Archive of Our Own ^beta

Soap and Ghost were friends, best friends, even. A duo which can never be broken up. But that's all they'll ever be: friends, teammates, co-workers. MacTavish and Riley were more than being coworkers. 

Johnny and Simon were less than a relationship. They were less than being a couple, or married. They both knew that and were okay with it. At least, that's what they told themselves laying in bed after they spent the night together, sweaty and breathless, with the ghost of what they couldn't have lingering in the air.

All Johnny wanted was a boyfriend, an equal partner. Someone to share his damn tea with and maybe even hold hands under the table when Price wasn't looking. Simon just wanted a one-time thing, on and off. A release, a distraction from work. Soap just wanted a little romance, love. Not just a hookup, not just sex, no matter how fucking good it was.

"Tell us where yer fuckin' boss is, ye fuckin' Russian piece of shite," Soap yelled, his Scottish brogue thick with anger. He punctuated his words with a vicious punch to the gut of the man tied to the chair, a satisfying crack echoing as his fist connected with soft flesh. The man crumpled forward, gasping for air.

"ни хрена я тебе не скажу! слава Макарову!" He spat, defiance flickering in his eyes.

“Fuck is he sayin'? Cannae mak' it oot, th' wee shite's speaking in tongues,” Soap stepped back, running a hand through his mohawk in frustration.

"He's not gonna break, Johnny," Ghost's voice was low, a dangerous rumble. "Something about Makarov. Stubborn bastard." He moved like a phantom, materializing beside Soap. "Scooch over, let me have a go." 

Ghost leaned down, his gloved hand gripping the man's chin, forcing him to look up. "Let's try this again, shall we?" His voice was calm, conversational, but the icy steel in his tone spoke volumes. "Where. Is. Makarov?"

The Russian spat at him, a string of curses in his native tongue. Ghost didn't flinch. He simply tilted his head, considering the man for a moment before reaching down and pulling a wicked looking knife from his boot. 

"You see, I have ways of making you talk."

The captive trembled, fear finally breaking through his façade of defiance. He'd heard whispers, rumors of the Ghost; The one who wore the skull mask, a grim reaper who comes to collect souls on the battlefield. He'd scoffed at the stories, dismissed them as superstitious ramblings. Now, staring into the abyss of those empty eye sockets, he knew the truth. This was no mere man. This was Death itself.

Ghost pressed the tip of the blade against the man's throat, drawing a thin line of blood. "Last chance. Where is Makarov?"

"I-I don't know, я клянусь!" the captive stammered, the words catching in his throat. "They… didn't tell me."

"Biggest lie I’ve ever heard, mate," Ghost stated, his voice devoid of inflection. He pressed the knife a fraction deeper, the man's pulse hammering against the steel. "Everyone knows something."

Soap watched the exchange, a mixture of fascination and disgust twisting his gut. He'd dished out his fair share of pain, enjoyed it even, but there was something cold, almost surgical, in the way Ghost operated. It was fucking terrifying, and… oddly arousing. He pushed the thought away, shame washing over him. What the fuck was wrong with him?

"Mibbie he needs a motive, sur ," Soap growled, stepping closer. He grabbed a pair of pliers from the table, the metal glinting under the harsh lights. "Ah’m sure we can find something to make ‘im sing a wee tune, aye?"

"Stand down, Soap," Ghost said, his voice low, a warning growl. He didn't take his eyes off the captive. "I'm handling this."

"Or mibbie yer gaun tae soft oan him, LT, " Soap shot back, his voice tight. He was itching for a fight, a release, anything to drown out the conflicting emotions swirling inside him.

Ghost slowly turned his head, those empty eyes boring into Soap. 

For a moment, the air crackled with tension. Then, with a sigh, he lowered the knife. "Fine," he said, his voice a low growl. "He's all yours." 

“Don't get his blood on my boots," he muttered, taking a step back. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a silent spectator to whatever carnage Soap was about to unleash. 

Soap grinned, a predator scenting blood. "Aboot time, LT. Bugger’s git a face that’s beggin’ fur a rearranging ." He turned back to the captive, spinning the pliers between his fingers. "Sae, ye wanna dance, comrade?"

The captive whimpered, his eyes darting between Soap and the impassive figure of Ghost. He was a dead man either way. Soap leaned closer, his voice a menacing whisper.

"Tell ye whit, ‘ow aboot we play a wee ol’ gam, aye? Ye tell me whit ah wantae ken, 'n' mibbie, juist mibbie, ah’ll let ye keep yer tongue. Ye kin even keep thae bonnie teeth in yer gob. What’cha saying? "

He pressed the pliers against the man's chipped front tooth, the metal cold against enamel. The captive shuddered, a muffled sob escaping his lips. "Don’t lik' games, huh? Dinnae thinks sae. Fine by me, anyway. Mair fun this wey. " Soap tightened his grip on the pliers, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Let's see whit mak's a russian scream, aye?"

"Atta boy, Johnny."

The captive’s screams filled the room, a symphony of pain orchestrated by Soap’s brutal touch. He worked with a detached efficiency, ripping, tearing, and breaking until the man’s pleas for mercy were nothing more than bloody gurgles. Ghost watched it all with an unsettling calmness, his expression hidden behind the skull mask. Soap straightened, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing crimson across his face. 

"Still think I'm too soft, Johnny?" Ghost asked, his voice deceptively casual. He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "You've got a knack for this, Soap. Brutal, but effective.

"Someone's gotta dae th' clatty wirk, LT," Soap said, dropping the pliers onto the table with a clatter. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the tension that always seemed to coil tight in his muscles after a good interrogation. He glanced at Ghost, catching the faintest hint of approval in the tilt of his head. Approval, or maybe something else... something darker, hotter. He shoved the thought away, heat creeping up his neck. "Sae, whit noo? this bastart didnae gies us shite ."

Ghost pushed himself off the wall, the movement fluid and silent despite his imposing size. "We move on to the next one," he said, his voice hard. "Someone will talk. They always do."

He clapped a hand on Soap's shoulder, a brief, surprisingly heavy gesture. "Good work out there. You earned yourself a drink."

Soap nodded, his stomach doing a nervous flip at the contact. "Aye, sounds guid, LT."

The bar was the kind of place that attracted a certain type of people—rough around the edges, with a need for cheap booze and a need for even cheaper thrills. The air hung thick with the smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and something vaguely resembling despair. In other words, it was the perfect place for a group of off-duty soldiers looking to blow off some steam.

Soap, however, was finding it hard to relax. He nursed his third cup of whiskey, the lukewarm liquid doing little to quench his thirst or ease the knot of anxiety that settled in his gut. Across the table, Gaz was regaling Price with a recount of their latest mission, a very drunken recount of it, mind you, his laughter booming over the din of the bar. Price, the old bastard, was eating it up, his gruff exterior cracking with amusement.

Even Ghost, perched on a stool at the end of the bar, seemed almost… human. He was still a goddamn enigma, of course, somehow surrounded by shadows and silence even in this dimly lit shithole. But the tension that usually radiated off him had faded somewhat, replaced by a sort of watchful detachment that Soap found oddly reassuring.

They’d been through hell and back together, the four of them. They’d seen things, done things, that would haunt the nightmares of other men

But lately, something had shifted between him and Ghost. The lines blurred, their late-night encounters leaving a residue of something more than just physical release. He’d tried to ignore it, to convince himself it meant nothing, but the truth was… he’d started to hope.

Hope was a dangerous thing, especially where Ghost was concerned. Hope could get you killed.

He watched as Ghost drained his glass, his movements sharp, precise, even with a belly full of bourbon. He caught the eye of the bartender, a burly woman with a bored expression and a tattoo of a skull on her bicep, and jerked his head towards his empty glass. She nodded, her lips curving into a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and reached for a bottle.

