Chapter Text
Soap.
Three days. Nearly four, but not quite. Three days of constant, terrible, combat.
Nearly four, but not quite, because the rest of 141 is to arrive on the fourth day, and they are, for all intents and purposes, Soap’s relief.
They were previously on a foreign base, operating as backup for the local armed forces as they tracked down a lead on a well known, elusive terrorist. Laswell didn’t expect that lead to produce anything fruitful. It was all very routine.
It was boring. It was fucking boring. Soap was chewing on tables. He was disgustingly under-stimulated and this was the fucking- this was special forces and he was bored .
So when they asked for a volunteer from the 141 to accompany a small platoon going out to recon a possible travel route, Soap just about took Gaz’s head off in an effort to volunteer.
But Soap thinks he must’ve missed something in the packet review, because the mission wasn’t supposed to be this intense. It wasn’t even a mission, it was recon, it was observation, it was not supposed to be being fired upon in the first hour, and then being hunted for three days straight.
Nearly four. Almost four. It had to be close to four.
The 141 was supposed to come and get him after four. They were supposed to leave on day five, so of course they’d come get Soap, and then they’d leave. Soap can almost hear the deep timber of Ghost’s voice when he says his name, all faux annoyance and a tinge of fondness.
Actually, the more Soap thinks about it, the more he can hear it. Like Ghost is actually there.
That’s the sleep deprivation. Has to be. He’s three days in (nearly four) and he’s operating on stims and his bodies last reserves of adrenaline.
He’s been seeing glimpses of his team since day two, so the auditory hallucinations, while new, are not surprising.
It’s simple things, really. He’ll be running, and when he turns to make sure the few soldiers he has left are still with him, he’ll see a glimpse of that skull mask. A blur of that stupid sandy colored hat that Price always wears. The soldier he helps up has Gaz’s tattoo.
Little glimpses of the people he wants to see most. Just enough to fuck with his head, just enough to momentarily break his concentration.
Nearly four. Nearly four days.
He’s almost out of stims. That’s disconcerting.
Price has always been prickly about his soldiers using stims, especially sensitive about his officers. About Soap in particular, but that’s because Soap apparently has a not so great reaction to coming off them.
He doesn’t remember, but supposedly when they were in Iran last year and the stims he took wore off, he got real funny. And not in the good way, like when he comes off anesthesia.
Soap doesn’t know how much weight he really puts to the story, because he used a stim in Las Almas and Ghost has never said anything about how he handled it when it wore off. He remembers being unable to stop shaking, but that was due to the blood loss, he was sure.
Except that was one stim. That was one night spent awake, that was less than thirty six hours.
Soap doesn’t know what this is going to do to him, because its been about ninety hours now that he’s been awake, and he’s not stopped moving. Not at all. The only reason he’s still operating is the frankly concerning amount of stims that he and other soldiers have had access too.
About the third time he pulled stims off of a dead soldier, he had the thought that this was wrong. He didn’t read the packet wrong, they just didn’t debrief him. Or anyone. But they sent them with all these supplies. The one soldier that speaks some broken English told him that they didn’t ask questions, they were just supplied and sent.
Supplied with anywhere from three to five stims each. That’s insanity.
He told the soldier that. Less than ten minutes later he was dead, and Soap was pulling the leftover ammo and single unused stim off his body.
They’d retreat, if that were an option. He tells Ghost as much, hiding behind a tree, when his Lieutenant’s voice echoes in his ears. Not real, and he knows that, but it’s just as well. It gives Soap something to focus on.
Something other than three days, almost four, something other than the fact that there’s maybe three others left from the sixteen people who started this mission, something other than the way his heart is beating oddly behind his ribcage.
“No place left, Lieutenant.” Soap breathes, vision swimming. Ghost is in front of him, blurry and false. “They cut us off. Only one way to go.”
That was true. They tried retreating, they tried every which way Soap could think off. Every maneuver Soap could conjure only got more of them killed. So Soap did the only thing he could.
They’re heading towards the base. Only it’s not theirs.
A run down concrete and brick structure that’s full of cracks and broken glass serves as the terrorists potential hide out. Considering the way combatants seemed to crawl out of the walls when Soap and his team got close, the sergeant doesn’t think ‘potential’ is a good descriptor anymore.
