper kiss, licking into his mouth, hungry like he’s starving. Like he’s been starving, just as much as Ghost has.

They can’t stay here. Ghost would stay forever if he had to, for Johnny.

They kiss until they’re breathless, clutching at each other like letting go means letting go, and then kiss again. Softer now, not sated, nowhere near satisfied, but conveying what even this morning didn’t, not words, not actions, something in between. Meeting in the middle. Ghost can’t say it, but he doesn’t have to when he breaks away and opens his eyes to meet Johnny’s.

Mine and yours and always. Right here if nowhere else.

Soap stands, slow but determined. “See you soon, Simon.”

The rare use of his name almost has Ghost reach out to keep him here, safe and in his arms, but they have to do this. They can do this. He can.

“See you soon, Johnny.”

Neither of them says anything else, no need when every word left unspoken rings out in the silence.

Soap leaves, Ghost watches him go, and he gears up carefully, methodically, piece by piece, building his armour up as much as himself. Mask in place. At peace with the knowledge it can come off again for Johnny. Safety, both covered and exposed.

Both of them work fast, just a step ahead of the beaten path, careful not to mess up, careful not to waste time.

Ghost watches him on the CCTV, calls Soap back when he threatens to go too fast and scare the hacker off, and Soap trusts him to direct him exactly where and when he can move. Follows every instruction to the letter, never pushing back, barely cracking a joke.

Despite rehearsing this for a month, in the end they get to the flash drive too late, and Ghost tells himself it’s all part of the plan. There’s no guarantee Makarov still wouldn’t set the bomb off without hijacking the trains; the damage would be insurmountable regardless. All he’d need to do is catch a train and pull the emergency brake at the right time, or threaten the driver; the Trojan just makes his plan easier to pull off.

There’s still time, and they’re early just like yesterday, almost twenty minutes today, but Makarov is early too, caught boarding a train ten minutes ago. Ghost tries not to feel like their effort was for nothing. It has to work.

The ride into the service tunnel is silent and tense, but Soap is a comforting presence at his side. Together. Today. It feels final because it has to be.

When they pile out of the car, Price greets, then directs the SFO’s to split up and provide back up, and Soap interrupts him when he’s about to turn, expecting Soap to follow.

“Cap, sorry. I need to do this with Ghost,” he holds up a hand when Price is about to protest; they went over the plan, this is what was decided on, “trust me. I know, but trust me.”

Price frowns, then nods. “Time is of the essence, let’s get on those doors.” He turns to join Gaz, radioing in to Laswell as he goes. “Six to Watcher, we are on the X. Going for Makarov.”

That easy, just like Soap said it would be. The hard part is coming up.

“Time to take this bastard down,” Soap says it to him this time, and Ghost nods.

“Come hell or high water, Johnny.”

They move on Price’s word, the door opening before them like stepping into the fifth circle. It starts slow, only a few soldiers here, and Soap gets them before Ghost can, or has to.

The path through the ventilation passage is fast, and they reach the garage in a matter of minutes. Hostages, like on the other side, four soldiers, down in an instant, all civilians unharmed. They leave them for the SFO to take care of and move to the garage door.

Ghost calls in to Laswell. “Bravo 0-7 to Watcher. Reached the crossover, about to breach.”

“That’s Makarov’s last known position, stay sharp.”

Nothing he doesn’t know. Ghost takes a breath, makes eye contact with Soap, steady. “Ready?”

Soap nods, face set, fixed, resolute. “Ready.”

He hits the button to the door, and they’re through before it lifts fully, opening fire, and getting behind cover. Only long enough to clear a path forward, Soap leading the way now, familiar with this side of the tunnel. They concentrate their fire on the heavily armoured soldier bearing down on them, just like Soap said he would, then the turret, and leave the rest to their back-up.

“Just a little further, Lt!”

They push up, taking out who they need to, and move into the tunnel further. A train rushes past, takes out a soldier that didn’t get out of the way fast enough, and they break out onto the platform.

Seeing the bomb fills Ghost with dread, even if they’re early, even if Makarov is nowhere to be seen — yet.

There are less Konni soldiers here, and taking them out doesn’t pose a challenge, but more will come, they’ll do anything to get them away from the bomb, hold them off until it blows even if it takes them out as well.

Ghost orders the SFO to secure the perimeter, and Soap moves to the bomb.

“How much time?” It has to be enough.

“Eight minutes. I got this, be ready to help me cut the wires.”

“I got your six, Johnny. Let’s get this done, yeah?”

Soap nods, looking more clear-headed than Ghost feels. “On it, sir.”

He goes to work, and Ghost calls in to the team. “0-7 to all Bravo, bomb located on the crossover platform. We need cover, get here!”

“Rog, pushing your way!” Gaz responds, and Ghost can only hope neither of them get hurt before they make it here.

Gaz did, once or twice, in the blur of days after he was the one that killed Soap. Neglect on his part, one more thing to add to his guilt. But he’s capable, and with Price by his side they should be able to get through the Konni soldiers trying to hold them back.

They can use all the help they can get; half the SFO team is still down the tunnel, battling through the soldiers they didn’t deal with in the rush to get here. More soldiers rush down from up ahead, and behind, but Ghost doesn’t go far, keeps as close as he can to Soap while he draws their fire away from him and takes them out. One by one.

Focused, stable, guided by the only thing on his mind: Johnny.

There’s a lot of them, though, and Ghost is grateful for the back-up. Until it’s gone. The last of the soldiers drops, but when he checks behind them, he and Soap are alone.

Ghost calls out over comms. “Bravo, we could use some help here!”

He turns his attention to Soap. “How’s it going? You need help?”

“No, I almost have it. Just keep them off me,” he looks up for a moment, “we can do this, Lt.”

They fucking have to. Ghost can’t accept anything less, but the worst is on his way as they speak. He’ll put Makarov down as soon as he gets him in his sights. No question. Soap won’t die today, whatever it takes.

He nods, checks his weapon, reloads, keeps his head up. Just the two of them, together.

More soldiers start to pour out from the tunnel, and this is it. Final moments, unless he can do his job and keep Soap alive. Ghost guns them down, one by one, instinctual, barely needing to look where he aims, waiting.

“6 to 0-7, we’re punching through now!”

Good news, they can help take care of whoever’s left when they get here, but Makarov will be dead.

“Get here!”

Ghost holds them off, away from Soap, pushes up instead of falling back when more soldiers join the ones still here —

He spots him, up ahead. Makarov. Too far, but closing in rapidly.

