Archive of Our Own

The world comes back to Soap in fits and starts. There’s hushed voices, soft hands against his skin, cool water across his brow, all for a moment before he slips back into a pool of darkness. An astringent smell burning his nostrils and his head awash in fire. He wishes someone would stop whatever the fuck is beeping so he can go back to the peaceful abyss but it persists until the darkness claims him again. Light leaks through his eyelashes at some points but the few shapes he can make out are fuzzy and smeared against the hazy glow beyond the dark gloom of his impossibly heavy lids.

He wakes an indeterminate time later to find himself in a small, well lit room. There’s something beeping softly to his left and his head feels thick and weighty. He lifts a hand to touch it, gauze rough under his fingers, and the simple motion leaves him dizzy and reeling. Blackness swirls at the edges of his vision. He tries to fight it and the beeping to his left increases. He senses a presence next to him and a coolness rushes through his veins before the darkness overtakes him and he’s lost again.

The next time he returns to himself, it’s like a veil has been lifted. His head is remarkably clearer and he can make out the details of the room he’s in. A hospital. He turns and finally identifies the source of the beeping as some machine monitoring his vitals. The lines going up and down hypnotise him for a long moment and he forgets what he was thinking about. There’s a small remote near his hand and it takes him longer than he’d like to convince his body to move to grab at it. He nearly knocks it off the bed and the lunge he makes after it sets the machine to beeping again and it’s only a moment before a kindly looking nurse is in the doorway.

“John, it’s good to see you awake,” she says with a soft smile. She crosses the room and presses a button on the machine and the ensuing silence is such bliss that Soap’s eyes drift closed again.

“What happened?” he tries to ask, but his voice cracks and all that escapes him is an unintelligible moan. Fuck, his throat is on fire.

Like magic, there’s a cup pressed against his lips, cool water spilling across his parched tongue like ambrosia. He drinks greedily but only gets two big swallows in before it’s cruelly pulled away. He chases it but the nurse presses his shoulder back into the pillow and he’s too weak to fight.

“What happened?” he tries again. This time the words are clearer, if barely audible.

“Someone will be in to explain to you shortly,” the nurse says with a soft smile. Soap scowls, but it pulls at the stitches in his brow and he’s forced into an unhappy pout instead. The nurse looks down at him and her expression softens. “There, love. It won’t be long now, we’re just waiting for the doctor.”

Her words prove true – it’s scarcely twenty minutes later when a small army of people invade the calm oasis of his room. There’s clipboards flying, someone fidgeting with the machines to his left, and someone flashing a light in his eyes before he can even understand what’s happening.

“Get the fuck off me,” he snaps, shoving weakly at the person closest to him. The doctor in charge seems to realise his error and tells everyone to back off.

“Apologies, Mr MacTavish,” he says. There’s a soft Irish lilt to his voice and Soap finds it annoyingly pleasant. “I forgot how overwhelming this must be for you. I’m Doctor Dracott, I’ll be looking after you for the rest of your stay. Let’s start with the basics, shall we?” He scans the clipboard in his hand and clicks his pen. “Do you know the date today?”

Soap rolls his eyes, of course he knows the fucking date. He opens his mouth to speak, but chokes on air. What is the date? He racks his brain but comes up empty. His hand comes up to feel at the gauze wrapping his head. Why can’t he remember?

Dr Dracott doesn’t say anything but nods. “Alright, let’s try something easier. What’s your full name and date of birth?”

By the end of the doctor’s “assessment”, Soap is left sweating and miserable. He was told he got shot in the head and evidently the bullet has left his memory with the structural integrity of swiss cheese. Things are clear up until about 10 months ago and then his mind is… well, not blank entirely.

The doctor tells him that he’s experiencing “memory islands” -- one-off memories that have somehow held their own against the violence ravaged through his skull. He remembers that they were hunting Makarov, but not what led him to be shot- at least not until they explain it to him-, he remembers his team but not what they were doing in the lead up to the confrontation.

He demands to know what happened to Makarov and the doctor claims he doesn’t have the clearance to know, but Soap doesn’t miss the tense set of his face and the way he avoids making eye contact. He resolves to ask Price about it later rather than picking a fight with the doctor.