It’s been a successful march so far (twelve hours, twelve hours and thirteen minutes according to his watch) and the three men who’re left with him aren’t questioning orders anymore. There was some dissent once they realized what was going on, and that argument lost their first two comrades.
Now, Soap is leading them to a sure death, but at least in the moment, they’re not being shot at. That seems to be enough for them.
That, or they’re as fucked up as Soap is, and they don’t have the mental capacity to even think about arguing. Because they can’t think.
Soap can’t think. He can’t see because his vision is almost permanently unfocused, his can’t hear very well because of a grenade that burst his ear drum on day one (which also destroyed the comms device they used to communicate with base), and he can’t think because it’s been four days straight of unstopping combat.
He wants to go home. He wants his shitty mattress on base, he wants to be wrapped up in Ghost’s hoodie that he stole two weeks ago, he wants a fucking shower.
“...to- Bravo 7-1, h…copy?”
Living off stims is not a good idea. He’s even hearing his team over comms now. They’re close to the building, and he’s not entirely sure what to do now that they’ve gotten here. What are they supposed to do, storm the building, the four of them? When Soap can’t even stand upright?
“ ...any Bravo stations, response requested, this is Bravo 0-6 to- looking for contact.”
One of the soldiers grabs his arm, jolting Soap awake. His eyes didn’t close, but he’s- awake. He’s awake now. “What?” Soap readjusts his weapon, glancing through the trees. The building is to his back. “You seeing anything?”
The soldiers understand him well enough. Most of them understand enough English that the 141 could work together. An advantage, except that the communication only goes one way. Still, when the soldier doesn’t immediately point his weapon towards the woods, Soap relaxes slightly.
Then the soldier taps his chest, where his radio unit is. Soap takes a long, slow blink and feels very briefly like he’s floating.
“Bravo 7-1, how copy?” His ear piece crackles again. Soap gazes down at the hand on his arm, confused. “Johnny, give me a status.”
“Ghost,” Soap breathes. The other soldier nods quickly, relief and panic evident on his face under the pure exhaustion. Soap scrambles for his throat mic, heart pounding even harder against his ribs in a noticeably painful rhythm. “Ghost?! ”
“Sergeant -” Price’s voice gets cut off as a volley of bullets pepper the trees to his left. Soap swears loudly, scrambling to his feet and taking off, the few remaining soldiers on his tail. They slip-slide their way down an embankment and find themselves in a dirt lot behind the condemned building.
Only one way left to go.
Soap calls out orders, quick. They can’t stay outside. If they’re lucky (and they aren’t) there shouldn’t be much resistance inside, since every single fucking terrorist is currently outside trying to kill them.
“ -you hear us? Soap!”
“Little busy Captain!” Soap yells, picking off two people on the first floor. The soldiers move forward, Soap tailing them. He elects to leave his comms open. “We’re at the compound, need immediate exfil!”
There’s some irony to the fact that perhaps for the first time in his career he’s being completely professional. Apparently quite literally running on empty makes him a better operator.
“On our way Soap; what's your status-”
A grunt falls from Soap’s mouth as he slams against the hard floor, his foot catching quick on the step by the door. The stone underneath him is cool and quiet. He wants to stay.
The wall next to him explodes into dust and rock. Soap gets up.
Sort of. It takes him three tries to get to his feet and stay there, and then he does a strange sort of stumbling walk-crawl motion to get out of the view of the entrance. He slides to a stop on the floor by some rusted metal cabinets and turns, gun raised, to fire at the doorway.
Only after he’s felled two of the combatants does he realize that he needs to remember to call out. Or listen for a call out. Because he could’ve just killed his teammates, although he doesn’t think the 141 is that close.
He has to keep reminding himself that they’re here. It’s almost over. He just needs to focus on staying alive for a little bit longer, and then he can hand that duty off to his team. Ghost, especially. He’ll make sure Soap is okay. He always does.
Things have started to go a bit sideways though.
Perhaps it’s the sleepless hours, or the constant adrenaline. Perhaps Price’s story about Soap having a strange reaction to stims was true. Perhaps its all of the above and more, and it’s all too much for his system. He hasn’t had a stim in six hours, yet his heart feels like it’s rabbiting away in his chest, each beat a painful echo inside his empty ribcage.
They need to move.