“I see him! Stay low, Johnny!”

He glances back, makes sure Soap is safe, and in that split second he’s hit. Burning hot pain shoots through his arm, and Ghost’s weapon clatters to the ground, Makarov approaching, and no, no. Ghost manages to get his sidearm out of its holster, arm barely cooperating, aims, fires. Wide.

Makarov gets closer, weapon raised, and Ghost can’t keep his arm steady, not even supporting it with his other hand helps him get Makarov in his sights, blood flowing too fast; an artery, he needs a tourniquet if Makarov doesn’t get him first, but at least he’s aiming at Ghost instead of Soap. If this is what it takes —

A second shot rings out close to him, over the automatic fire directed their way, and Makarov drops. Headshot. Johnny.

“Need you on the wire, Lt!”

Behind them, Price and Gaz finally break out onto the platform, laying down covering fire on the already retreating men, and Ghost drops his gun and joins Soap at the bomb. His arm hangs limp at his side, blood filling his glove, but Ghost pulls his pliers out with his left hand.

“Ready.”

“Red wire. On three,” they lock eyes over the bomb before looking back down, “One. Two. Three.”

The cut sounds out loud in the sudden deafening silence of the platform, time slowing to a standstill in the moments between it and when Soap next speaks.

“Disarmed. We’re clear,” he looks at Ghost over the bomb, relieved, before he spots the blood flowing down his arm.

“Ghost’s hit! We need help!”

He rushes over, pulling out a tourniquet, just as Ghost sinks to his knees. It’s more than the blood loss, it’s the world coming back into focus now that he did what he was meant to do. It’s the weight easing off his shoulders. It’s Johnny, alive before him, tying his arm off, unharmed. Safe.

Saved.

Gaz comes over to help out, checks him over, has to push Soap back to do it, tightens the tourniquet, and steps back when he's satisfied.

“He needs a doctor, but he’s okay,” then, to Ghost, “you’re okay, Lt. Just have to get out of here.”

Ghost had worse. Has endured worse. Another scar is nothing, means nothing, when he would take a bullet to the head if it meant keeping Soap safe.

He pulls him down by his vest with his functioning arm, and Soap goes, burying his face into Ghost’s neck. They’re separated by their gear—heavy layers keeping them from touching, from melting into each other like Ghost wants to—but it feels closer than ever. Ghost holds him tighter. Soap doesn’t feel like he means to let go, either, careful of his arm, but wrapping him into an embrace.

He raises his head from Ghost’s neck, and presses their foreheads together. Bare skin against plastic mask, eyes locked together, shaky breaths. Nothing but shared air and fluttering lashes for a moment, life raft drifting on the ocean, then —

“We did it. It’s done. It’s over.”

It’s over. Unless it’s not. Ghost can’t voice his worry, can’t do anything but hold Johnny close and refuse to let go. They’re alive. Whatever else comes to pass, he’ll deal with it with Soap by his side.

“All stations, this is Bravo in the blind. Makarov is down. Threat neutralised. Bomb is safe. We need exfil ASAP.”

Tuesday, 7 November 2023, 02:25

The way up to exfil point is clear, and so is the night. Brighter than Ghost would’ve liked, when they set out. The full moon left them too visible, the spots he picked to set up all too exposed.

Soap was sure they’d be fine. Soap was wrong. It’s not that Ghost blames him for the fuck-up, but he blames himself for not listening to his instincts. For trusting Johnny over himself. It’s not like him; he knows better than that. Should know better than that when it comes down to it.

Just him and Soap, no back-up, not team, Soap down below, him on top—no cover, just hoping the few shadows cast by tall grass kept him from view unless someone really looked—clearing a path, trying to get him through safely. It was easy to pick his targets, but it was easy for them to see Soap coming as well.

Despite his warning to stay down, keep low, stick to walls and corners, they did. It wasn’t Soap’s fault; he followed orders as well as he always did, but Ghost should’ve pulled the plug on this before he let him get down there.

It didn’t help matters that his continued shots attracted attention to his position, too, and he had to leave Soap to defend himself to avoid the men bearing down on him.

They had to pull back, under heavy fire, with more reinforcements arriving from the east side; where they were trying to get to without raising the alarm. The mission failed, but they made it out alive despite Ghost’s mistake.

It should have been easy, quiet, in and out, minimal kills, get the drive, head home. Instead, they’re left empty-handed, Soap bruised and bloodied—though most of it isn’t his own—and neither of them speaks on the way to where the helicopter will pick them up.

Fifteen minutes.

Ghost turns his back, sweeps his scope down the hill, over the bushes, makes sure they weren’t followed, even if he’s already sure they weren’t. It’s his job to be diligent and patient. Undistracted. Considering all angles. Keep the team safe. Follow orders. Trust his judgement.

His judgement. This could’ve ended much worse, and that would’ve been on him and no one else.

“If you’re pissed at me, you can just say so. Getting a little tired of the brooding and mysterious act, Lt,” Soap sounds pissed himself, a harsh edge to his voice, his accent more pronounced, and Ghost turns to meet him head on.

Soap is closer than he sounded, didn’t hear him walk up over his thoughts, and they’re almost chest to chest, Soap tilting his head up, defiant, meeting his eyes with a twist of his mouth usually reserved for — anyone but Ghost. Even Price gets subjected to it once in a while, but Ghost doesn’t often, and when he does, it isn’t about him so much as to him, about something or someone else. Shared disdain.

“I’m pissed. Go watch your sector.”

The wrong thing to say, blood in the water; Soap’s face darkens, eyes as blue as the night, nostrils flaring, and he steps further into Ghost’s space. Chest to chest, or rather, vest to vest, thick layers of gear and plate keeping them apart.

“Not my fault you got jumpy up there, I was doing fine. We could have finished instead of giving up.”

“You were surrounded, with more coming down on you fast. It was my call and I stand by it. Back down, sergeant,” Ghost makes it an order, and squares his shoulders, prepared for the pushback.

But not prepared for the literal push, Soap shoving him so hard he’s forced to take a step back and right himself. They glare at each other, anger rising from a simmer to a boil.

“I said, stand down.”

Soap pushes him again, and Ghost drops his weapon to the ground before shoving him back. Soap snarls, and Ghost can see the punch coming from miles away, dodges it without issue, and jams his own fist right where Soap left his side exposed.