What does have him picking a fight with the doctor however, is being told that his medical leave has been extended indefinitely and that his “professional recommendation” is for Soap to return home and recover there now that he’s stable. This revelation rapidly devolves into a shouting match, fury urging Soap to his feet, cords and tubes be damned.

He might be injured, but he’s still dangerous and before anyone can react, he’s got the doctor pinned against the wall, threats and curses spewing from him in a fountain of vitriol. A nurse rushes forward, forcing herself between him and the doctor. Another two nurses grab him under the arms and yank him back towards the bed. His injuries make themselves known at the exertion and he can’t keep fighting even if he wanted to. The doctor mutters something about speaking to Price and darts out of the room.

Price. Thank fuck; the captain will tell the doctor where to stick it. He relaxes a bit, allowing the nurses to settle him back against the pillows.

It wouldn’t be the first time Price has used his authority to overrule medical advice. The man himself will barely stay in the med bay for longer than it takes for him to return to consciousness.

All at once, a tsunami of tiredness washes over Soap and he goes limp against the pillow. He barely has the energy to look over to see one of the nurses injecting something into his IV line. He meets her eye, hoping his fury and betrayal is evident on his face. She shoots him a sheepish, apologetic smile, and that’s the last thing he sees before his eyes slip closed again.

***

Price does not tell the doctors where to stick it. In fact, he threatens to discharge Soap completely if he keeps arguing about it.

“You were shot in the head, John,” he says, setting his paperwork aside and giving Soap his full attention. It says something about how busy he’s been that he doesn’t even have a cigar lit.

“So?” Soap says, flinging his arms wide. “Put me on a desk or something and I’ll be fine in a few days.”

Price meets him with a level gaze. “I said no, Sergeant.”

Soap opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Price raises a hand. He sighs deeply and rubs his temples.

“Just…” He pauses for a long moment. So long that Soap wonders if maybe he’s reconsidering things. “Go home, John. I need you back on your feet as soon as possible.”

Tears well up in Soap’s eyes and he scrubs them away angrily. He doesn’t wait for Price to dismiss him, just launches himself out of his chair with a dark mutter. He slams the door behind him, head fucking spinning. He manages to make it to his room before he breaks down entirely, the sobs escaping him held in secret between him and his pillow.

***

It’s not lost on Soap that his room looks like a bomb went off. His duffel is on his bed, clothes exploding out of it, there’s paper scattered all over his desk, and his toiletries bag is conspicuously missing.

He's holding a folder in his head, trying to remember what he was doing with it and growing more frustrated by the second when there’s a knock at the door.

Glaring at the door, he debates the merits of ignoring it. Price has been nauseatingly patient with him, to the point he feels infantilised, and Gaz still can’t meet his gaze. Ghost hasn’t even spoken to him since he first left the med wing yesterday. He scowls at the reminder and resolves not to ignore the knock.

Soap really should know better than to think that would earn him some peace. As he watches, the blade of a knife slips between the crack of the door and the frame, bobbing around like a blind snake looking for prey. He marches over and wrenches the door open to find Ghost’s broad frame filling out the doorway.

“What do you want?” he snaps.

Ghost raises his hands in mock defense, hand still clutching his knife. Soap looks at it pointedly and quicker than he can follow, the knife is gone and Ghost is stepping past him into his room. Squeezing past, really, as the small entrance leaves Soap pinned between his considerable bulk and the door. He rolls his eyes and turns back to Ghost.

“What?” he repeats. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Ghost looks around the room, taking in the disarray, and looks back to Soap. Soap doesn’t need to see his face to know that he has a questioning eyebrow raised.

Soap scowls and turns away, throwing the folder he’s holding onto his desk.

“Got shot for these wankers and they’re just sending me home,” he mutters. “Oh, aye, thanks for ye service, now get tae fuck.”

“What did Price say?” Ghost asks, settling into Soap’s desk chair like he owns the place.

“‘Go home, John. I need you back on your feet as soon as possible’,” Soap’s impression is probably meaner than it needs to be but he doesn’t care. Ghost raises an eyebrow and Soap explodes again. “What the fuck am I even going to do? Go for walks and do yoga? I need to be here, doing something, being useful. I’m going to go fucking crazy, Lt, and then they’ll never have me back.”

“You can stay with me, if you like,” Ghost says with a shrug, pawing through the paper work on Soap’s desk. “Not like you haven’t before.”