One of the soldiers, the same one from before drags him to his feet, pointing to a set of stairs. There must be some enemies still left in the building, but seeing as he had time to nap on the floor for a bit, there isn’t many.
Soap’s down to one mag on his person and maybe a clip left in the one in his rifle. He can’t stand, he’s shaking, all he can hear is his rapid, ragged breathing. If he has to get into a fist fight, he’s sure to lose.
Soap checks his weapon again, shoulders it, and aims.
Conserving bullets is a hard task in a multistory building fighting against people who do not need to conserve bullets, but Soap can make do. It’s probably some of the best shooting he’s ever done, if he were to think about it. Pity he can’t. Pity that he probably won’t remember this, and even more of a pity that Ghost isn’t here to see it.
He’d take that praise right about now.
Two shots to take out the man in the stairwell. One soldier is at his back, keeping watch, the other two are watching out for each other somewhere else. Maybe in another staircase. They move up, crouching under the window openings as bullets spray through them from the woods. Glass rains down around him. One shot between the eyes takes down the man at the top of the stairs.
The soldier watching his back falters in his steps. They’re almost out of time, Soap knows, but they don’t need much more. The 141 is coming to them. They’re almost there. It’s almost over.
He grabs the soldiers vest, pulling him up the stairs. Soap clears a small room with no windows, drags him in there. “Stay here.”
The soldier grabs his arm before he can turn, a panicked look in his eyes. “It’s alright, we’re almost- they’re almost here. My team is almost here, they’ll get us out.”
That doesn’t seem to do anything to calm the man - the kid, really. He still pulls at Soap’s arm, like he doesn’t want Soap to go. “Cannae leave any surprises for them.” Soap says gently. He takes the soldiers rifle and aims it at the door. “Shoot anything that moves.”
He’s able to leave this time, although at this point- well. The floor feels like a tilt-a-whirl, or one of those spinning rides he went on when his Ma took him to the local carnival as a boy.
Which is to say he can’t stand up straight. Makes clearing the floor rather difficult.
He’s bouncing from wall to wall, stumbling over his own feet in an effort to finish the sweep. Voice are yelling below him, or at him, maybe. He can’t decipher if the noise is coming from proximity or his own comms. He can’t tell if it’s real, or if it’s his brain’s last ditch effort at functioning.
He keeps seeing Ghost. Around every corner now, he sees him in his peripheral. It’s a comforting presence at his back. His Lt. is here now, Ghost is here. He’s got Soap. It makes him feel- not safe, they’re not safe, he knows that - but better. More relaxed, maybe.
“Almost there Johnny. ”
Two- no, three bullets for the man in the opposite stairwell. He changes to his last mag and spends half of it on several men who were climbing towards him.
He hopes the two soldiers are alive. It’d be a real punch in the dick to have them make it this far and get killed now.
Soap climbs. Crawls, really. He crawls up the stairs because he can’t stand and go up the stairs at the same time. He keeps his rifle trained on the door; the man crouched down hoping for a surprise advantage doesn’t get the chance to see Soap before he’s dead.
It’s about then his body decides its done. Soap’s done. This is the most he’s going to get.
He lays on the landing of the third floor, legs splayed over the steps, and tries to breathe. He doesn’t know when that got so hard, when all of this got so hard. He was doing so good and now it really feels like his heart is going to pound right out of his chest. It hurts, his heartbeat. He can feel his pulse under his skin, throbs of heat slicing through his nerves.
Wheezing pathetically, Soap pushes himself towards the doorway. He runs his hands over the sides of the doorframe, shoving his rifle in front of him. Trying to catch any tripwire or other trap. He’s not thinking about what will happen if he finds one.
He just needs to make sure his team is safe. They’re here to get him, he’s not about to let them get blown up because of it.
Would be a bit of a shame though if they get here and he’s already dead.
He doesn’t- he doesn’t want to die.
He feels like he is though. He’s made it inside the third floor now. There’s sunlight filtering through one of the windows, broken frame allowing a breeze in to cool the sweat on his face. Soap rolls onto his back to feel it in full.
He wonders where Ghost went. He was right behind Soap for a while, talking to him. Nothing Soap could understand, but something he could feel. Almost there.