He gasps in pain, but doesn’t let up, follows it with a left uppercut, and that does connect, right to Ghost’s jaw, jarring him. Spurring him on. He ignores the pain blazing through his face, barely feels it a second later, grasps Soap’s vest with his left hand to keep him from dodging away, and returns the blow with a matching one, glove against bare skin, and again when Soap doesn’t get his arm up in time to block him.

Soap doesn’t look dazed from how hard he hits him, he looks wild-eyed and eager for more, struggling in his grasp, trying to get Ghost to let go at the same time as he punches him low, in the stomach, just below his vest.

It makes Ghost double over, but he doesn’t let go, keeps Soap right where he wants him; in his reach and under his fingers. He’s too late on the follow-up, though, and Soap hooks a leg around the back of his knee to tackle him to the hard dirt beneath them.

Ghost lands heavily on his back, Soap on top of him whether he pulled him down with him or if he meant to, straddling his thighs, punching down, the blow glancing off the plastic of Ghost’s mask but hard enough to hurt anyway.

It stuns him for a moment, and he expects another blow to follow it, but Soap pauses and leaves him with an opportunity to reverse their positions. Ghost bucks up hard, shoving Johnny off him and onto his back before getting on top of him, keeping him down.

Soap’s hands scrabble over his vest for purchase, but he doesn’t go for another punch. Neither does Ghost. There’s a bruise forming on Soap’s jaw already, bright red standing out against his skin in the moonlight, just like the ones he put on his neck, months ago. Different motivations, same end result; Soap taking what he has to give without complaint. But not without asking for more.

“Got it out of your system?” He still sounds angry even to himself, gruff and breathless, like he wouldn’t mind picking up where they left off.

Either here, or back there.

Soap’s face is unreadable, set like marble, still like an undisturbed lake, closed like a book.

“Nowhere close. Sir.”

Defiance and deference at the same time. It’s so like Johnny that all the fight drains out of him. He doesn’t want to hurt him. He just wants him. It’s not a new thought, it’s not one he allows himself to have.

Ghost refuses to be pulled under by the current, he’s been treading water for so long, stopping would be the end of him. The end of them, when Soap realises the depth of this.

The whirr of helicopter blades spinning fills the silence that fell between them, and Ghost more than reluctantly rises to his feet. Soap stays where he is, on his back and spread out, jaw set, but he takes Ghost’s hand when he offers it.

Glove to glove, separated but together.

Ghost nods at him, Soap nods back. Settled, but not. Fresh water flowing into salt. Tinder and match. Stone and chisel.

Wednesday, 22 November 2023, 07:45

Ghost wakes up, disoriented and unbalanced, like being pulled from a nightmare, still falling and expecting the impact of the ground to hit at any moment. He’s sore all over like it did, and then hit by stabbing pain when he moves. His arm.

His — no, the room comes into focus. Bright lights. White walls. A bed more uncomfortable than his own, half raised. This is wrong. Panic floods through him, choking his airway, almost spilling out through his mouth, open on a half bitten back groan.

It eases, all of it, when he turns his head.

Johnny.

Alive and well, slumped down in a chair next to his bed, head rising from his chest just as Ghost looks at him. He’s still in his gear, but his vest is discarded off to the side, weapons set down next to it. Tired, but in one piece.

“Morning, Lt. Sleep well?” His smile is soft, a little worn around the edges, frayed but genuine.

Ghost can’t tell if this is real, or some fever dream thought up in the moments before either of them bleeds out, or the bomb blows, or he walks into the river again. Desperation, conjuring up what he wants to see, wants to believe. Clinging on to something in another final moment.

“Is this real?”

Soap rises from the chair to sit down on the edge of the hospital bed. “It’s real. We lived, Makarov is dead. It’s over.”

He reaches out for Ghost’s hand, stops, pulls his glove off, and clasps it. Tight, like he’s holding on as much as Ghost is.

“Are you sure?” It doesn’t feel real, even if Soap’s hand on his does, even if the pain shooting through his arm when he tries to sit up is proof that last night happened.

“I’m sure. You were in surgery for three hours. Price and Gaz are here, too. We got out, all of us.”

The relief Ghost waits for doesn’t hit him. All that does is disbelief, and grief that has no place to be here, and fear at falling asleep and waking up trapped in the same day. It’s not about earning this, but he hasn’t. He didn’t fight hard enough, didn’t try hard enough, he killed Johnny. He shouldn’t be allowed to go on, to live with that. Moving on means it didn’t matter, debt absolved, washed away, clean slate.

Like it was all for nothing. Except that it wasn’t. Ghost takes a deep breath and steels himself. Pushes down despair and guilt rising like a tidal wave, all consuming and destructive. He might not deserve to be here, absolution, deliverance, redemption. Freedom.

But Soap does. No matter Ghost’s failings, no matter that it took him this long to finally get it right, it is right, if it means Soap is out, too.

He hasn’t let go of Ghost’s hand.

“I’m sorry, for taking so long. For not trying harder. For keeping you there.”

Soap squeezes him tighter, something in his eyes Ghost can’t place. “I’m here. I think — I think we had to do it together. Not alone.”

Trust. Teamwork. Guiding principles, but Ghost prefers to rely on himself. Maybe relying on Johnny, putting his faith in Johnny, when he couldn’t handle it on his own, was exactly what he needed to do. Neither of them could make it work without the other.

He extracts his hand from Soap’s fingers to pull his mask up before realising he’s not wearing it, and Ghost can’t hold back a smile. He doesn’t feel the familiar sting of being exposed, of needing to hide. Not here, with Soap looking at him the way he is; like he sees all of him, and isn’t scared of what he finds there, unintimidated, unafraid. He never has been, not for a moment, but Ghost didn’t allow him many. Or himself.

It isn’t the first time Soap has seen his face, but it’s the first time Ghost knows what he must look like to him. He reaches for him, but Soap is already closing the distance between them, careful to stay clear of his injured arm, in a sling over his chest. He kisses him slow, with intent, and they’re speaking without words again.

Almost tender.

Less, when Soap bites at his lip, and Ghost bites back, harder. Exchanging kisses and bites both like blows and like words, Soap’s hand on his chest, Ghost’s at his throat, finger digging into his jaw, drinking him in. Eating him up. Ravaging like fire, flames licking at the edges of them, burning up together.

The door opens and they break apart, but they don’t bother pretending this was anything but what it was. No way to hide it if they wanted to; bruised lips, wet with spit, eyes ablaze yet dark.