Not like-

Soap stops. Waves of guilt crash over him, drowning out his response entirely, and his lungs seem to have stopped working. He’s stayed with Ghost? He wracks his brain but his head is fucking pounding and he can’t grab a hold of anything coherent. There’s Ghost, and his heart thudding in his chest when they brush hands when Soap’s passing him something. Lingering glances in the gloomy belly of an exfil plane, Soap desperately trying to convince himself that it means as much to Ghost as it does to him. He remembers wanting but not having.

“Soap?” Ghost’s voice comes to him muffled and Soap can’t even force himself to respond. It occurs to him that he might be losing his fucking mind. Ghost said he’d stayed with him, not that he’d stayed with him. It’s only his ridiculous schoolyard crush that forced him to an insane conclusion. Sure, he’s never stayed with Gaz before, or Price, but that’s… He’s not close with them like he is with Ghost; he and Ghost are best mates.

He doesn’t realise how long he’s been frozen, staring at the ground until Ghost’s boots enter his peripheral vision. He looks up to find Ghost looming over him, so close that he sways on his feet and almost loses his balance but for Ghost’s hand suddenly pressing against his lower back.

“Alright, Johnny?” Ghost murmurs. He looks down at Soap, his gaze impossibly soft, and Soap feels tears well to his eyes. He scrubs them away angrily.

“As mates, right?” Soap asks, pushing his traitorous heart down deep in his chest. What a daft conclusion to draw, he tells himself. All Ghost said was that Soap had stayed at his place, nothing about anything more. Honestly, it fucking figures, doesn’t it? His brain is fucking swiss cheese but of course he remembers the wildly inappropriate crush he’s had on his CO. “When I stayed at yours, it was just as mates?”

The hand at his back presses him closer, and Soap’s heart takes off like a rocket again. Ghost leans close, his breath hot against Soap’s face even through the mask when he speaks.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me, Johnny,” he murmurs. Soap can’t breathe. Doesn’t even react when Ghost leans up and presses a kiss to his forehead. Tears spill over his lashes again, dark spots forming where they land on Ghost’s shirt. Ghost puts a finger under his chin and pulls his face up, his gloved thumb pressing deep into Soap’s lower lip.

“I’m sorry,” Soap mumbles.

There’s a gleam in Ghost’s eyes when he looks down at Soap, mask hitched in that funny way it does when he’s grinning underneath. “I guess I’ll have to seduce you, won’t I?”

“If you’ve done it once, I’m sure you can do it again,” Soap says, a smile pulling at his own mouth.

Ghost doesn’t reply, just hums and pulls Soap against his broad chest. Soap melts against him immediately, the action feeling like second nature. It’s hard to believe he would have forgotten Ghost like this, but maybe he really did.

***

Ghost’s house isn’t what Soap expects. He’s not actually sure what he expected but the squat bungalow on the very edge of town is not it. There’s cheery yellow flowers in the garden and not a single gargoyle or cobweb that he can see. When Ghost lets them in, there’s no coffins either, just a homely sort of sofa- like something his nana would have- and a huge flat screen.

Soap spends longer than he would like fixated on every detail. Ghost seems to have a few knick-knacks collected on mission, including a rather grim looking jar of twisted metal that he can only make out as a collection of spent bullets. From times Ghost has been shot? he wonders.

Something aches deep in his chest at the sight of it, at the knowledge he’d nearly lost Ghost so many times. His hand comes up to brush his temple, fingers feeling over the ugly starburst of scar tissue. It doesn’t even take Ghost getting shot for Soap to have lost him, he thinks bitterly.

“Get your gear away, love. I’ll make us cuppas.” When Soap doesn’t move, Ghost crosses the small room and cups a hand against Soap’s cheek. His thumb swipes across the hollow beneath his eye and pulls away. Resting on the pad of his thumb is a tear Soap didn’t even realise he’d shed. They both look down at it for a long moment before Ghost lifts it to his mouth and licks it away. He leans down and presses a kiss against Soap’s slack and unresponsive mouth. Soap shudders and sways into him.

“Down the hall,” Ghost murmurs, giving Soap a quick squeeze before releasing him.