“Almost there Lt.” Soaps rasps, feels his lips move with it. Such a strange sensation, talking is. Especially with his eyes closed. It hurts to keep them open, but then it feels like closing them has trapped a kilo of grit and sand underneath them.
His chest hurts, a far away sensation. Different parts of his body are going numb while others ache with unattended injury. His finger is twitching. No his arm is- no. He’s shivering. Ah. That’s it. He’s shaking.
If his body were a car, it’d be throwing up every single warning light on the dashboard. He thinks that’s funny. Should tell Ghost that when he gets back. When Soap wakes up. He’s surely able to sleep now.
Yet-
“Don’t do this, don’t do this to us, come on, come on Soap just open your eyes-”
“-can’t- how could you-”
“Don’t you fucking dare Johnny. Don’t you fucking dare.”
He doesn’t see anything so problematic with sleeping. He doesn’t understand why Price and Ghost sound like that, why Gaz is so cold with it. He’s earned this. He’s been out in the field for three-almost-four days, nonstop, he can sleep. Price, as his captain, should want Soap to sleep.
He’s floating, flying. He doesn’t understand why he can’t fucking relax. This is what his body has begged for, hasn’t it, so why can’t everything go away? He’s giving it what it asked for. His eyes are closed. He’s moving, but he’s not moving, so why does it feel like his ribs are being bent apart?
A crock of shit, if anyone were to ask him. If he could talk, if he knew where he was or what was going on. He’s not flying anymore- but he is, there’s a sound, he’s in the air.
Not floating away though. A strong grip on his hand, both his hands, keep him tethered. Gloves on his left. Skin to his right. Callused and strong in their carefulness, soft fabric to keep the feel of the trigger.
Ghost and Price. Hand in his hair, fixing the Mohawk with a special type of care, is Gaz.
Safe now. That’s what they’re saying. He’s safe now. He made it. They can be the look out for a bit. Soap can rest. Fucking finally.
“It’s alright. It’s alright Johnny. If you- if you have to go. It’s alright.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I love you.”
.
.
.
Waking up is a strange motion.
Obviously at some point he must’ve gone to sleep, and it isn’t the first time he doesn’t remember falling asleep. It’s not even his first time waking up in a hospital without remembering falling asleep.
Unfortunately its a bit of rite of passage in their line of work.
What’s weird is the way he jolts awake, sitting straight up with a giant pull of air into his lungs. It doesn’t hurt to breathe, and he doesn’t know why he expected it would.
Obviously something happened. He wouldn’t be this on edge if something hadn’t happened.
But he’s in a hospital room. By himself. There’s no threat here.
With a mental shrug, Soap relaxes back into the bed. It’s not stuffed with a million pillows like the 141’s usual base infirmary, so he must be somewhere else. A civilian hospital would probably have a less homey feel to it, so that options out. The room he’s in reminds him most of the infirmary on Alejandro’s base.
The window is open a bit, letting in a breeze that brushes the curtains. That stirs something in his brain, a little itch of a memory just out of reach. There’s no screen and a few dead beetles on the window sill. A small fan oscillates back and forth on the floor to get more air movement.
Combined with the yellowed floor tiles, unpainted stucco walls, and lack of LED overhead lights, the room is almost bearable to be in.
Someone left him a very worn, tired looking stuffed animal by his bed. He can’t tell what it’s supposed to be- a kangaroo? Horse? Something wonky and clearly homemade.
It had a tuft of sandy fur sticking off it’s head. Soap smiles.
He’ll have to ask who’s it is. Whenever someone comes in here.
That’s the other weird thing.
Something happened, obviously something happened, he’s in a hospital room and he woke up with a brief shot of adrenaline from his own system (although the racey feeling under his skin he usually gets from an adrenaline boost was muted and faded quickly).
But there’s no one here. No nurse, orderly, or doctor. No soldiers. No 141.
Two options, he supposes, as he takes stock of himself. The first is that he’s not badly hurt, and the 141 are off doing better things while waiting for him to wake up. The second is that they’re all in hospital beds of their own.
He’s leaning towards the former. He remembers…very little, if he’s honest, but he doesn’t have any sense of worry towards the rest of the team. He trusts himself. If there were reason to worry about the team, he’d be worried.
Plus, he really doesn’t feel like he’s in that much pain. There’s no numb parts of his body that would indicate a nerve block. His ribs feel a bit sore, but the kind that comes from running a lot, not from being hit in the plate or beaten. Mild headache. He can move all his limbs.