“Sorry to interrupt. You look like you’re feeling better,” Price doesn’t seem fazed, walking in with tired eyes, and a coffee in his hands, Gaz following in his footsteps.

Soap doesn’t move back to the chair, and Gaz takes it instead, flopping down and sprawling out.

“Good to see you’re back to normal, Lt,” he grins at Ghost, and Ghost forces the smile from his lips to fix him with a stare.

Gaz isn’t impressed, just grins wider, exhausted as he looks, like they’re sharing an inside joke. One that everyone but Price is in on, but then again, they haven’t been subtle about this—whatever it is, or was—before. Despite Ghost’s best, if self-interested, intentions.

Price leans against the windowsill in lieu of finding another chair. “Word is they’re letting you out of here in an hour or two, pending a check-up. Should regain full function in no time.”

It’s something he hadn’t even considered yet, preoccupied with everything that went down, with making it here, disbelief and guilt and Johnny.

“Good, can’t be in bed all day,” he pauses when Soap shoots him a look like he’s about to say something not intended to be heard by their teammates, and Ghost shuts him up with his own, “any word on how long?”

“Depends, but if you heal up and take the rest you need, two weeks before you’re back to light duties. I put in a request for leave, if you want it.”

Ghost shakes his head, he’s not leaving Johnny out of sight for the foreseeable future. Not a chance in hell.

“Figured as much. Tell me one thing, though,” he glances at Soap, then back, “you two knew. How?”

It’s not an accusation, but the hint of distrust is there, if only implied. Strongly implied. They haven’t debriefed, as far as Ghost is aware. Price is trying to get their story straight. He and Soap share a look, both of them aware the true story won’t fly. Price they could convince, maybe, given enough time, but not Laswell or any higher-ups. The very thought of trying it would be enough to earn them a discharge.

Soap is the one that breaks the loaded silence filling the room. “Figured I could use the Lt’s quick fingers on that bomb. No offence, Cap.”

It’s a clear deflection. Price nods. “Instinct, huh? No prior knowledge. No idea Makarov would come back to the bomb?”

“Call it thinking ahead. We knew he’d be there, he knew we’d try to stop him. One plus one.”

Soap isn’t wrong, and they’re the only ones who know that prior knowledge was only enough to end this without casualties—on their part—once, after trying and failing to act on it. Again and again and again.

Price looks between them, then past them at Gaz who’s silently taking the conversation in. His face shows doubt, more than exhaustion, but he doesn’t speak out against the seemingly agreed upon consensus; they changed tactics from the laid out plan because Soap felt more secure with Ghost by his side.

When it comes down to it, it’s true. They work together almost always, have since they went after Hassan, will continue to do so until the end.

Nothing can break them apart, not even death. That much is clear.

“Get some rest. I’ll see you back home,” he motions at Gaz to get his ass up, “debrief as soon as the meds wear off.”

Gaz gets up and bumps his good shoulder. “Glad you’re okay. Keep it in your pants, yeah? Nurse should be here soon.”

He follows Price out, and then it’s just the two of them again. Ghost scoots over to make room in the bed, and Soap still doesn’t really fit, but lies down anyway, tucked under Ghost’s arm, on top of the covers, but closer than when they last shared a bed.

“Think he’ll ever let that go?”

“Not likely.”

Ghost couldn’t care less. He ended up here, with Johnny in his arms. Right where he belongs. Alive and safe.

Wednesday, 6 December 2023, 17:45

Two weeks go by, and every day is more or less the same, except Ghost can’t keep his promise of not taking his eyes off Johnny; he’s stuck on base, and Soap is assigned away, first on a solo mission, then one with the team but without him.

Soap texts, when he can. It’s not enough. He wants eyes on, and hands on, too. It’s not that Soap can’t handle himself in the field, but Ghost wants to be there with him, instead of stuck here, waiting for him to return. Refuses to think that he won’t.

He busies himself with what he can do, but it’s hardly enough to take his mind off Johnny. Only light exercise, nothing that could rip his stitches, or worse, tear his carefully repaired artery and torn muscle. He was lucky the bullet missed bone and went straight through, but being immobile like this is testing the limits of his patience.

The sling has been discarded for a week, but his arm is only now starting to feel like part of him again. A couple of nights ago Soap texted him, updated him on his status, then on his status, trying to start something. Again. Ghost went to sleep hard, again. At least Johnny got off, evidence sent in grainy video, barely visible but made clear by the noises he made, ending with his name on his lips, soft but audible even over the slide of skin on skin.

The worst part was the whispered ‘Miss you’, before quickly ending the video, like he thought Ghost wouldn’t say it back. Like that isn’t all Ghost has been doing while he’s stuck here, stranded.

Three more days, then he can say it to his face. At least Ghost’s check-up went well, healing according to schedule, showing no sign that there’ll be lasting damage. Approved to resume light duties but slightly heavier exercise, supervised by a physical therapist. He’ll take it. Anything to keep him occupied.

When Ghost gets back to his room after the first session, the door is ajar, and he stops in his tracks. He didn’t leave it like that, but there’s also no one on base who would risk breaking in. Neither the lock nor the frame are damaged; picked, not forced. Even unarmed and injured, Ghost doesn’t shy away from a fight.

He pushes the door open.

Soap’s on his bed, asleep, and clearly didn’t stop by his own room before coming here; dirty gear, filthy face, weapons leaning against Ghost’s desk, boots kicked off and muddy at the foot of his bed, gloves on his night stand.

He lets the door click shut behind him, careful not to wake Soap, and watches him for longer than a moment. He’s here, back where he belongs. He looks pretty, for a man that’s clearly beyond exhaustion and hasn’t seen a shower in what seems to be at least a week. There’s a cut on his eyebrow, dried blood streaked and smeared down his cheek—it should remind him of the bullet wound, but all it does is show that Soap is alive — and Ghost wants to lick it off just to taste him.

Wants to press his fingers or his mouth to the cut and make it flow again, not to hurt him, but to see the evidence of his life, of his beating heart, matching his own, swelling behind his ribs. Swelling like his cock at just the sight of Johnny on his bed, coming straight here to see him and refusing to leave before he did.

Ghost lets him sleep, moving silently into the bathroom to turn the shower on, and undressing while he waits for the water to heat up.

He’s down to his boxers when the door opens, and Soap makes eye contact with him over his shoulder, in the mirror in front of Ghost.