Soap makes his way down the unfamiliar hallway. There’s a few of his own sketches in frames against the wall, the monochrome of them stark against the floral wallpaper. He stops to look at one: a sunrise across an open field framed by the timber window of what looks to be a barn. Something itches in the back of his brain and he probes further, looking closer. He can almost remember…

The safe house. Mexico. It all comes back to him in a rush and he gasps. Ghost’s words over the radio, almost as furious and desperate as his own heart in his chest. Chicago. The bar… Soap blushes, remembering the way he swayed off his chair, leaning far too much into Ghost’s space. He wonders. Was it then? He’s afraid to ask Ghost, afraid to admit that he doesn’t remember it. He pushes it out of his mind and tiptoes down the hall, afraid to disturb any other ghosts.

The bedroom at the end of the hall is dim, emerald green black-out curtains covering the wall on one side from floor to ceiling. There’s little in the way of furniture, just a wide, plush bed that makes Soap blush when he looks at it. A couple of bedside tables, each with a lamp. He swallows painfully and sets his bag down like it might explode.

Were they really together? It is really possible they could have shared this bed before, could have…? Ghost gives nothing away, no sign that this is unfamiliar or anything but the natural way of things between them.

Soap can’t believe it. Surely his broken brain wouldn’t betray his heart like that.

Ghost comes up behind him, lips brushing across the back of his neck, arms curving around him.

“Welcome home,” he murmurs. Soap turns around in the cage of his arms and peers up at his face. Ghost’s face is nothing short of adoring, eyes crinkled as he beams down at Soap, plush lips curved into a soft smile.

Ignoring his heart racing, Soap leans into his embrace and the steady thud of his heart soothes whatever doubt still lingers. He follows Ghost easily as he leads him down the hall, back to the cramped little kitchen. Ghost sinks into one of the chairs at the postage stamp sized table and slides a steaming mug across towards the other. Soap sits, if only because his head is spinning. He grasps at the mug like a lifeline and takes a sip. His eyes dart up in surprise at the taste and finds Ghost’s gaze already on him.

“It’s barely coffee, the way you drink it,” Ghost says, blonde eyebrow arched in a judgemental curve. Soap scowls into his drink and takes another sip. It was silly of him to be surprised that Ghost knows how he likes it. He doesn’t remember how long they’ve been together but he’s been able to surmise that it’s at least a couple of months. More than enough time for Ghost to remember silly little things like how he likes a cuppa; it’s not like he doesn’t know how Ghost likes his leaf water.

That evening, Soap spends far too long doing his ablutions, putting off the inevitable. Ghost is already under the covers when he returns to the- their- bedroom. He’s staring at the ceiling, shirtless, one arm folded under his head. He looks the picture of relaxation, the smallest smile curving his plush lips.

“What?” Soap asks, making his way to the other side of the bed. He doesn’t get in, just stands there, feeling tremendously out of place.

Ghost turns to face him, eyes roving up and down his body.

“Glad to see you where you belong,” he says, flicking the covers down in invitation, revealing his thick, muscled body. Heat flushes through Soap and he swallows thickly. He can do this. He can share a bed with Ghost. Hell, he’s done it before, hasn’t it? It’s not like they’ve never been squished into quarters too small for men their size, but there’s something about the casual intimacy of this, and Ghost’s easy familiarity with it, that leaves Soap unsteady.

Get it together, MacTavish, he thinks savagely. You’re not a blushing virgin, so stop acting like one.

He forces himself into the bed, sliding himself down into the cool cotton sheets. His head hasn’t even hit the pillow before Ghost is flicking the blankets back up to cover him and slipping his arms around Soap. Soap lets out an indignant squawk as he’s pulled back to be cradled against Ghost’s pillowy chest.

The frantic pulse of his heart in his throat nearly chokes him but he manages to swallow past it. Ghost doesn’t even say anything, just settles Soap against him, natural as anything, and Soap is forced to remember that this isn’t new for him. Something ugly wells up inside him and he fights it down. It’s not Ghost’s fault he can’t fucking remember anything; it’s not fair to force him to change what he’s used to just to allow for Soap’s… condition.

Besides, Ghost is broad and warm and Soap is so tired. He doesn’t even try to fight off the yawn, just snuggles deeper and tries to relax. He can feel Ghost’s deep, steady breathing against him and it’s oddly soothing.