There’s a few bandages - gauze wrapping around his forearm, a few plasters on his hands, a square of dressing tapped to his quad - but nothing that would indicate a serious injury. There’s a cotton ball with some tape on the inside of his right arm, and IV port still in his left.
That’s not great. That means they had to give him two IVs. But for what? Soap feels pretty damn good for being in a hospital bed, although he’s fucking exhausted. Tired enough that when a nurse comes in some five minutes later, a clipboard thick with paper in her hands, it startles him awake.
She seems more surprised than anything. Her smile is hidden by her medical mask, but her eyes crinkle the same way Ghost’s do when he’s happy. Soap smiles back. “Morning.”
She shakes her head, tapping a pen against the clipboard. Soap feels like he’s about to get scolded by his mother. “Is afternoon.” She corrects, writing down a few things.
Soap cranes his neck to see a silent EKG machine behind him. Pulse is a bit faster than he’d expect, but not really worrying, especially considering his blood pressure is kind of low.
Oxygenating well is always a good thing though.
“You have symptoms?” She asks, a small bit of greying hair poking out of her hijab. Soap looks away respectfully and recites his meager list of ailments. She’s fixed it by the time he has to look her way again, checking his pupils with a penlight. "Awake long?”
“No.” Soap sighs, tapping his fingers against his leg. “When can I leave?”
He gets a stern warning look from her. Clearly she’s used to taking care of soldiers. She nods to his IV taking his pulse from his wrists, then at his ankles. “Need finish and one more. Then go.” She jabs her pen at him. “No early. Understand?”
Soap raises a hand in surrender, slightly nervous. That’s fine anyway. He’ll be able to sleep some more. “What happened? To me I mean?”
The nurse tells him in broken English that he was out in the field for a long time. Used too many stims or something. Just tired, she tells him. He’s fine now.
Excellent. He wasn’t hit with knockout gas (again) and he’ll be able to go with the 141 on any ops they run. He enjoys not being sidelined or embarrassed.
“And my team? Um- 141?” Soap asks hopefully. “They’re here?”
The woman shakes her head. “No, not here. No injury for them.”
Ah. Right then.
(Still a bit weird, but that’s alright. He’ll get out of here tonight and find them, and they can tell him what happened.)
For now, a nap is in order. He feels entitled to one, especially since there’s no one here that he needs to stay awake for.
.
.
The window is closed when he opens his eyes again, but the open curtains show a deep blue night sky. His IV has been removed along with all other wires that he was barely aware of. There’s a pile of clothes by his bed, and upon closer inspection, there’s his vest - his vest, that he’s broken in and adjusted to fit his chest as best as possible - along with his boots and gloves.
Someone was nice enough to clean them. He wonders if it was his nurse. She looked like she was experienced in getting blood out of fabric.
He gets dressed slowly, groaning as all his muscles seem to pull simultaneously. He’s got a full body soreness like he got hit by a car.
Shit. Maybe he did. Who knows. Not Soap.
Soap pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s completely slept the day away and he’s still a bit funny in the head. Makes him wonder what else happened, because he’s been on ops for longer and not had this reaction.
Reaction. He took stims, that’s what his nurse said. Makes sense. He’s got no idea what’s in those but he really ought to look into it if they’re going to throw his body off like this. Can’t be a liability to his team if they ever find themselves in that situation.
He pulls his gloves on and immediately tenses at the sensation.
Soap pauses, staying in the feeling. His muscles hurt with the unconscious effort to hold himself on guard. His plate carrier is still on the chair, and he’s got the itch to put it on.
In a hospital. He’s in a hospital, and he’s feeling panicky because he doesn’t have his vest on, and he doesn’t have his gun, and-
He takes his glove off.
Soap finds a young women out in the hallway. She looks like she could be a teenager, and it makes something in his chest pull at the sight of her working a night shift.
No, it’s not that. It’s the too old for her age look in her eye, that steely glint that says she’s seen a lot. Seen too much, maybe. She might be a kid in age, but not in experience.
She’s still kind enough to guide him to an exit - his hearing is shot on his left, and he’s still fuzzy enough that he would get lost with directions. Her English is clipped, but clear as she tells him where the 141 has been racked and that he’s to eat something then go to bed.