Soap’s gut churned. He knew that look. He’d seen it countless times before, on the faces of men and women who mistook Ghost’s quiet intensity for something… else. He’d felt the pull himself, that magnetic force that drew you in, promising a taste of something dark and dangerous and utterly irresistible.

He watched, a cold dread settling over him, as Ghost exchanged a few words with the bartender, their heads close together, her laughter a sharp counterpoint to the low rumble of his voice. She leaned in, her hand brushing against his arm, and Soap felt a surge of something ugly, something primal, from within him. 

He looked away, disgusted with himself. What the fuck was he doing? It was none of his business. Ghost could fuck whoever he wanted. It meant nothing.

And yet… it did, didn't it? At least to him it did.

He stood abruptly, knocking over his beer in the process. “I’m gonna grab some air,” he mumbled, ignoring Gaz’s questioning look and Price’s grunt of acknowledgement.

He pushed his way through the crowded bar, his skin prickling with the heat of too many bodies pressed too close. He needed to get out of there, to breathe, to escape the suffocating feeling that had settled over him like a shroud.

The night air hit Soap like a slap in the face, the chill a welcome shock to his system. He leaned against the brick wall of the bar, taking deep, ragged breaths, trying to slow the frantic pounding of his heart.

He could still see them through the grimy window – Ghost and the bartender. She was laughing at something he’d said, her hand resting on his arm as if it belonged there. He couldn’t hear the words over the muffled din of the bar, but he didn’t need to. The body language was unmistakable.

He felt a surge of anger quickly followed by a wave of nausea that left him lightheaded. What the fuck was he doing? Why did he even care?

It wasn’t as if they were together. They didn’t have that kind of relationship. They were just… whatever this was. Fuck buddies with baggage. A recipe for disaster.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d crossed some invisible line, that by letting himself hope, by believing that maybe, just maybe, there was something more between them than quick fucks and shared cigarettes in the dark, he’d set himself up for this. For the inevitable crash and burn.

He watched as Ghost leaned closer to the bartender, his head bent towards hers, their lips almost touching. Soap’s vision blurred, and he quickly scrubbed a hand across his eyes, disgusted with himself.

He was acting like a jealous lover. Like he had any right to be jealous.

He didn't. He knew that.

But the knowledge did little to ease the ache in his chest, the feeling of betrayal that had nothing to do with Ghost and everything to do with the tangled mess of emotions he’d tried so hard to ignore.

He couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t watch this… this charade any longer.

He turned away from the window, his throat tight, his eyes stinging. He needed to get back to base, to the cold comfort of a bed, doesn’t matter who's at this point, nothing mattered at this point. . He needed to forget about Ghost, about the way his touch could make him forget his own name, the way his eyes, even hidden behind that bloody mask, could make him feel seen, known, in a way he’d never allowed himself to be.

He stumbled away from the bar, ignoring the curious glances of the other patrons outside, the world blurring around him as he fought back a sob that threatened to choke him.

Paris shimmered beneath a pale winter sun. Soap adjusted his scarf, pulling it higher to hide his face. He felt ridiculous, like some wannabe poet in his tweed jacket and flat cap, but Ghost had insisted on the disguises. "Blend in," he'd growled, shoving a beret into Soap's hands. "We're undercover, remember?"

"Easy for you to say, LT," Soap had grumbled, eyeing Ghost's own outfit with a mixture of amusement and something else he couldn't quite place. "Ye cuid blend intae a bloody funeral procession wi' tha' getup “

Ghost, for once, had cracked a smile. A ghost of a smile, hidden beneath the shadows of his mask, but a smile nonetheless. "Just try not to attract any unwanted attention, MacTavish."

And so they walked, two shadows amidst the throngs of Parisians, their steps in sync. They were hunting a high-ranking German officer, a ghost in his own right, rumored to be hiding out in the city's underbelly, plotting God knows what.

They stopped at a cafe, ducking inside to escape the biting wind. The air was thick with the aroma of coffee and cigarettes, the low hum of conversation a comforting counterpoint to the chaos that simmered beneath the surface of the occupied city. Soap scanned the room, his eyes searching for anything out of place, anything that screamed ‘enemy.’

"Relax, Johnny," Ghost murmured beside him, his voice barely audible above the din. "You're drawing attention to yourself."

Soap scowled, but he forced himself to relax, leaning back against his chair with feigned nonchalance. He caught the eye of the woman at the next table, her gaze lingering on him for a beat too long. She was pretty, in a classic Parisian way, with dirty blonde hair piled high on her head and brown eyes that sparkled with intelligence and something else... curiosity? Amusement? She was just his type; he just thought it looked better on someone else. He offered her a tight smile, hoping it didn't look as strained as it felt.

"Don't even think about it, Soap," Ghost said, his voice low and dangerous.

Soap rolled his eyes, but he looked away from the woman, focusing instead on the lukewarm coffee in front of him. "Juist admiring th' views, lt. Na harm in that, is there?"  

A sharp clang shattered the relative peace of the cafe, drawing all eyes towards the source. The waiter, flustered and apologetic, was mopping up a shattered coffee cup at the foot of a table near the back. A burly man in a leather coat, his face contorted in anger, barked orders at the unfortunate waiter, who cowered under his tirade.

Soap's gut churned. The scene felt staged, too dramatic, too loud. His gaze darted to Ghost, who had gone still as a statue, his eyes fixed on the man in the leather coat.

“Something's not right,” Ghost murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

“Aye, that bloke's git ‘criminal’ written a' ower him,” Soap muttered back, discreetly adjusting his position to get a better view. As if sensing his scrutiny, the man in the leather coat turned, his gaze sweeping across the cafe, lingering on Soap and Ghost for a heartbeat too long. His eyes, cold and calculating, seemed to see right through their flimsy disguises.

“Shite,” Soap hissed under his breath.

Ghost was already moving, his hand darting to the pistol holstered beneath his coat. “Out the back,” he growled, pushing himself away from the table.

The cafe erupted in chaos. The man in the leather coat roared, shoving aside the waiter and drawing a pistol of his own. Shouts of alarm filled the air as patrons scrambled for cover, overturning tables and chairs in their panic.

Soap lunged towards the back of the cafe, adrenaline jolting through his veins. He slammed into the terrified waiter, sending him sprawling. “Sorry, mate!” he yelled over his shoulder, not breaking stride. He could hear the sharp crack of gunfire behind him, the distinctive bark of Ghost’s silenced pistol counterpointing the panicked shouts and screams. 

He burst through a door marked “Sortie,” finding himself in a narrow alleyway piled high with trash and overflowing dumpsters. The stench of rotting garbage filled the air, acrid and choking.

Ghost was already there, crouched behind a stack of crates, his pistol spitting fire. "Took your sweet time, Johnny," he growled, dropping another German soldier with a well-placed shot.

"Charming as ever, LT," Soap shot back, drawing his own pistol and taking cover beside him. He scanned the alleyway, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Whit's th' plan, then? We're trapped lik' rats in a fuckin’ barrel."

“We’re not trapped,” Ghost said, his voice calm amidst the chaos. He gestured to a fire escape ladder that clung precariously to the brick wall. “Up there. We’ll lose ‘em on the rooftops."

“And wha’ aboot them?” Soap asked, nodding towards the alleyway entrance, where more German soldiers were fanning out, their weapons trained on their position.

"Let ‘em come," Ghost said, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "We'll give them a warm welcome."

The alleyway echoed with the deafening roar of gunfire as Soap and Ghost unleashed a symphony of destruction upon their pursuers. Soap, fueled by adrenaline and a healthy dose of fear, moved with a ferocity born of desperation, his pistol spitting fire and fury. He took down two soldiers before they even registered his presence, their bodies crumpling to the ground like discarded puppets.