“Didn’t think you were a cuddler, Lt.,” he says softly. He can hear a rumble of laughter through Ghost’s chest and, inexplicably, it settles him a little bit. His heart is still racing but Soap can’t pretend it’s not comfortable to be wrapped in Ghost’s sturdy embrace. Considering how unstable things have felt, even in his own head, it’s nice to feel grounded for once. A wave of tiredness washes over him and he yawns again.

“Go to sleep, Johnny,” Ghost murmurs. Soap thinks he feels lips against the starburst scar on his brow, but he’s already too far gone to be certain.

***

A few weeks later finds them in a pub, crowded into a corner booth with Gaz and Price; Soap crowded against Ghost’s side, his bulky arm slung casually across the back of the bench seat. Each of them has been nursing a pint for far too long, too immersed in their catch up.

They find out that Laswell and her wife are expecting, which brings a huge grin to Soap’s face, though Price is less certain that the world can handle a mini-Laswell. Gaz laughs and punches his arm, telling him to lighten up.

“It could be worse, we could be getting a mini-MacTavish,” he says, leering at Soap. Soap flushes red and ignores the rumbling laughter from Price and Ghost. Before he can get a retort in, Ghost is pulling his arm back to dig into his pocket.

“Smoke?” Ghost asks Price, thumbing open a packet. Price smirks, swiping a hand over his mouth.

“Well, I’m not gonna say no if you’re offering now, am I, Simon?”

They both stand to leave and Ghost stops to drop a kiss on the top of Soap’s head as he passes. Soap preens under the attention and watches him go until the front door shuts behind them. There’s a huff and he looks back to find Gaz smirking at him.

“What?” he demands, accusatory.

“Nothing, nothing,” Gaz says, hands raised in defence. “Just never thought I’d see you two get your shit together.”

“What d’you mean,” Soap says, confusion fogging its way across his brain. “So quickly the… whole thing, you mean?”

Gaz nods, leaning back in his chair. “I mean you guys have been at each other for so long, it’s nice to see you together finally.”

Finally… There’s something here that Soap’s clearly not getting. Ghost said they had to keep it under wraps, and Soap’s no idiot, he knows about fraternisation regs but surely they wouldn’t have kept it from Gaz? From Price?

“I mean, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” He says slowly. “It’s not like I fell for him just now, is it?”

Gaz quirks an eyebrow. “MacTavish, anyone with eyes could tell you were gone from day one but it’s not like he’s an open book, is he? He’s not exactly one for big love confessions. That’s what I mean, like… I mean, shit. How did it even happen? Who said what?”

The cloud of confusion coalesces to a storm.

“I don’t know,” Soap confesses. “I guess you’d have to ask him. I still don’t remember a lot of it.”

“Shouldn’t you be talking to your doc about something like that?” Gaz says, eyebrows creasing in apparent concern. His expression looks pinched, but before Soap can ask for clarification, Ghost and Price are slipping back into the booth, the smell of smoke clinging to their clothes. Soap leans into Ghost, subtly inhaling the comforting scent.

The conversation from before picks up where it left off and Soap, sick of the ribbing, challenges them all at pool. He’s not as good as he was, the tremor in his hands throwing off his game ever so slightly, but they make it through a few games- a few of which he wins, thank you very much-, and several more rounds before they call it a night. Price and Gaz head off in the same direction and Soap tries not to think about how they’re probably going back to base. Without him.

Between the booze and the late night, Soap’s head is fucking spinning as they walk back to Ghost’s little car. He leans heavily into Ghost, too unsteady to even be embarrassed about it. Ghost practically pours him into the passenger seat and he just lets it happen. He does draw the line at Ghost trying to do his seatbelt up for him, leaning his head back against the seat with an unhappy noise. He squints up at Ghost, haloed in the fluorescent streetlight.

Gaz’ words ring in his mind and he opens his mouth to ask Ghost about it but Ghost is shutting the door and moving to the drivers’ side. By the time he’s in and the car is on, Soap’s traitorous brain has forgotten what he was gonna ask.

It’s not until they’re well on their way home that Ghost breaks the silence.

“You’re quiet.” Ghost says it gently, like an observation rather than an accusation, but Soap bristles anyway.