“Could’ve woken me up, you know,” he says as he walks into the bathroom, stopping just behind Ghost, still looking at him in the mirror.

All the fatigue is gone from his face, wide awake and bright-eyed, if dishevelled and grimy.

“Looked like you needed the rest.”

“Need you more.”

He snakes an arm around Ghost’s waist, resting his hand just above his waistband, and leaning his forehead against Ghost’s shoulder. He inhales, then shifts, trailing his lips over Ghost’s bare skin, before nosing between his shoulder and his arm, inhaling again.

Ghost bites his lip. “What are you doing?”

“Smell good. Just let me —,” he presses closer, gear scratching against Ghost’s back, face insistent at the crook of his armpit.

Ghost’s cock twitches, and he raises his arm to give him access. Soap takes advantage instantly, pressing his face into the sweaty hair, breath hot against already hot skin. Sniffing him like a dog inspecting a returning owner. Ghost pulls Soap’s hand down to his straining cock, makes him feel just how much he likes this, how much he missed him, too.

Soap moans, palming at his dick, and then he's lapping at Ghost armpit, wet tongue into damp hair and skin, greedy, like he can’t get enough, bringing his other hand up to grab a handful of his chest. And then he stops at what he finds there, face coming back into view, still under Ghost’s arm but meeting his eyes in the mirror before dropping them to confirm what he felt.

“Those are new. When’d you get them?”

He rubs his fingers over the metal, tugging lightly when Ghost doesn’t respond right away, and he suppresses the sound he wants to make.

“‘Bout a week after we dealt with Hassan, on leave,” it feels like admitting to something, and it is; he got the piercings after Soap made him want more.

More of Soap, but this had to be enough. The look in Soap’s eyes tell him enough.

“Could’ve had me at any time, you know. Thought I made that clear,” he sounds…hurt, almost, but he presses a kiss into Ghost’s armpit before stepping back and undoing his vest.

Not leaving, then.

“I know. You did. Guess I just didn’t want to take more than what you were offering. Thought I had time, to figure it out. Or to let go.”

Ghost finally turns around, wants to looks at him head on, without the barrier of the mirror between them. He watches as Soap continues taking off his gear, strap by strap, layer by layer, until he’s as naked as Ghost is — and feels.

“Glad you didn’t. Let go, I mean,” Soap drops his underwear and finally meets his eyes, “I was waiting for you. All this time, I was waiting for you to get it. I was always yours, Lt.”

Ghost knows. On some level, he’s always known. Maybe not like this, but it’s been the two of them as a team within the team ever since he almost lost him the first time. Together but separate but not at all. Not ever.

He pulls Soap into him by his neck, flush together, leans down, and kisses him. Lets his emotions flood out through his lips and into Johnny’s mouth, trusts that he understands. Soap responds in kind, opening up for him, licking into his mouth like he’s drinking it up, like he found a spring of clear water in the dry desert.

Kissing turns to biting, to near-gnawing, hungry spit wet lips caught between sharp teeth, sinking into each other, open-mouthed and panting like they’ve been running, chasing after each other, predator after willing prey, teeth and throats bared and exposed.

Ghost pulls back first, Soap chasing after him but held back with a firm hand to his throat, and he melts instantly.

“Get in the shower, sergeant.” An order, just for the way he knows Johnny gets off on it, just for the way he does, too.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes darken—bright blue washed out by the black of his pupils—and he grinds his cock into Ghost’s thigh, and again, until it’s less grinding and more humping. Disobeying, not because he isn’t trained well, but to test the slack of the leash. If Ghost had one, he’d put it on him.

His hands will have to suffice, for now. He tightens the one on his throat, not a choke, not a threat, but a promise, and already feels the burn in his gunshot wound. It’s more than worth it for the way Soap’s hips still and his mouth drops open.

“Do I have to repeat myself?”

Soap looks like he wants to affirm, but he holds back and shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“Good boy. Go.”

He pushes him, not too hard, more to spare his arm than to spare Soap, and Soap goes, stepping under the spray, letting it run over his head, hair soaking to lay down to his scalp, water running over his face and wetting his lashes, too. Reminiscent of the way he cried for him, on his knees in the alley, on the mat right in front of everyone, letting Ghost take what he wanted, eager to receive what he would give in return.

Give and take, push and pull, ebb and flow.

Ghost pushes his boxers down his hips and follows the tide. Wades in deep, and kisses Johnny like being pulled under, letting him wash over him, drowning in him. He presses him against the tiles, presses his cock against his hip, presses his mouth harder against his lips. Licks in and over his teeth, his tongue, eats him up, breaks away to lick at the blood and water—metal and salt and sweat and life—running down his cheek, his jaw, his neck, bites down, lets go, kisses him again.

He can’t get enough of him, solid and present under his touch, taking, taking, taking. Asking for more by pulling at Ghost’s shoulders, by pushing his hips forward to rise from the tiles, persistent, impatient.

Ghost doesn’t give him what he wants, stepping back and grabbing a wash cloth and his shower gel, shoving them both into Soap’s hands.

“Patience. I got you.”

Soap looks fucked out—pink wet mouth, pink cheeks, pinker ears, wet eyes blinking at him slowly—if it wasn’t for his cock throbbing heavy and pink, too, under the running water, Ghost would think he came already.

They’re just getting started, but twice isn’t out of the question for Johnny. Make him last longer on the second round. Finally get around to what Ghost wanted to do weeks ago. Make him cry for it—for him—again, maybe.

He’s pent-up himself, two weeks of a bad angle with his left hand, or trying to rub himself into his sheets without hurting his arm, rutting into a pillow once, picturing it was Soap between his thighs, not getting much but wet dreams and blue balls. Not getting Johnny, in any case.

Soap squirts shower gel onto the wash cloth, and Ghost watches as he cleans himself, keeping his hands to himself until he can’t, trailing his fingers through the suds on his skin, exploring, remembering.

“Don’t touch yourself,” he warns just as Soap is about to bring the wash cloth to his cock, and Soap whines, eyes shining and brow furrowed on a frown when he looks up at Ghost, but he stills his hand.

Practically pouting, like a kicked dog, like Ghost won’t take care of him like he deserves.

He wraps his hand around Soap’s cock, feels him swell impossibly more in his grasp, and strokes him, once, twice, Soap’s hips hitching forward instantly, moan falling from his lips, loud and unrestrained, so close — and releases him, just on the brink, pressing a kiss to his jaw in apology,

His cock twitches hard, and one stream of cum drips out of him, but he doesn’t come, and Ghost would praise him if he didn’t think it’d push Johnny clear past the edge.