Beside him, Ghost was a whirlwind of controlled violence, his movements fluid and precise, each shot finding its mark with deadly accuracy. He moved like a phantom, weaving between crates and dumpsters.

"Hell's bells, LT, ye mak' a richt mess o' thae blokes, " Soap yelled, ducking behind a rusted car chassis as a hail of bullets ricocheted off the metal.

“Less talking, more shooting, Johnny,” Ghost shot back, his voice devoid of humor. “Unless you fancy a bullet sandwich for lunch." He was right, of course. Banter could wait. Survival was the priority. Soap gritted his teeth, his finger tightening on the trigger. He popped up from behind his cover, firing two quick shots. One found its mark, dropping a soldier who’d been foolish enough to expose himself. The other…

Soap cursed as his shot went wide, shattering a nearby window. He’d forgotten about the civilians. He couldn't risk hitting innocent bystanders.

"Soap, move!" Ghost’s voice was sharp, urgent.

Soap didn't hesitate. He threw himself sideways as a spray of bullets ripped through the space he’d just occupied. He rolled, coming up in a crouch beside Ghost, who was already moving towards the fire escape, his back pressed against the wall.

"Nice of you to join me, Johnny," Ghost said, his voice tight. He didn’t sound amused.

"Wouldn't wanna miss th' pairtie," Soap shot back, his heart pounding against his ribs. He placed his pistol back in his pocket and reached for the ladder, his fingers closing around cold, rusted metal. "Ladies first, LT?"

Ghost snorted. "Get your arse up that ladder, MacTavish, before I decide to leave you behind.”

He didn’t wait for a response, simply started climbing, his ascent swift and sure despite the awkward angle and the hail of bullets that followed them. Soap followed close behind, his eyes scanning the rooftops for their next escape route. They reached the top, hauling themselves onto a flat roof overlooking a maze of narrow streets and crumbling buildings.

They didn’t have time to catch their breath.

"They're richt behind us," Soap said, peering over the edge of the roof. He could see the German soldiers emerging onto the rooftops, their faces contorted with anger and frustration.

“Then we run,” Ghost said, already moving towards the opposite edge of the roof. He paused, glancing back at Soap, a strange look in his eyes. “Stay close, Johnny.”

"As if ah cuid be anywhere else, ye miserable git," Soap grumbled, but there was no real heat in his words. He followed Ghost, their footsteps silent on the tar-covered roof. 

The Paris skyline stretched before them, a breathtaking image of brick and stone bathed in the fading light of the winter sun. Below, the streets teemed with life, oblivious to the deadly game of cat and mouse playing out right above them. But the beauty held no solace for Soap. Not now. 

They reached the edge of the roof, only to find their escape route blocked by a sheer drop to the street below. "Deid end," Soap said, his voice tight. He risked a glance back. The German soldiers were fanning out across the rooftops, their shouts muffled by the distance but their intent clear.

"Not quite," Ghost said, his voice calm amidst the chaos. He gestured to a narrow gap between their building and the adjacent one, a dizzying chasm that seemed to defy even the most reckless of leaps. "We jump."

Soap's breath hitched in his throat. "Ye aff yer heid, LT! Bloody suicide jumpin' doon there!"

"We don't have a choice, Johnny," Ghost said, his eyes boring into Soap's. "Trust me."

Trust. It was a word that carried a lot of weight between them. Soap hesitated for a heartbeat longer, his gut screaming at him to run, to find another way. But Ghost's gaze held him captive, a silent plea in those shadowed eyes.

"Fine," Soap said, his voice barely a whisper. "Bit if we die, ah’m haunting ye fur eternity."

Ghost’s lips twitched into a faint smile, “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He didn’t give Soap a chance to overthink it. He took a running leap, his body sailing across the chasm with an almost impossible grace. For a heart-stopping moment, he seemed suspended in mid-air, a dark silhouette against the Parisian sky. Then, with a grunt, he landed on the opposite rooftop, rolling to absorb the impact.

Soap followed, his heart hammering against his ribs as he launched himself into the abyss. The world tilted beneath him, a dizzying kaleidoscope of sky and stone. He landed hard, his ankle twisting beneath him, pain shooting up his leg. He ignored it, scrambling to his feet as he heard the telltale thud of boots hitting concrete behind him.

"Come on, slowpoke," Ghost growled, already moving. He grabbed Soap's arm, hauling him along as they sprinted across the rooftops, their pursuers hot on their heels. They ducked behind a chimney stack, taking cover as a fresh volley of bullets whistled past them.

"They juist don’ gie up, dae thay? " Soap gasped, his lungs burning with exertion.

“They’re persistent,” Ghost conceded, checking the magazine of his pistol. “I’ll give ‘em that.”

He glanced at Soap, his eyes narrowing. “You alright? You’re limping.”

Soap winced as he shifted his weight, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his ankle. “Twisted it oan that bloody landing. Ah’ll live.”

"Stubborn as always," Ghost muttered. He scanned the rooftops, his gaze sharp and calculating. "There," he said, pointing to a fire escape in the distance. “Our ticket out of here.”

They made a run for it, adrenaline pushing them onward as the German soldiers closed in. Soap gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain that shot through his ankle with every step. He wouldn't and couldn’t let Ghost down. Not now. Not ever.

They reached the second fire escape, clambering down the metal rungs with a desperate urgency. Soap’s vision tunneled with exertion, his muscles screaming in protest, but he forced himself onward, fueled by a potent cocktail of fear and something else… something warmer, more primal. 

He didn't dare give it a name.

The base was quiet, the fluorescent lights humming a low, mournful tune in the deserted corridor. Soap shouldered open the door to Ghost’s room, the hinges groaning in protest. He flipped on the light, the sudden brightness making him wince.

Ghost’s room was… well, it was very Ghost. Empty, functional, impersonal. The only hint of individuality was the worn paperback copy of City of Night tucked on the nightstand beside a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a framed photograph of a family with a cut out silhouette of a man. Soap had never asked about the photo, and Ghost had never offered an explanation. Some things were better left unsaid.

He tossed his jacket onto the spare chair, the garment landing with a soft thud that sounded deafening in the silence. He ran a hand through his hair, the movement jerky, agitated. 

He needed a drink. Again. He always drinks when with Ghost. Force of habit, I guess.

He grabbed the bottle of whiskey from Ghost’s nightstand, ignoring the voice in his head that whispered he was crossing a line. He’d crossed a line a long time ago, hadn’t he? He unscrewed the cap, the scent of alcohol sharp and familiar, a poor substitute for comfort, but it would have to do.

He took a long swig, the liquor burning a trail down his throat, numbing the edges of his thoughts, but doing little to silence the emotions raging within him. He paced the small room, his boots thudding heavily on the concrete floor.

He shouldn’t be here.

What the hell was he thinking, coming here, waiting for Ghost like some… some lovesick teenager? He scoffed at himself, the sound harsh and humorless. He was a soldier, for God’s sake. A trained killer. He didn’t do “lovesick.”

And yet, here he was.

He took another swig of whiskey, the liquor burning a hole in his gut. He slammed the bottle back on the nightstand, the sound echoing in the silence. He needed to get a grip.

The safehouse was a shithole, even by their standards. Cold, damp, and smelling faintly of mildew and fear, it was the kind of place that clung to you long after you left, seeping into your clothes and your bones. But it was shelter, at least for the night, and right now, that was all that mattered.

Soap winced as he fidgeted on the rickety cot he was on, the movement sending a sharp pain shooting through his side. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, clutching at the bandage that covered the gash on his hip.

“Hold still,” Ghost’s voice, a low murmur in the dim light of the single lamp that illuminated the room. He was crouched beside Soap, his gloved fingers working deftly as he checked the bandage, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the calluses that roughened his skin.

“Easy for ye to say, LT,” Soap grumbled, trying to ignore the way Ghost’s proximity sent a shiver down his spine. “Yer nae th' yin wi' a souvenir fae they bastards.” 