“Just thinking,” he mutters, turning further into the window.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

He doesn’t respond immediately, unsure of how to word it. It has to be a sore point for Ghost that Soap’s forgotten so much of their relationship, but Soap needs to know.

“Doc called this morning, just checking in,” he starts. A nauseating mix of sadness and guilt threatens to choke him and he stops. Ghost doesn’t press, not for a long moment.

“And what, sergeant?” The title cuts through the haze and Soap sits up a bit, straightening himself out before he even realises what he’s doing.

“Said that if I was going to remember something, I would have by now.” He shrugs and presses his quivering lips together for a moment before continuing. “I don’t… I should but I don’t remember before. How…” He snarls internally and heaves a huge breath. “How did we get together? When did we get together? It’s been fucking killing me, Simon. I don’t remember and I can’t even picture it.”

It’s Ghost’s turn to be quiet for a while and Soap stares at the side of his face, laser-focused. He almost seems to chew his words, a habit no doubt picked up from Price, and Soap smiles a little at the sight of a familiar gesture.

“After Las Almas, after Chicago… I didn’t want to waste any more time,” Ghost says, eyes glued to the road.

“That long ago?” Soap breathes, disbelieving.

“I’d already waited too long, Johnny,” Ghost replies, reaching across the narrow gap between them to grasp Soap’s hand in his. Soap sighs and lets his head loll against the window, watching the amber streetlights streak past in the gloom. Ghost is humming along to the radio and Soap’s heart has never been more full.

***

Soap’s sat at the kitchen table, poring over old maps of the area when there’s a knock at the door. Ghost glides past him to answer it, stopping only to press a warm kiss against the starburst scar across his forehead.

He can’t make out the murmured exchange, but it’s only a couple seconds before the door clicks closed and Simon’s sliding a package onto the table.

“Looks like this is some of your stuff, love,” he murmurs. Soap eyes off the package like it’s a bomb. It’s unremarkable, really; brown paper, a couple of stamps, the SAS seal.

He hears the slide of the back door and glances behind him to see Ghost slipping out, pack of smokes clutched in his hand. Giving him privacy, Soap guesses with an internal eye roll.

Turning back to the package, he slips a finger under the tape and pulls up the edge. The sound is irritatingly loud in the silence left by Simon’s absence. He tears the rest of the paper off on a rush, eager for it to be over.

The box itself isn’t sealed and he flips open the flaps to find a messy assortment of items, some he recognises, others he doesn’t. There’s a knife, complete with a sheath, a few bundles of paper that’ve been clipped together, a couple of pictures- some framed, some not-, and a battered looking journal. He gives the journal a wide berth, pulling everything else out of the box and lining it up on the table so he can get a proper look.

The photos are mostly of other people, though he appears in more than a couple too. There’s one photo in particular, a shot of himself, Gaz, Price, and Ghost that he’s fairly certain he remembers being taken. It wasn’t long after their first mission together, they were all exhausted, and Soap’s feelings for Ghost were just budding. He wonders if Ghost had felt it then too. He sets the photo down and reaches for the knife. Pulls it out of the sheath, runs his finger along the edge to test the sharpness.

The back door slides open again and he startles, cold steel biting into the pad of his finger. Simon is across the room in a flash but Soap’s already stuck the wounded appendage in his mouth. He looks up at Simon, words muffled around his finger.

“I don’t remember this one,” he says. “I recognise everything else in this box, but this knife isn’t mine.”

Simon hums, plucking it off the table and giving it a dextrous little spin. He slips it back into the sheath and tosses it, catching it blade first and offering it back to Soap. “That’s because it’s not yours. You nicked it from me and never gave it back, cheeky git.”

Something begins to swirl in the depths of his brain and, giving it a real push of concentration, Soap manages to grasp at a thread. He pulls on it until it unspools into a memory. “Las Almas?” he queries.

Simon raises an eyebrow and gestures with the knife. “So you do remember…”

Soap snorts, taking the knife and cradling it in his palm. “Hard to forget something like that.”

Something flashes across Ghost’s face and he feels a stab of guilt. How could he remember that but not them? He sighs, shoving the box away from him. “Well, good to have my stuff back at least,” he says, too loud. “Help me put this stuff away?”