He conveys it with more kisses instead, gentler than he wants to be, away from Soap’s mouth—open on soft pants, holding himself back like a good boy, so good for him—to his jaw and his neck and his chin, wet from the water, slick from Ghost’s tongue licking at him after every press of his lips.

Careful not to touch him anywhere but his shoulder to keep him steady, taking the cloth from his hands, trusting that Soap won’t disobey and bring them to his cock.

He doesn’t, but he does drop down to his knees, steadying himself with his hands on Ghost’s thighs, looking up at him even with the spray of water hitting his face, eyes wide and blue and expansive like an ocean, begging like a prayer. Mouth already open, tongue out, waiting to take communion.

Ghost won’t last, not with Johnny looking at him like that, not after two weeks of aching for him, not when he’s more than aware of how good it feels to give in to him. He does anyway, guiding Soap by the wet strands of his hair to his cock, lets him lap at it, lick up the precum instantly flooding out of it before it can wash down with the water.

He drops the wash cloth to brace himself against the wall with his good arm, and Soap closes his eyes in anticipation, looking almost reverent, wet lashes sticking to his cheeks, hands up and grasping at his thighs, bathed in the water running over his head like a baptism.

Ghost feeds his cock into his mouth, slow for his own consideration; Soap can take this and more, wants it like he’s made for it. Wet and hot and slick and ready for him.

“Missed you. Couldn’t stop thinking about you, Johnny.”

It’s not what he meant to say, not right now, but it’s true, and Soap should hear it.

He can’t respond with anything but a moan, tongue pressing up and rubbing at Ghost’s aching cock as he pushes it deeper. Back, just before he hits the back of Soap’s throat, just to hear him whine for it, then in, a little too rough, making him gag and try to swallow around him.

Ghost holds his cock there for a moment, holds Soap’s hair tight, lets Soap try to adjust instead of taking it away from him, before easing up, and thrusting back inside, into his mouth, over his tongue, into his throat, until he’s pressed as deep as he can go.

Soap gags again, harder, making a desperate sound that Ghost feels more than hears, panting through his nose, shuddering intensely, throat constricting around Ghost’s throbbing cock, eyes squeezed shut tightly, riding the wave of his orgasm with fingers digging into Ghost’s thighs sharply.

He came without touching himself, just from having Ghost in his mouth, barely even fucking him, just holding him to his cock. He doesn’t let him off.

“Look so pretty like that, on your knees for me, gagging for it.”

Ghost is close too, thighs and stomach tensing from the effort to hold back, from giving Johnny more of what he wants, from allowing himself to spill down his throat or paint his face, mark him up and claim him. He shivers at the thought and the feeling of Soap trying to swallow him impossibly deeper, cock twitching hard, holding off, holding off.

Until Soap lets go with one hand to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm, pressing, gentle but insistent, begging him to empty them for him. Ghost groans, fucks in, grinds in, and lets go, arm throbbing in pain from how hard he pulls at Soap’s hair, cock throbbing his release down Soap’s throat.

He doesn’t ease up until he’s done, vision blurry from the water in his eyes and how hard he came after weeks of waiting, and Soap just looks up at him, same water in his eyes, same blissful expression reflected on his face.

“Fucking hell, Johnny,” Ghost is still panting, voice a little raw, sticking in his throat at the image Soap makes.

“Needed that,” Soap leans his temple against Ghost thigh for a moment, mouthing at the side of his cock, before looking up at him again with those eyes wide and pretty and so expressive it almost hurts to look into them for too long.

Ghost is still hard, balls still heavy and full, and he wants to use Soap’s face again, make him take it again, but he wants him spread out on his bed more.

He helps him to his feet, legs shaky and trembling underneath him from kneeling on the hard tiles, and he makes Soap lean against the wall, arms bracing himself away from the cold sting of the tiles. He kisses the back of his neck before picking the wash cloth up and running it over his back, his arms, between his legs, before quickly rinsing himself off, too, and shutting the shower off.

He tosses Soap a clean towel, and watches him rub it through his hair, over his face—opening the cut at his eyebrow back up from how rough he does it—and then with less dedication over his shoulders and chest before he wraps it around his waist.

Soap meets his eyes, aware he’s being watched. “See something you like?”

“Yes. Rather see you on your back, though.”

Ghost tugs him closer by the towel, loosening it to steal it for himself, but not before pressing a biting kiss to Soap’s jaw, licking at the trickle of blood gathering there.

“Go,” Ghost gives him a small shove in the direction of the door, drying himself off, careful of his arm but not caring to put much effort into it otherwise.

“Yes, sir.”

Soap grins at him as he goes, the dazed look from before not quite gone, but lessening, and Ghost vows to put it back worse.

When he follows Soap into his room, he’s on his back on his bed as instructed, languid and lazy, cracking open one eye to look at Ghost for approval. He doesn’t get it.

“Changed my mind—” Soap opens his other eye, and his mouth, about to protest, “—get on your knees.”

“Again?” Despite the question, Soap sits up and slides off the bed, obedient, coming to rest at Ghost’s feet.

Tempting as it is—and it is, Ghost’s cock twitches to be in his mouth again—he should have been more clear with his order.

“Other way, sergeant. Over the edge.”

This time, Soap doesn’t listen right away, and pauses to lick at the head of Ghost’s cock, more precum already dripping from it at the thought of Johnny spread out for him.

Ghost holds him off when he tries to wrap his lips around him, but he doesn’t need more instruction than the denial to finally do as he's told, turning around and bending over the edge of the bed, leaning on his forearms to look back at Ghost over his shoulder.

He arches his back, putting on a show again, and Ghost can’t resist smacking his ass. The sound is loud in the quiet of the room, and so is Soap’s gasp, mouth open in shock, like he wasn’t asking for it. It was hard enough to make the skin turn red, and Ghost kneads his fingers into it, lowering to his knees in between Soap’s legs, nudging him to spread them wider.

Soap is still watching him, anticipation written clearly on his face, and Ghost trails his fingers from the still-damp nape of his neck down over his spine, light and teasing in contrast to how hard he slapped him.

“Eyes forward, Johnny.”

He turns, head bowed, neck stretched out and perfect for holding him down, but Ghost has other plans.