“English, MacTavish. It’s just a flesh wound,” Ghost said, his voice devoid of sympathy. “You’ll live.”

“Aye, lucky me,” Soap muttered, his gaze drawn to the way the dim light played across Ghost’s mask, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw. 

He’d seen Ghost without the mask, of course. Once. A fleeting glimpse, a stolen moment in the aftermath of a particularly brutal mission. He couldn’t recall the details now, only the feeling of awe, of seeing something raw and vulnerable beneath the carefully constructed armor.

“You’re staring, Johnny.”

Soap blinked, startled. “Juist admiring th’ view, LT,” he said, trying to sound casual, but his voice came out strained.

Ghost chuckled, a low rumble that sent a shiver down Soap’s spine. He leaned closer, his gloved hand brushing against Soap’s cheek as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through Soap, a heat that had nothing to do with the wound in his side and everything to do with the intensity of Ghost’s gaze, even hidden behind the mask.

“You need to be more careful,” Ghost murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“Ah’m aye canny, sir,” Soap breathed, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to him with such… concern.

“No, you’re not,” Ghost said, his voice husky. He leaned even closer, their lips a breath apart.  “You’re reckless. Impulsive. You charge headfirst into danger without a second thought.”

“Someone’s gotta dae it,” Soap whispered, his gaze locked on Ghost’s lips, visible now as the mask seemed to melt away in the heat of the moment.

“Not always,” Ghost murmured, his breath warm against Soap’s skin.

And then, he kissed him.

It was a slow, tentative kiss at first, a question more than a demand. But Soap didn't hesitate. He met Ghost’s kiss with a hunger he hadn't realized he'd been carrying, his hands tangling in the fabric of Ghost’s tactical vest, pulling him closer.

Ghost tasted of gunpowder and something else… something dark and dangerous and utterly intoxicating. His lips were firm, demanding, his tongue tracing the seam of Soap’s lips, seeking entry. Soap groaned, his body arching into the touch, every nerve ending singing with a pleasure that bordered on pain.

The world outside the safehouse faded away. The war, the mission, the ever-present danger… all of it vanished, leaving only the two of them.

Ghost’s hand moved, his fingers tracing the lines of his ribs, his touch sending shivers of desire down Soap’s spine. Soap gasped, his fingers digging into Ghost’s shoulders, wanting more, needing more…

“Simon,” he breathed, his name like a prayer escaping his lips.

Ghost pulled back slightly, his eyes, those dark, fathomless pools, holding Soap captive. “Johnny,” he murmured, his voice rough with something that sounded suspiciously like regret. “We shouldn't…”

But Soap wasn't listening. He reached for Ghost again, pulling him down, their lips meeting in a clash of desperation and longing. And in the cold, damp confines of that forgotten safehouse, they found a different kind of warmth, a desperate kind of solace, in each other's arms.

He heard the soft click of the door opening behind him, the sound barely audible over the roar of blood in his ears. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The air crackled with Ghost’s presence, a tangible shift in the atmosphere that sent a shiver down Soap’s spine.

Ghost moved into the room, a phantom in the flickering light of the single overhead bulb. He stopped just inside the doorway, his posture alert, his gaze sweeping over Soap, taking in his disheveled appearance, the half-empty bottle clutched in his hand.

“Johnny?” The voice from behind spoke up. 

Soap took a deep breath, the scent of whiskey and something else—perfume, flowers, something that wasn’t Ghost—filling his senses, fueling his anger even further. “Ye a'richt, LT?” he asked, his voice rougher than intended.

Ghost tilted his head, the gesture almost birdlike, unsettling in its familiarity. “I should be asking you the same thing. What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Soap lied, avoiding Ghost’s gaze. He raised the bottle in a mock salute. “Figured ah’d raid yer stash.”

“You’ve got your own,” Ghost said, his voice flat, devoid of humor.

“Aye, well,” Soap shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, unaffected by the way Ghost’s eyes seemed to see right through him, stripping away his defenses, leaving him raw and exposed. “Yers is better.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words and tangled emotions. Soap took another swig of whiskey, needing the burn, the temporary oblivion it offered.

“You didn’t come here for the whiskey, Johnny,” Ghost said, his voice soft, dangerous.

Soap stiffened, his grip tightening on the bottle. He couldn’t deny it. Not anymore. He set the bottle down on the nightstand, the sound loud, awkward, in the stillness of the room. He turned to face Ghost, bracing himself for the confrontation, the inevitable rejection.

“No,” he said, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. “Ah dinnae,”

The silence stretched between them, tension raising. Ghost crossed the room, his movements fluid and silent, a predator approaching its prey. Or maybe Soap was the predator, and Ghost the wary, wounded animal backed into a corner. It was hard to tell anymore.

Ghost stopped in front of him, close enough that Soap could see the faint glint of his own reflection in the dark depths of his mask.  “Then why are you here, Johnny?” Ghost asked, his voice a low rumble, a tremor in the Force that threatened to shatter the fragile peace Soap had constructed around himself.

“Ah saw you,” Soap blurted out, the words a torrent he couldn’t contain, a dam breaking within him, releasing a flood of emotions he’d tried so hard to keep submerged. “At th’ pub. With tha’ lass.”

Ghost didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. He simply stood there, his masked face unreadable in the dim light, a statue carved from shadows and silence.

“And?”

One word. Sharp. A challenge.

“And?” Soap echoed, his voice rising in anger and something else… something close to despair. “Whit dae ye mean 'and'? Ye wur flirting wi' her! Touching her! Laughing wi' her! ”

The words tasted like poison on his tongue, bitter and self-destructive, but he couldn’t stop them, couldn't shut off the valve that had opened within him, releasing the torrent of jealousy and hurt he’d tried so hard to suppress.

He hated this. Hated the way Ghost could make him lose control, make him doubt himself, his sanity.

“So?” Ghost’s voice, still calm, but there was an edge to it now, a sharpness that sent a chill down Soap’s spine.

“So?” Soap repeated, incredulous. “Whit th’ fuck dae ye mean ‘so’? ”

Rage surged through Soap, banishing the last reminders of restraint. He slammed his fist against Ghost’s chest, the sound echoing in the small room, a satisfying thud against the kevlar vest that did little to cushion the blow.

“Dinnae ye fuckin' 'so' me!” he roared, his voice thick with betrayal and something else… something achingly close to heartbreak. “Do ye think this means nothin’? Whit we hae?”

Ghost didn’t budge. Didn’t even flinch. He simply absorbed the blow, the force of Soap’s anger, like some unyielding force of nature.

“What we have?” Ghost echoed, his voice devoid of inflection, a mask within a mask.

“Don’t speil coy wi' me, ye bastard!” Soap shoved him again, harder this time, his control snapping like a frayed rope. “the nights… th' safe house… a' they fuckin’ nicked moments… ye think ah don’t mind? ye think thay meant hee haw tae me? ”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken emotions, with the weight of months, years, of carefully constructed walls crumbling under the pressure of a truth too long denied.

Ghost’s silence was deafening. He stood there, a monolith of shadows and secrets, his presence both comforting and infuriating.

“Ghost, say something, dammit!” Soap’s voice cracked, the anger draining away, leaving behind a raw, aching vulnerability he couldn’t disguise. “Anything.”

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Ghost reached up, his gloved hand hovering over his mask before settling on Soap’s arm, his touch surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within him.

“Johnny…” His voice, rough, strained, a whisper of something that sounded suspiciously like… pain?

“Dinnae juist 'Johnny' me!” Soap swatted his hand away, the contact leaving a trail of fire on his skin, a phantom sensation that lingered long after the touch was gone. “Juist... Tell me whit this is, Ghost. Tell me whit th' hell we're daein'. ”

"What we're doing?" Ghost echoed, his voice raspy, strained, like he was the one struggling to breathe. The hand Soap had swatted away clenched into a fist at his side, then slowly unfurled, fingers flexing as if seeking something to grasp, something to hold onto. "We're doing what we always do, Johnny."