Personally, Soap thinks that’s a good idea, save for a few minor tweaks.
Like a shower. Good fucking lord, does he need a shower. He can smell how bad he needs a shower.
The base is quiet, stars clear and bright above them. There’s no floodlights on, no perimeter lights, nothing. The only source of artificial light are the small outdoor bulbs by the doors to each building, and they’re so yellowed they’re nearly orange.
Soap makes the walk across the compound slowly, vest and gloves hanging loosely in one hand, the stuffed animal clutched protectively in the other.
It’s peaceful, he realizes. He wonders if the 141 is on base or out on an night op. He hopes for the former. Ghost would love this; the vast night sky, the only sound of bugs and night time animals. He’d spend all night out here, Soap would bet.
Soap would spend all night out here if he didn’t think he would fall asleep and get eaten by mosquitos. He’s sure there’s a roof access on one of these buildings. If they’re here, Ghost will be up there, having a smoke.
He finds the right building on his first try, a rather impressive feat since they all look the exact same. He turned at one point to try and see if he could get a better vantage point of where exactly the nurse was pointing too, but the infirmary easily matched several other buildings behind it.
That’s actually pretty smart, if he thinks about it. Much harder to target the wounded if you don’t know where they are.
The guest bunks are so similar to Las Almas Soap starts to think maybe he’s hallucinating, but it’s not nearly as sticky as Mexico was at night. That, and he can’t find his room on either side of Ghost’s.
A little awkward, perhaps, to just go opening doors, but Soap is feeling a bit woozy. He can say he has a concussion or something. Or he would, if he found anyone in the rooms he checked.
It’s obvious this base doesn’t have many visitors, or people for that matter. The rooms are not uniform, nor are they excessively small. This building was definitely for something else before being converted into a bunk house.
At least Ghost’s room is obvious.
The soft, plain balaclava on the bed gives it away, but there’s other things. The duffle that looks like it got attacked by cats. The three spare pairs of gloves that are strewn on the floor, likely in an attempt to get at a particular piece of clothing.
A knife on the floor is a bit odd. The closer Soap inspects, he notices there’s several things- the knife, a few bullets, gun cleaning tools, a tin mug with it’s contents spilled and drying on the wood floor. Weird. Usually Ghost doesn’t disrespect his tea like that.
Usually Ghost locks his door too, but there doesn’t seem to be the option on this particular hardwood.
Soap wanders a bit further down the hall until he finds his room, which is downright pathetic. There’s nothing on his bed, not even sheets, and Soap realizes that someone must’ve stripped the bed and washed the linens. They’re piled neatly in the corner, tucked into a rough looking sack. Probably to protect them from dust.
His duffle is neatly packed, a toothbrush and couple of pencils laying on top of the closed zipper.
Clearly he wasn’t expected to come back.
That’s…strange…but maybe they were supposed to return back to their base at some late hour. If he was in the field for a while, he’d have packed up before hand for sure.
The crisp corner folds of his clothes tell him immediately that he didn’t pack his bag.
A mystery for sure, and he’s much too tired to figure it out now. Ghost will know, or maybe Gaz. Ghost for sure. No way anyone touches Soap’s stuff and Ghost doesn’t know about it.
He grabs his hoodie and a clean pair of boxers and makes his way to Ghost’s room. It’s a clear choice - it’s slightly bigger, there’s an attached bathroom with a shower, and it’s Ghosts, which means there will be a knife under the pillow and his aftershave haunting the sheets.
He leaves the vest, gloves, and his boots in his room, tossed haphazardly over his bag. He can grab them later when they ship out.
Shower. He’s going to shower, and then sleep some more. And hopefully he can sleep on the plane. Maybe even find a piece of toast before they get on their way.
There’s very little room inside the Lieutenant’s bathroom, so he rights the desk chair, tosses his hoodie over it, and ops for keeping his towel on the closed toilet.
The water is warm almost immediately out of the tap, and after he strips (a task in which he makes a lot of strange noises and nearly falls over twice) he can climb in immediately.
Steamin Jesus, this is heaven.
There is a single bar of soap in the tiny shelf of the tiny shower, but it is more than enough to scrub off what seems like layers of grime. Someone gave some attempt at a sponge bath while he was out in medical, but it is not nearly enough for the level of grossness he has stuck to his skin.