He spreads Soap’s cheeks, soft pink hole exposed, already puckering for him, and strokes a finger over it to make him react again. Like this, it looks like he’d never fit, but Ghost will get him ready. More than ready; he’ll make him beg for it before he gives it to him.

Ghost bends down, kisses the small of his back, trails kisses lower, soft and gentle, before biting down into the reddened meat of the cheek he slapped, hard enough to make Soap hiss—jumping and trying to get away on instinct—then push back into it after the initial shock of pain passes.

When Ghost releases him, the marks of his teeth show clear in his flesh, bruised indents redder than the surrounding skin, and he soothes the mark with another kiss. He rubs his thumb over it, then spreads him wide again, and presses his face into the space he makes to lick at Soap’s hole. Keeps his tongue flat, gets him wet with short quick licks until Soap whines and arches deeper, spreading wider in the hope to get more.

“Fuck, Si—sir, more. Please?”

Ghost smiles against him at the sudden reluctance to use his name, like he hasn’t been moaning it on video for two weeks, or like he thinks he won’t get what he’s asking for without addressing him formally. It makes his cock twitch, but he’ll make Johnny forget about holding back. They’re beyond boundaries, nothing besides their working relationship—and even that, if Ghost is honest with himself—is professional.

He might be Johnny’s superior in title, and he enjoys giving him orders as much as Soap likes receiving them, but they’re finally on the same page. He wishes it didn’t take a month of grief and guilt and despair to get them here, but he’s not letting go of him ever again.

But he doesn’t give Soap what he’s asking for, not yet. Keeps his licks short and teasing, there and gone again, just enough, just not, until Soap tries pressing back again to urge him, to make him give in. He doesn’t, and then he hears what he was waiting for; soft but unmistakable. A small shiver and a sniffle.

Ghost’s cock throbs between his legs, willing to bet Soap’s is doing the same, unwilling to touch him to check, and he finally gives in, licks at him with more pressure, points his tongue to tease at his rim, dips in for a moment before taking it out and grazing his teeth over the sensitive puckered skin. It earns him a sob and Johnny’s thighs quivering, hips twitching between the urge to push into it or press forward to get some friction against his dick. But he keeps still, as still as he can, and Ghost hums against him in approval before licking into him again. Soap opens for him eagerly, slick with Ghost’s saliva, clenching and relaxing, trying to pull him deeper.

He keeps going until Soap shakes under him, soft sobs turning to cries and unintelligible words, spit dripping down to his balls, drawn up tight like he might come untouched again, until his jaw is sore from the effort, thrusting his tongue into him like it’s his fingers or his cock.

Soap makes a choked off sound, animal and desperate, and Ghost pulls away instantly, takes his hands off him too, for good measure.

“Don’t. Don’t come, Johnny. I’m not asking,” he doesn’t need to specify, words clear as the order to pull back, to keep his finger off the trigger, to heel.

He watches as Soap visibly holds himself back, tense at first, then relaxing and breathing deep, before he looks at over his shoulder, disobeying the earlier order to keep his eyes forward.

“Need you,” his voice is a soft tremble, cheeks wet with tears, and Ghost needs him just as much.

“Up. On your back, want to look at you.”

Soap goes on unsteady legs, crawling more than standing to get on Ghost’s bed, watching to see if Ghost will follow, reaching out for him as soon as he does. His cock lies swollen and leaking against his stomach, wetting the hair with precum, and Ghost makes sure not to touch it when he rubs his fingers through the mess, settling between his spread legs.

He slips his hand down, finger inside without teasing now, and doesn’t take his eyes off Soap’s face. He stopped crying—for now, if Ghost has any say in it—but he looks wrecked, undone. At his mercy.

Ghost isn’t sure he has any, desire pulling at him until there’s nothing left but flames licking at his bones like aged wood, fire curling around his heart, smoke filling his lungs, Johnny’s wet blue eyes looking up at him, implicit trust, exposed throat ready and willing to be bitten into for a kill that won’t kill him. Ruin and rebirth.

He crooks his finger and watches those eyes drops closed, lips parting on a moan, and gives him another when he gives way so easily it’s like Soap’s entire body melts for him, for the heat consuming him from the inside out. Soap feels hot too, not just around his fingers, but his skin where Ghost touches him, his tensing thigh, his squirming hip, his quivering stomach. He doesn’t touch his flushed cock, still leaking streaks of precum on his stomach as Ghost fingers him open and ready, begging for attention and getting none.

Soap looks like he could come on just his fingers; panting breaths, arms up to grab the headboard instead of touching himself, following an order Ghost didn’t need to give, writhing in the sheets for more. Ghost decides he has mercy in him after all.

“Be good. You can take it, be good,” he soothes him as he slips his out, holds him steady with a hand to his hip, rubbing into it like calming a stray dog, easy, easy now.

Soap bites his lip and nods, watches as Ghost spits into his hand and uses it to slick his aching cock, just as neglected as Soap’s, and guides himself between his thighs, nudging between his cheeks, then at his hole.

He pauses there, as much for Johnny’s benefit as his own, wanting so much to be inside of him it’s overwhelming, possessive, all consuming like the burning in his chest threatening to overtake him. Threatening to make him come before he’s done, before he can fill him up and claim him, make Soap feel as owned as he is even if they both know.

Soap pulls him back to the present, wrapping a leg around his hip to pull him closer, voice rough when he gathers the strength to speak after nothing but moans and whines would come.

“Simon, please. C’mon, I’m right here with you.”

If he wasn’t close before, Johnny using his name would get him there, a clear show of just how gone he is, too. Ghost wants this to last, wants to stay here until he’s had his fill, knows that day will never come, knows they have all the time in the world. They do, now. No more dancing around it, no more reliving missed chances and mistakes and failure to act.

He presses inside slow and careful, watching Soap’s face, seeing nothing but bliss and relief, and switches gears, sliding into the tight grip pulling at him, Soap’s cock twitching and his mouth open on a moan, loud and keening, letting go of the headboard to reach out for him.

Ghost goes to him, leaning down to kiss him as he fucks into him, grinding in until he can’t go deeper, mouths meeting wet and hungry and messy, a collision more than a kiss, explosive and fiery and scalding. Ghost rolls his hips, Soap meets him, pulling at his arms, his neck, his hair, hands a flurry now that he can touch something other than himself, before settling on Ghost’s tits, grabbing handfuls, rubbing at his pierced nipples to make Ghost groan into his mouth.