"No," Soap shot back, shaking his head, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. "This isnae a mission, Ghost. We're nae talkin’ aboot taking doon Makarov or chasing doon his men in Pripyat. This... This is different. "

"Different how?" The words were a challenge, a low growl emanating from behind the mask, but there was a tremor there now, a hint of something else. Uncertainty? Fear?

"Dinnae fuckin' play dumb wi' me, Simon!" The use of his given name hung in the air between them, a spark in the powder keg of their emotions. "We baith ken this is mair than it!”

The silence that followed was deafening, filled only with the frantic thrumming of Soap's pulse and the weight of Ghost's unspoken response.

"More than fucking?" Ghost finally echoed, his voice dangerously quiet. He took a step closer, invading Soap's space, his presence overwhelming, inescapable. 

Soap stood his ground, refusing to back down, even as his pulse quickened, his body betraying him with its instinctive response to Ghost’s proximity.

“Ye think ah don’t see th' wey ye look at me? Th' wey ye titch me? Don’t tell me that means nothin’, fur we baith ken tis a bloody lie.”

"What I do, how I look at you..." Ghost began, his voice rough, but Soap cut him off, his words fueled by the hurt and anger that had been simmering within him for far too long.

"Ye think ye kin juist fuck me multiple times 'n' forgoat aboot it?" Soap’s voice cracked, his carefully constructed composure shattering. “Uise me tae numb th' pain, tae chase awa' yer fuckin’ pain! ”

“Johnny—”

“No!” Soap shoved him again, harder this time, putting all his frustration, his confusion, into the blow. "Ah'm nae yer fuckin' therapist! Ah’m nae some piece o' meat ye kin juist uise 'n' discard whin tis convenient! "

Ghost stumbled back, his hands outstretched as if to steady himself, the movement uncharacteristically clumsy, almost… vulnerable.

The sight of Ghost off-balance, a flicker of something akin to hurt flashing across his features before he could school his expression back into impassiveness, gave Soap a moment of pause.

He hadn't meant to hurt him, not really. But the words, once unleashed, hung heavy in the air between them, impossible to retract, their sharp edges slicing through the fragile remnants of their carefully constructed facade.

Ghost straightened, his jaw clenching, the movement visible even beneath the mask. He took a step back, putting distance between them.

“You think I wanted this?” Ghost’s voice was low, dangerous, the words stripped bare of any warmth, any trace of the man who had held him in the dead of night, who had kissed away his tears and whispered promises he’d foolishly allowed himself to believe. “This… complication?”

“Complication?” The word was a shard of ice in Soap’s gut, confirming his worst fears. He’d been right all along. He was nothing but a burden, a liability in Ghost’s world of shadows and secrets.

“Don’t act like you’re the only one who's ever been hurt, Johnny,” Ghost continued, his voice flat, emotionless. “We all have our issues. We all find ways to cope.”

“Sae a'm juist a coping mechanism?” Soap’s voice was barely a whisper, his throat tight, the taste of bile rising in his throat.

“Don't put words in my mouth,” Ghost snapped, his control finally slipping. “This… this was a mistake.”

"A mistake."  Soap echoed the word, letting it hang in the air between them, a death knell for whatever fragile hope had lingered in the darkest corners of his heart.  He should have known better than to think he could have this, could have him .  Ghost was right. It had been a mistake. A series of mistakes, really, fueled by lust and loneliness and the desperate need for human connection in a world void of it.

He’d let himself forget who he was, where he was.  Let himself believe that the tenderness, the fleeting moments of vulnerability, he’d glimpsed beneath Ghost’s carefully constructed armor meant something more than a shared cigarette in the dead of night.

He'd been a fucking fool. 

"Right,"  Soap said, his voice hollow, devoid of the emotions which fueled him moments before. The fight had drained out of him. He turned away from Ghost, unable to bear the weight of his gaze, the knowledge that he’d seen too much, felt too much, to ever go back to the way things were.  He picked up his discarded jacket from the chair, the leather cold and stiff in his hands.

"Where are you going?" Ghost's voice, a rough murmur, a question that sliced through the silence, stirring the embers of Soap's anger back to life.

"Whit dae ye even care? " Soap snapped, whirling around to face him,  the words laced with a bitterness he couldn't disguise. “Gang back tae yer…  friend . Ah’m sure she’s git better hings tae offer than a broken fighter wi' a ill trial o' bein' fuckin’.. you..”

He didn't wait for a response.  He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, the sound echoing in the silent corridor, a final punctuation mark on a conversation that had left them both shattered,  the pieces scattered like shrapnel in the aftermath of an explosion.  He didn't look back,  but he could feel Ghost’s gaze on his back,  a phantom touch that burned colder than ice. 

The biting wind whipped across the training yard, carrying with it the sting of salt spray and the acrid scent of gunpowder. Soap huddled deeper into his jacket, his breath misting in the frigid air as he surveyed the fresh-faced recruits lined up before him. They were a motley bunch, green as grass and twice as stupid, but they were his responsibility now. Price had made that abundantly clear.

"Alright, listen up!" Soap barked, his voice roughened by the wind and years of shouting orders. "Ah’m Sergeant Mactavish, bit ye lot kin ca' me Soap, aye?. 'n' fur th' neist few weeks, ahm’s th' only bloody reason ye'll be breathing come nightfall, sae pay attention! "

He ran them through the basics – weapons handling, hand-to-hand combat, the art of not getting your arse blown off in a firefight. It was tedious work, drilling discipline into these clueless pups, but Soap approached the task with a grim determination. He’d been one of them once, a scrawny kid with more guts than brains, and he knew what it took to survive in this business.

But even the most seasoned soldier has his limits. And Private Davis was pushing every single one of them.

The scrawny kid with the bad attitude and even worse breath had been a thorn in Soap’s side from day one. He talked back, he slacked off, and he seemed to have a knack for finding trouble wherever he went. But it was his constant muttering, the venomous whispers that followed Soap like a bad smell, that really got under his skin.

“Heard he’s shagging that Ghost bloke,” Davis snickered, nudging the recruit beside him.

“No way,” the other recruit whispered back, his eyes wide. “Captain Price wouldn’t stand for that.”

“Price is probably in on it,” Davis said, his voice a conspiratorial hiss. “Fag probably has him wrapped around his little finger.”

Soap’s blood boiled. He’d heard it all before, of course. The whispers, the rumors, the snide remarks. It came with the territory, being Ghost’s right-hand man. But something about Davis’s words, the sheer venom in his voice, struck a nerve. Maybe it was the way the other recruits snickered, their eyes darting nervously between Soap and the shadowy figure of Ghost, who stood at a distance, seemingly oblivious to the conversation.

Or maybe it was the way those words echoed the darkest fears of Soap’s own mind, fears he’d tried to bury beneath a gruff exterior and countless bottles of whiskey. Fears that whispered he was different, broken, unworthy of the respect he receives.

“Whit was that, Private?” Soap’s voice was dangerously quiet. He stalked towards Davis, his boots thudding heavily on the concrete floor.

Davis looked up, his face pale but defiant. “Nothing, Sergeant.”

“Sounded a lot lik' ye wur running yer mouth, Davis, ” Soap growled, towering over the recruit. 

“I was just…” Davis stammered, his bravado crumbling under Soap’s intense gaze.

“Ye wur juist wha’?” Soap pressed, his voice low and dangerous.

“Leave him be, Soap.” The words stopped Soap in his tracks. He turned, his gaze meeting Ghost’s, who had materialized beside him as silently as ever. Ghost’s mask was tilted slightly, as if he were studying Soap, his expression unreadable as always. “Take five, gentlemen,” he said, his voice carrying across the training yard. “That includes you, Sergeant.”