An idea occurs to him as he’s piling the photos back together. “Is it… Can I put some of these photos up? There’s some good ones of the team and Farah and Alex and stuff,” he explains, heat creeping up the back of his neck. He rubs at it sheepishly, watching Ghost out of the corner of his eye.

“‘Course, Johnny,” he says. “I know it’s not all official yet, but this place is your place too.”

Soap grins at the surge of heat bubbling up from his heart. He leans in to kiss Ghost, long and lingering.

It doesn’t take long to put up his favourite pictures, the one of them all taking pride of place on the hall table. He’s got more pictures than Ghost has places for however, so he decides to stash the rest away in the bedroom until he can get a proper album. He’s been meaning to for ages, but it’s not like he gets much time for idle shopping on base.

He sets the box down on the bed to pull out the last few things. He’s not really sure what to do with the papers, he doesn’t even know why they sent them to him. There’s some medical information, his notice of leave with Price’s signature scrawled across the bottom. He paws through it and finds nothing interesting so he shoves it into the drawer of his bedside table. He scoops out the knife and gives it a little spin before adding it to the drawer as well.

He reaches back into the box and this time he pulls out the journal. His journal. He does actually remember this, even remembers patching up the spine with tape when it fell apart, but he also knows it’s probably full of information he doesn’t remember and it scares him a little.

There’s a bright patch of late afternoon sun streaming through the window and Soap reangles one of the armchairs so he can bask in it while he reads. He thumbs open the cover, flipping through the first pages, which he remembers distinctly. The first few pages of a journal always stick with him for some reason.

He doesn’t even notice the sun sinking below the horizon, just flicks on the lamp and keeps reading. There’s less that he doesn’t remember than he would have supposed. The doctor vaguely mentioned something about writing things down and memory pathways and he guesses it must be true.

The ramblings about Ghost are mortifying though, quickly scrawled paragraphs filling the pages more than he’d care to admit. Sure, there’s maps and codes and even plans for explosion rigs taking up their fair share of space, as well as his general thoughts about the current mission, what he could have done better scribbled out in the bellies of exfil planes.

He searches for Las Almas, for Chicago, Ghost’s words after the pub ringing in his memory. As usual, his lieutenant had been sparse with words and Soap had felt bad about prying into something that’s probably a sore point for Ghost. It can’t be easy knowing that your partner doesn’t even remember your relationship.

A large sketch of the church in Las Almas stops him in his tracks. He can almost smell the rain, the flooded sewers, his own blood soaking his shirt. There’s a brief flare of anger when he remembers that night– and that fucking cunt Graves– but he’s got a goal. He skims the page eagerly, searching for any sign of what happened between him and Simon.

Lt looked real good at the bar. Nearly made a fucking numpty of myself is written in tight, cramped letters next to a small sketch of Ghost. He’s looking sideways at the camera and Soap shivers, almost feeling the weight of his gaze even from this small drawing.

He flips to the next page. And the next.

There’s the same rambling paragraphs, the same small sketches with a larger piece filling an entire page every now and then. More bomb rigs with notes about their viability. Some code work for a mission he doesn’t remember.

But there’s nothing about him and Simon. Well, there’s plenty about Simon but it’s the same pathetic yearning that started from page one of the journal. He skips back to the drawing of the church and goes over the pages again, poring over every detail. Maybe he missed it.

He reads through it from cover to cover again, a cold chill settling over him. His skin prickles, goosebumps making his hair stand on end. The journal is inches from his nose as he flips through the pages again, a pit forming in his stomach.

There’s a knock on the door and Soap startles at the sound. He looks up to see Ghost looming in the doorway, two mugs in his hands, steam curling up from them in graceful little spirals.

He can’t even speak as Ghost crosses the room, sets a mug down next to him, and leans in to press a kiss against his slack, unresponsive mouth.

Ghost seems to sense his tension and leans back to inspect his face, his plush mouth drawn into a tense moue.

“Alright, Johnny?” he murmurs, hand coming up to cup his cheek. Soap turns his face away and Ghost pulls back. When Soap looks at him, Ghost’s eyebrows are creased into a frown and he looks almost… hurt.

Soap holds up his journal, gesturing with it. Ghost looks at it and raises an eyebrow.

“Been reading this,” Soap starts. White hot rage bubbles up under his skin and it takes conscious effort to fight down the urge to start screaming. “Real interesting…”

Ghost sinks into the other armchair, looking bewildered. “I would guess so, probably a lot in there that you don’t remember.”