They break apart when even the air between them feels too scorching to breath in, eyes locked, tears welling up in Soap’s when Ghost keeps pace, not letting up, not speeding up like both of them want.

“I got you. I got you, Johnny.”

The tears spill when he squeezes his eyes shut, sliding down to soak into Ghost’s pillow, before Soap opens his eyes again, lips parted on a gasp when Ghost hikes his leg up to get deeper if not faster.

Soap opens his mouth wider, and he might be asking for another kiss, or fingers, or nothing but air, but Ghost wraps his hand around his throat instead, not choking him, but pressing at his pulse. Feels it strum under his fingers, feels Soap’s moan almost before he hears it.

“Wider.”

Soap obeys, tongue out like he knows exactly what Ghost wants to see, what he wants to give him. Ghost gathers saliva in his mouth, doesn’t stop thrusting into him, and spits. It lands right on Soap’s tongue, and he watches it slide down before Soap swallows it and open his mouth again, eyes half closed but on Ghost’s face, squirming underneath him.

This time Ghost doesn’t spit, but lets it drip slowly from his lips down to Soap’s waiting tongue, who moans when it hits but doesn’t swallow, and when he gathers more he doesn’t aim for Soap’s mouth but for his cheek, watches it land like in slow motion, hitting his skin and sliding down over his face to his neck, landing in his pillow just like Soap’s tears. More of which gather in his eyes, not quite spilling, just on the brink, just like Ghost is, more so when Soap tugs at his piercings and arches up beneath him, trying to get some friction against his cock.

He could stay here forever, fucking Johnny like he means it but never quite enough to let him come, keeping him on the edge, making him take it until he can’t, not stopping until he can’t either.

It’s Soap brining him back a second time, back and closer at the same time, whining underneath him, twisting a nipple and pulling him tighter into him with the leg hooked over his hip.

“Fuck, I can’t. Simon, please, please, please,” his words turn into a litany, like now that he started he can’t stop begging, and Ghost remembers; mercy. All the time in the world.

He finally speeds up, giving Soap just as much as himself what they both want, what they need. Fucks into him like he means to break him, hand tighter on his throat, choking now, and Soap uses the last of his air to moan like he was waiting for it, like it’s Ghost’s fingers taking it away is what fuels him into a blaze, eyes rolling back, and Ghost can’t resist spitting into his gasping mouth again.

Soap almost convulses beneath him, grinding down onto Ghost’s cock, his own spurting hard over his stomach and chest, choking on air he isn’t getting until Ghost loosens his grip, prey at the clemency of a predator that only wants to keep him in his jaws.

Ghost fucks him through it, harder now, lenient but not, giving, but taking just as much, leaning down to bite into Soap’s shoulder, wanting to shake him in his teeth, gnaw on him until he tastes blood, until Soap begs for more or for deliverance.

He does taste blood, but Soap only pulls at his neck to get him closer, and Ghost ruts into him like he’s taken shape of the animal of his yearning, licking at the wound he left, biting down again when it’s not enough to just taste him, needing to feel Johnny between his teeth and under his hands, cock pulsing as he finally comes, filling him up until his cum leaks back out around his cock, laying claim like anyone could ever take him away from Ghost.

Soap takes it, takes all of it, keening sounds of approval, of encouragement, still pushing back on him, clenching around him like he wants more, same single-minded focus, same possessiveness bleeding over and out of him, mingling with the blood and spit and sweat on his skin and in Ghost’s mouth. He slows to a stop, last few grinding thrusts as he gives Soap everything he has to offer, everything they’ve been too scared to look in the eye and meet head-on, keeps his cock inside him, and releases Soap’s tender flesh to press a kiss to his panting lips.

He doesn’t pull out and roll off him under their breaths and heartbeats steady, chest to chest and mouth to mouth, so close they melt into the same being, seas meeting to become an ocean.

Ghost’s bed hardly fits them when they’re next to each other, but he pulls Soap close, tucks him under his arm, makes it work. No other option.

“You’re bleeding,” Soap trails his fingers near, not over, where Ghost ripped his stitches—scheduled to come out tomorrow—arm throbbing from overexercise.

It’s not so bad that requires attention, just a sting of pain, more than worth it, less than anything he had to go through to get here.

“So are you,” he mirrors the touch, first at the cut on Soap’s eyebrow, not bleeding much but opened up and raw looking, then at the bite marks on his shoulder. Ghost isn’t as considerate with him, poking at the bruises he left, smiling when Soap hisses.

“Stop it,” Johnny’s words are betrayed by the way he presses closer, seeking more of the sensation.

More of Ghost’s touch and attention, like always. Laying claim to it, carving out his spot, settling where he belongs.

“You want food? Think we missed dinner, but…”

Soap groans, stretching in his arms, wrapping himself closer around Ghost. “Don’t wanna get up.”

Neither does Ghost, with Soap settling around and over him, a blanket of exhaustion and safety. They need another shower, first, but that can wait, too. He cards his hand through Soap’s hair, damp now more from sweat than water, and tugs him up to kiss him. Just a soft press of lips, affectionate, soothing, agreeing.

Later.

Thursday, 7 December 2023, 06:30

Ghost wakes up with sore muscles, pain throbbing dully in his arm, and a heavy weight on his chest. Too hot, but kicking the blankets off makes the weight move closer, a displeased noise rumbling through Soap’s throat.

“Five more minutes,” he speaks into Ghost’s neck, lips on his skin, followed by teeth, followed by “stay.”

“Giving orders, Johnny?”

He doesn’t need to; Ghost has no intention of moving until he has to, and even then.

“Nah, just askin’. Leaving those to you,” he raises his head to meet Ghost’s eyes, looking more awake than he sounds, more so when he grins, wide and already pleased with himself, “Sir.”

Ghost stares him down, pretends he likes it less than he does. Knows he isn’t fooling Soap for a second. Keeping professional and private separate is hard enough when it comes to him, there’s no need to fuel the flames and encourage Johnny to push at the boundary. It won’t stop him anyway.

Ghost doesn't mind as much as he should, or at all. In here, out there, no line between them. No distance he won’t cross. He pulls Soap closer to him, like they’re not entwined with each other as much as the sheets already, kisses him despite their morning breath, tastes nothing but Johnny.

“You’re a menace.”

“Your menace,” Soap’s voice leaves no room for doubt, but there hasn’t been any.

Even when he wasn’t Ghost’s, he was. Always has been, inevitable.