The recruits scattered like startled birds, eager to escape the palpable tension that crackled in the air. Soap stood rooted to the spot, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Inside, MacTavish,” Ghost said, his voice low but firm. “Now.”

Soap followed Ghost, his gut churning with a potent cocktail of anger, shame, and something else he couldn't quite place. They entered a small, windowless room, the air thick with the stale scent of sweat and gun oil. Ghost shut the door behind them, the sound echoing in the confined space.

"Whit th’ bloody hell wis that aboot, LT?" Soap demanded, his voice tight. "Ye juist let that wee shite walk a’ ower me."

Ghost turned, his masked face inches from Soap’s. "And you were about to give him a one-way ticket to the infirmary," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Think, Soap. What good would that have done?"

"He wis chattin’ bollocks, Ghost!" Soap exploded, throwing his hands up in exasperation. 

"And giving you exactly what you want," Ghost interrupted, his voice deceptively calm.

Soap stared at him, his anger momentarily forgotten. "Wha’s that supposed tae mean?"

“You think I don’t see it, Johnny?” Ghost’s voice was softer now, almost… gentle. “The way you flinch every time someone whispers about us? The way you push everyone away, build walls around yourself? You’re drowning in self-hatred, and you’re dragging me down with you.”

Soap recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "Don't talk bollocks," he spat, his voice thick with shame. He couldn't meet Ghost's gaze, not now, not when his words cut so close to the bone.

“I’m not,” Ghost said, taking a step closer. “Look, I get it. It’s a different world out there, full of fear and ignorance. You’ve got your demons, Johnny. We both do.” 

He paused, his gloved hand hovering over Soap’s arm before dropping back to his side. “But you’re not alone. Don't let those bastards tell you otherwise."

Soap swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe. He wanted to argue, to deny, to retreat back into the familiar armor of anger and bravado. But Ghost’s words, spoken with such unexpected understanding, had pierced through his defenses, leaving him raw and exposed.

“Ah don’t… Ah’m no’ sure what ah am, Si. Wha’ ah wan’..” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

Ghost chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through Soap. “It’s alright, Johnny. “I’ll help you figure you out. I promise.”

It wasn't just the botched mission replaying in his mind, the sting of Ghost's words, but a lifetime of ingrained guilt, of being told he was wrong, broken, for desires he couldn't control.

He’d been raised with his childhood Sundays spent in a pew that felt more like a prisoner's dock.  The priest, a gaunt, severe man with eyes that seemed to bore straight through you,  bellowed about sin and damnation, his words echoing in the cavernous church, forever leaving a mark on his soul. 

He’d learned early on that love, real love, was a sacred thing, reserved for a man and a woman, bound by God and the sanctity of marriage.  Anything else, any deviation from the ordained path, was an abomination, a perversion of the natural order.

And so, he’d learned to hide. To bury the feelings that stirred within him, the way his gaze lingered on the boys on the football pitch, the way his skin would tingle when a classmate brushed against him in the crowded corridor. 

He’d thought the army would be different. A place where strength and loyalty were valued above all else,  where the bonds forged would transcend the petty prejudices of the outside world.  

And for a while,  it had been. He’d found his sense of belonging in the army. All his fellow soldiers were his brothers, his family, bound by a shared purpose.

But then Ghost had entered his life, a whirlwind of shadows and silence, his presence both intoxicating and terrifying.  And for the first time in forever, Soap had allowed himself to hope. To believe that maybe, just maybe, he could have it all. 

He’d seen something in Ghost’s eyes, a flicker of recognition, of shared darkness that mirrored his own. 

But the guilt, the ingrained belief that he was sinning, that he was betraying the God of his childhood and the memory of his devout mother,  never fully disappeared. It lingered beneath the surface, a corrosive undercurrent that poisoned even their most intimate moments.

He’d tried to reconcile his desires with his faith, seeking any form of requiem in the bottom of a bottle. But the conflict remained, a constant battle between who he was and who he thought he should be.

And now,  with Ghost’s rejection ringing in his ears,  the weight of his sins felt unbearable,  crushing him with the certainty that he was damned. 

He was a soldier, a killer, his hands stained with the blood of his enemies.  But it was the sins he committed against his own soul, the desires he couldn’t escape, that truly haunted him.  

He was lost, adrift in a sea of self-loathing, with no anchor, no compass,  to guide him home. 

He wanted to go home.

He couldn’t just leave the military, though.

…

He just needs a change of place, new people, new lieutenants, new recruits that won’t call him every slur under the sun and get away with it.

He just needs out from here.

The silence in the barracks was almost deafening. The only sounds were the steady rhythm of Soap’s own breathing and the distant hum of the generators that kept the lights flickering in this godforsaken outpost. He lay on his bunk, staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling, his mind a tangled mess of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

Beside him, Ghost slept. Or at least, Soap assumed he was asleep. It was impossible to tell for sure with Ghost. He was like a phantom even in sleep, his presence comforting but unsettling. The only sign that he wasn’t a figment of Soap’s imagination was the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin blanket.

Soap closed his eyes, trying to recapture the feeling of Ghost’s touch, the heat of their bodies pressed together, the taste of him… But the memory seemed to slip through his fingers like sand, leaving behind only a hollow ache in his heart.

What the hell were they doing?

It had been happening more and more lately. After a mission, fueled by adrenaline, they’d find each other, their bodies seeking release in the only way they knew how. 

It was… good. Fucking amazing, actually. Ghost, despite his intimidating exterior, was a surprisingly tender lover. He knew how to make Soap’s body sing, how to push him to the edge and pull him back again, leaving him breathless and wanting more.

But there was always a part of Soap, a small, nagging voice in the back of his mind, that whispered this was wrong.

Wrong on so many levels.

It was against the rules, for starters. Fraternization between soldiers was strictly forbidden, and for good reason. It was a messy, complicated, recipe for disaster. Especially in their line of work, where death lurked around every corner and emotions were something that they couldn't afford.

But it wasn’t just the rules that bothered Soap. It was the secrecy, the shame that clung to their encounters like a bad smell. The way they pretended it meant nothing, that they were just scratching an itch, when deep down, Soap knew it was so much more than that.

At least for him, it was.

At first, he had made an effort to ignore the feelings boiling beneath the surface and the way his heart ached whenever Ghost gave him those intense, unreadable eyes. He'd told himself it was just physical lust, a reaction to being around a man who had the power to make his blood sing at just the touch of a finger.

But the truth was, it was more than just lust. He cared about Ghost. Deeply. He respected him, admired him, maybe even… loved him?

The word slammed into him like a punch to the gut. Love. It was a dangerous word. A word that had no place in their world of violence. And besides, even if he could admit to himself that he loved Ghost, what good would it do? Ghost was… Ghost. A closed book. He was a soldier, a weapon. He wasn’t capable of love, not the kind of love Soap wanted.

Soap was just… a complication. A distraction. Someone to fuck in the dead of night and forget about when the sun came up.

He rolled onto his side, facing away from Ghost, trying to ignore the tightness in his throat, the feeling and sting of unshed tears resting on his eyelids. 

He needed a drink.

He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Ghost. He padded across the room, his bare feet silent on the cold concrete floor. He found his flask where he’d stashed it under his bunk, the metal cold against his palm. 

He unscrewed the cap, inhaling the familiar scent of cheap whiskey, a poor excuse for alcohol and comfort but it would have to do.

He took a long swig, the liquid burning a fiery trail down his throat. He closed his eyes, willing the alcohol to numb the ache in his chest, the emptiness that seemed to grow with each passing day.

It didn't work. It never did.