The hot water pounds at the ache in his muscles, working out some of the tenseness. Soap lathers his hands with the bar of soap and works it into his hair. It’s not the best thing for his hair, and he already knows he’s going to pay for it for the upcoming week. His Super Manly Warhawk that requires A Lot of Expensive Products to stay super manly is not very forgiving.
Still, it’s good to itch at the buzzed sides of his head, taking away the blood, sweat, dirt, dead skin, and who knows what else. It’s good to get clean. He thinks he hears someone in the room, but if it’s not his imagination, then it’s most certainly Ghost.
While he scrubs, he hums a tune stuck in his head. By the second rinse his muddled brain recognizes it. Smiling wryly to himself he softly sings the words to a Sinead O’Connor tune as he works off the rest of the soap.
It makes him laugh quietly again. Soap is using the soap- yeah he needs to go back to sleep.
He has to brace against the walls of the shower to ensure he doesn’t eat shit as he gets out of the shower and towels off. That would be just like him too, having to go back to medical because he broke his nose slipping out of the shower.
The wood door has expanded with the steam, and Soap contemplates sleeping on the bathroom floor when it refuses to budge.
He’s- yeah. Yeah.
He leans all his weight against it and opens with a loud squawk, probably alerting everyone with it a five mile radius that he has successfully left the bathroom.
His hoodie is gone.
Son of a bitch.
He stumbles over to Ghost’s duffle, grumbling under his breath the entire way. Mother fucker stole his hoodie, his good hoodie, the one with the random ‘Scottish looking’ pattern on the front. He nabbed it at one of the excessively tourist shops in Edinburgh, on break before he was selected for SAS, and that’s how the shop owner described it.
Scottish looking. It says Scotland on it too, a cheesy, medieval looking font spelling out the country.
A stupid purchase by a drunk Soap who was cold, and it’s been worn to the point that it’s so fucking soft. And stretched. And warm.
And Ghost stole it from him. After he got out of the infirmary too. How rude.
So rude, in fact, that Soap manages to utilize it to fan a flame of stubbornness, and resolves to go find his Lieutenant and get it back. And then maybe they can go to sleep. Sleep would be so good right now.
He steals one of Ghost’s t-shirts, since the maniac didn’t bring a hoodie of his own, and fumbles the getting dressed part. The third try finds all his limbs in the correct holes and the shirt is facing the correct way. Maybe. Probably. Soap doesn’t care anymore.
He stumbles out of Ghost’s room, in nothing but his boxers and Ghost’s shirt, and fumbles his way down the hall. Price is here, must be here somewhere, and if he’s here then Ghost is probably there. Since Ghost was inside to steal his sweatshirt.
That’d be good if they were in the same room. Then Soap can give them both a few snipes about not visiting him at all.
At the end of the hall there’s a door slightly ajar, the sound of quiet laughter filtering out into the hallway. The slight cackle to it means it’s Gaz. He fights against the urge to go to sleep right here in the hallways and limps his way towards the door.
“...to the best damn job a soldier could do.” Price’s voice rings out, rough. Glasses clink together. Soap makes an indignant noise and nudges the door open.
“Stole mah hoodie oot the shower, didnae visit me while I’m hurt, and now yous drinkin without me? Fucking rude, all of yuz.”
Whatever he expected for their reaction, this wasn’t it.
Ghost is, in fact, wearing Soap’s hoodie, but he’s not wearing a mask. Not at all. In the split second of realizing that and looking away, Soap is able to see a glimpse of Simon’s reaction.
Shock, is probably the best word for it. Pure, almost comical shock on his face, which was turning paler by the second.
Ghost is sat in a chair, and Gaz is on a very hard looking couch. Soap is sure he’s the one who laughed, but there’s tears- Gaz is crying . Or he was or he’s going to or- either way his eyes are filled with tears and red rimmed.
Soap swallows his tongue, finally glancing at Price, who’s the only one still with a drink in hand. He’s staring right through Soap, as if he’s not real.
“Steamin Jesus, you’re a dour bunch.” He glances around at the three, confusion climbing. Maybe he looks worse than he feels. “Who died?”
Gaz makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. Price blinks a few times, getting something like his wits about him.
“You.” The Captain croaks. “You did, John.”