The whiskey did little to dull the sharp edges of Soap’s thoughts. If anything, it seemed to amplify them. He leaned against the rough concrete wall, the flask clutched loosely in his hand. The barracks were still and silent, the other men lost in the oblivion of sleep or their own private hells. He envied them, their ability to switch off, to find peace in this godforsaken place.

He was starting to think he’d never know peace again. Not as long as Ghost was around.

It was messed up, he knew that. This whole situation, their little arrangement, was a recipe for disaster. But he couldn’t bring himself to walk away. Couldn’t resist the pull, the magnetic force that drew him to Ghost like a moth to a flame.

He remembered the first time he’d laid eyes on Ghost. It had been during a training exercise. Soap had been fresh out of training, eager to prove himself, but Ghost… Ghost had been something else entirely.

He moved like a phantom, he was lethal, efficient, and utterly terrifying. And yet, there was something about him, something beneath the mask and the tactical gear that drew Soap in, sparked a flicker of… something… in his gut.

He’d been drawn to Ghost ever since, like a planet caught in the gravitational pull of a dying star, knowing it was a dangerous dance, a path that could only end in destruction. He’d tried to convince himself it was just respect, admiration for a fellow soldier who operated on a different level, a cut above the rest. 

But it was more than that. So much more.

It was the way Ghost saw through him, saw past the mask and façade and saw straight to the scared, lonely kid who just wanted to belong. It was the way Ghost never treated him like he was fragile, like he needed to be protected. 

He’d given Ghost his body, hoping, praying, to find any kind of release. And for a little while, it worked. He could almost forget who he was, where he was, what he was.

But the moment always passed, leaving him emptier than before. He took another swig of whiskey, the burn doing little to ease the ache in his chest.

He was drowning, and Ghost was both the anchor that dragged him down and the lifeline he didn’t want to let go of.

Soap’s head spun, the cheap whiskey hitting him harder than usual. Maybe it wasn't the alcohol; Maybe it was the exhaustion, the emotions that stirred within him like a storm, threatening to tear him apart. He leaned against the wall, the cold concrete contrasting the heat of his skin.

He should walk away.

It was the only sane option. This whole thing was a ticking time bomb. Sooner or later, it would explode, leaving both of them scorched and broken.

He’d seen it happen before. Soldiers, hardened killers who thought they were invincible, brought to their knees by something as simple but as complicated as love. He’d seen the wreckage, the shattered careers, the broken hearts, the lives torn apart by the brutality of war and the even more brutal truth that sometimes, love wasn't enough.

He didn’t want that. Not for himself, and not for Ghost. 

But peace was a fragile thing, especially in their line of work. And the longer this went on, the higher the stakes became. He couldn't risk Ghost's safety, his career, for something as selfish, as reckless, as love.

But the thought of running away, cutting himself off from the one person who seemed to understand his pain, sends a wave of pain through him; one he can't fully describe.

He was caught in a riptide of his own making, pulled in opposite directions by conflicting currents of desire and fear, duty and love. And he felt like a child again, unable to swim or hide from his fears.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to find a way out, a solution that wouldn't end in disaster. But the only answer that came to him was the feel of Ghost’s hand in his, the memory of their whispered words, the taste of him on his lips.

He was in too deep.

He’d fallen.

And he had a sinking feeling that there was no coming back from this.

Ghost paced the room like a rabid animal. A day had passed with now news from Soap. He’d barely slept, the image of Soap’s face, twisted in a mixture of anger and anguish, was burned onto the backs of his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.

He’d fucked up. Massively.

He’d known it the moment the words left his mouth, each sound, each letter that left his mouth had been a nail hammered into the coffin of whatever trust he’d built with Soap. He’d meant to sound cold, uncaring, to push him away before things went too far, before their twisted game of push and pull escalated into something neither of them could walk away from.

He hadn’t anticipated the pain in Soap’s eyes, the way his voice had cracked when he’d spat back.

He’d seen that look before; In the mirror. 

He’d promised himself he wouldn't drag anyone else into his darkness, wouldn’t subject anyone else to the burden of his past, the specter of his mistakes that haunted his every waking moment.

And yet, he’d drawn Soap in, hadn’t he? Lured him with touches that lingered too long to be casual, lured him with flirting over comms with a tad too much seriousness to be a joke.

He’d seen the light in Soap’s eyes, the way he looked at Ghost like he was the center of the universe, and he was being pulled in; And for a moment, he would allow himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could have something good, that he deserved something good.

He had to fix this. Had to make things right with Soap  Johnny.

He stormed out of his room, ignoring any recruit’s questioning glances looking his way. He somehow found himself back at Soap’s room, he always found himself back here. The door was unlocked with the room empty, no sign of life.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at the edges of Ghost's composure. Where the hell was he?

He found Price in the mess hall, nursing a cup of coffee.

“Where’s Johnny?”

Price raised an eyebrow, his gaze steady, assessing. His eyes had a dullness to them; Disappointment? Hatred? “He’s probably out blowing off some steam. You know how he gets.”

“This isn’t about a mission or anything, Price.” Ghost growled, his patience wearing thin. “Where is he?”

Price sighed, setting down his mug with a clatter that echoed in the mostly deserted mess hall. “He requested a transfer, Simon.”

The words hit Ghost like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath.

“When?”

“Yesterday,” Price said, his voice heavy with something that sounded suspiciously like… regret? “Flight leaves in a few hours.”

A thousand different emotions stirred within Ghost, each one a sharp shard of ice twisting in his heart. Anger, that Soap would even consider leaving without a word. Fear, that soap was actually leaving. And beneath it all, a desperate, soul-crushing realization: he is going to lose him.

“Why?” The word escaped him, a hoarse rasp that barely resembled his usual gruff tone.

Price shrugged, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the walls of the mess hall, his silence speaking volumes. He took a second to speak, looking like he was weighing his options. He sighed, speaking up. “He didn’t say, Simon. Just… handed in his papers, packed his kit, and said he needed a change of scenery.”

Change of scenery. Right. Because transferring to some godforsaken outpost on the other side of the world would magically erase the memory of them.

“He’s pushing you away,” Price said, his voice softer now, understanding flickering in his eyes. 

He couldn’t let him go. Not like this.

“Where’s his flight?” He asked, his voice rough, determined.

Price hesitated, his gaze searching Ghost’s face, calculating the potential fallout of the situation. He knew, of course he did. They all knew. The truth was a whisper in the corridors of the base, a shared glance, a knowing smirk. 

“Simon—”

“Just tell me, dammit!”

Price sighed, resignation settling over his features like a shroud. “Hangar 7. But you better make it count, son. Don't fuck this up anymore than you already have."

Ghost didn't waste time replying. He stormed out of the mess hall, his boots pounding against the concrete floor, each step fueled by a cocktail of desperation and regret. Hangar 7. He knew the way.

The air was thick with the smell of jet fuel as Ghost entered the hangar. He spotted Soap immediately, his stupid mohawk that Ghost loved unmistakable. He stood by the open cargo ramp of a C-130 Hercules, his back turned, shoulders slumped as if he was carrying the weight of the world on them. He was in civvies - a worn pair of jeans that reached under his feet, way too big to be comfortable to actually walk in, a faded black band t-shirt, a leather jacket and he was sporting black headphones around his neck.

He looked… lost.

The sight of him, so vulnerable, so human , sent a pang through Ghost's chest, a sharp reminder of everything he could lose. He pushed down the emotions.

He weaved his way through the heavy bustle of soldiers, their faces a blur of curiosity and speculation as he approached Soap. He stopped a few feet behind him.

"Johnny."

Soap stiffened, his whole body going rigid at the sound of Ghost’s voice. He turned slowly, his expression carefully blank, but his eyes, those damn expressive eyes, betrayed him.

“Lieutenant.” His voice was flat, devoid of the warmth that usually greeted Ghost.

"We need to talk,"

“Do we?” Soap countered, his gaze unwavering, challenging. “Ah thought everything wis said last night.” He gestured towards the plane, the whirring of its engines deafening. “This seems pretty final tae me.”

"It doesn't have to be," Ghost said, hating the desperation that crept its way into his voice, the way Soap’s indifference contested his feelings.

Soap scoffed, his gaze hardening. "Whit's that supposed tae mean, Ghost? Ye gonnae pull rank? Order me tae stay?"

"This isn’t about that, Johnny," Ghost growled, his patience wearing thin, but the fear of losing Soap, of seeing him walk away from him, from them, fueled his determination to make things right. “This is… personal.”

“Personal?” Soap laughed, the sound harsh, humorless, like shards of glass shattering in the cavernous hangar. “Ye think Ah don’t ken personal, Simon? Ah’ve spent th’ better part o’ mah life tryin’ tae outrun personal. Tryin’ tae bury it so deep that even Ah coudnae find it.”

He turned away from Ghost, his voice a low murmur that barely reached Ghost’s ears above the roar of the engines. “Some things ye can’t escape, no matter how far ye run.”

“Maybe,” Ghost countered, taking a step closer, closing the distance between them, ignoring the warning bells clanging in his head, the instinctive need to retreat, to protect himself from the emotional grenade Johnny pulled the pin of. “But maybe… maybe some things are worth fighting for.”

Soap stilled, his gaze flickering towards Ghost, a flicker of something akin to hope warring with the anger that had become his armor.

“Wha’ are ye sayin’, Ghost?”

“I’m saying…” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat, foreign, terrifying. “I’m saying… don’t go. Please , Johnny. Please don’t leave me.”

The silence that followed was deafening, filled only with the roar of the airplane engines and the frantic thumping of Ghost’s heart against his chest. He held his breath, every muscle in his body taut with anticipation, waiting for Soap’s response, a response that felt like a life or death sentence.

Soap stared at him, his expression unreadable, those expressive blue eyes narrowed as if searching for some hidden meaning behind Ghost's words, some trick, some trap.

"Don't go?" Soap finally echoed, his voice a low murmur, tinged with disbelief. "Where th’ fuck else would Ah go, Simon? Ye think they're handing oot medals for heartbreak on th’ front lines?" A bitter laugh escaped his lips.

"Ah'm a liability, remember? A complication."

"Don't," Ghost growled, the word a strangled sound in his throat. "Don't do that, Johnny."

"Don't do what?" Soap challenged, his voice rising, the anger that had simmered beneath the surface bubbling over. "Don't call ye oot on yer bullshite? Don't tell ye how it feels tae be used, discarded, like a... a fucking toy ye've grown tired of?"

"That's not..." Ghost started to protest, but Soap cut him off, his words a torrent of pain and frustration that mirrored Ghost's own.

"It's no’ what, Simon?" Soap leaned closer, his face inches from Ghost’s. "Tell me, because right now, Ah'm fresh out of answers. All Ah've got are questions, and ye… ye're standing there with that damn mask on, hiding behind yer secrets, yer fear, like Ah’m some kind of enemy ye need to protect yerself from."

“Johnny,” Ghost said, his voice a low rasp, the words a struggle against a lifetime of ingrained secrecy. He reached up, his gloved hand hovering over the edge of his mask.

Soap didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply watched, his blue eyes, usually so full of life, now shadowed with hurt.

He removed the mask, letting it fall to the concrete floor with a clatter that echoed in the cavernous hangar, a sound that seemed to reverberate through him, shattering the last fragments of his carefully constructed defenses.

He stood there for everyone to see, exposed, vulnerable, the scars of his past etched onto his features as indelible as the ink on his skin.

“I’m not hiding, Johnny,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, his gaze unwavering as he met Soap’s. “Not from you. Not anymore.”

The air hung heavy between them, charged with a tension that was both terrifying and exhilarating. Soap stared at Ghost, his expression unreadable, his gaze tracing the lines of Ghost's face as if he had never seen it before. He seemed to be holding his breath, as if afraid that even the slightest movement might shatter the fragile peace that had settled between them.

"Simon," Soap finally breathed, his voice a hushed whisper that cut through the roar of the hangar, a lifeline thrown across the chasm that had threatened to swallow them both.

Ghost held Soap’s gaze, his own expression full of apprehension. He’d never been good with words, preferring actions to them.

“I meant what I said,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, the words a struggle to let out. “Don’t go.”

Soap’s expression remained guarded, his skepticism a tangible thing, a shield he held up against Ghost’s vulnerability. He took a step back, putting distance between them, his gaze flickering towards the waiting aircraft.

“Why?” Soap asked, the single word a challenge, a demand for honesty that cut through Ghost’s carefully constructed defenses. “Why should Ah stay, Simon?”

Ghost’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, the urge to reach for Soap, to pull him close and erase the doubt in his eyes, almost overwhelming. But he knew that touch, the kind of touch that lingered too long, was what had driven them to this precipice in the first place.

“Because…” he started, then hesitated, his throat tightening with the effort of articulating emotions he’d kept buried for so long. “Because I need you, Johnny.”

"Need me?" Soap echoed, his voice a mix of skepticism and something else... a flicker of hope that he quickly tried to extinguish. "Fer wha’, LT? Another late-night fuck? Another temporary fix tae chase away your pain whilst forgetting mine?"

Ghost flinched, Soap's words landing like a gut punch, a reminder of the hurt he'd inflicted, the way he'd used him as a shield against his own pains, unaware, or unwilling to acknowledge, the damage he was inflicting in the process.

"No," Ghost said, his voice firm, his gaze unwavering. "That's not... I don't need that. Not anymore."

He took a step closer, closing the distance Soap had put between them.

"I need you, Johnny. You. "

The emphasis on the word, the way Ghost’s voice softened, lost its usual gruff edge as he spoke, sent a shiver down Soap’s spine. It was the closest Ghost had ever come to a declaration of love, a confession that stripped away the pretense, the carefully constructed walls they’d both built around their hearts.

He was no longer talking about a physical need. This was something different. Deeper. Scarier.

Love?

“Don’t say it if ye dinnae mean it, Simon,” Soap warned, his voice a hushed whisper that betrayed his carefully cultivated indifference. “Don’t… don’t give me hope if there’s nothing left to salvage.”

Ghost heard the tremor in his voice, the fear beneath the bravado, and his heart ached.

“I mean it,” Ghost said, his voice raw with emotion. “God, Johnny… I mean it. Please.. I'm sorry, Johnny."

Soap saw the uncertainty in Ghost's eyes, the way his shoulders slumped slightly as if bracing for a blow, and something inside him shifted. The anger, the hurt, melted away, replaced by a wave of empathy and something warmer, more profound.

He’d spent the better part of his life learning to be cautious, to guard his heart, to expect the worst from people, especially those who claimed to care.

But Ghost… Ghost was different. He might not have been the best with expressing himself, wasn’t one for grand pronouncements or sweeping gestures, but there was an honesty in his eyes, a raw vulnerability in the way he stood there, unmasked and unguarded, that Soap couldn’t ignore.

And for the first time, Soap allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be something more than a temporary respite, a moment of peace in a world gone mad.

Maybe… just maybe… this could be something real.

He reached out, his hand landing on Ghost's arm, the leather of his jacket surprisingly soft beneath his calloused fingers. The contact, a simple touch, sent a jolt through them both, a spark of connection that contrasted the chaos of the hangar.

"I’m sorry," Ghost murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry,”

Soap wrapped his arms around Ghost, pulling him into an embrace.

"Ah’m here," he whispered into the crook of Ghost’s neck. He pulled back, one hand reaching up to rest on Ghost’s cheek; thumb rubbing small circles onto his cheek as if giving comfort, showing he means peace.

"Ah’m not going anywhere."