Soap sets the journal down like it’s rigged to blow. He draws in an unsteady breath. There’s going to be a reasonable explanation for this, he tells himself. Ghost is going to clear it up and everything is going to go back to the way it was.

“Less than you’d think. I am a bit confused though,” he starts, his heart hammering in his chest. “There isn’t anything about us.”

His eyes flick up to Ghost, searching for any sort of reaction that might give something away. Ghost doesn’t even flinch, just purses his lips and shrugs. “Probably smart of you to keep it out of there; don’t wanna risk fraternisation regs. Even if you’re worth the trouble,” he says, dropping a wink and a smirk in Soap’s direction. Soap doesn’t return the smile.

“Ghost.” He forces his voice to stay even, despite the fact he’s so angry his vision is blurring at the edges. “There’s shit in this journal that I barely have clearance for. There’s no way in hell I would put something that risky in here and not say something about us being together.”

His hands are shaking so he flexes them before squeezing them into fists against his knees. Ghost’s gaze is like a spotlight on him but he knows he can’t keep it together if he meets the other man’s gaze.

“Simon, were we actually together before I got shot?”

Ghost doesn’t respond. Soap lets the silence between them widen, putting a necessary distance between them. He counts to ten, heart hammering in his chest. Ghost still hasn’t said anything.

“Simon…”

Ghost gets to his feet, paces a few steps, and comes to stand behind the armchair he was just, gripping the back of it with white knuckles as he stares at Soap.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Johnny. It’s your journal, innit? You barely let me see the thing, how should I know what you’ve been writing about?”

Soap grabs the journal and flings it open, gesturing at the pages. “I write about fucking everything in here. Been raving about you from the first page, so why can’t I find a single word about our relationship? Unless we weren’t actually together.” The words are tumbling out of him, his fury boiling and spilling over. “What? Did you read my journal and decided you’d try to fuck me... what? Out of pity? That’s fucking low, Simon, even for you.”

Ghost growls, hands tightening on the back of the chair. “Pity? You think I fucking pity you, Soap?”

Soap pretends the name doesn't sting. It’s his fucking name, after all. “What then? You thought it was an easy chance to get your dick wet? Not enough of a power trip that your subordinate wanted you, you had to fuck with my head too?”

Ghost huffs a mean laugh. “You think I didn’t notice you fucking gagging for it?”

“So what, you didn’t want me until you could play with me like I’m some fucking toy?”

There’s a black heat in Ghost’s eyes when he meets Soap’s gaze; a twisted cocktail of arousal and rage that Soap- mortifyingly- feels himself respond to.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Ghost murmurs, taking a step forward. Soap retreats instinctively, cowed by the intensity of him and by his own reaction. His back meets the wall and Soap stumbles, giving Ghost just enough time to cross the room and tower over him. He runs a hand through Soap’s hair, fingers tangling in the overgrown strands. Soap cringes internally at the pathetic sound that escapes him when Ghost closes his fist and pulls his head back, exposing his throat. He leans down, lips brushing against the hammering pulse in Soap’s throat when he says,

“Tell me you don’t like…” he purrs, nosing his way up to Soap’s ear. “Tell me you haven’t liked belonging to me.”

Soap nearly swallows his tongue, hands coming up to rest pathetically against the plush pillows of Ghost’s chest as he flounders.

“I… I-” His head is spinning, and words are even harder to grasp when Ghost’s other hand is groping up his side, slipping under the hem of his shirt to palm over his feverish flank. His eyes slip closed without his permission and he leans into Ghost’s hold. The hand in his hair loosens for a moment before tightening again into something mean.

“Could have had you at any time, couldn’t I?” Ghost purrs. He forces a thick tree trunk thigh between Soap’s own, pressing him even further off balance. Soap’s well and truly pinned between him and the wall. “If I’d known it was this easy, I never would have lied.” Ghost sinks to his knees in one smooth movement, scarred hands rucking Soap’s shirt out of the way as he nips and sucks kisses across the flesh bared to him. Soap lets out a gasp, head falling back against the wall with a soft thunk.

“Bleedin’ hell, Simon,” he pants, hands tangling into the halo of blonde curls across his crown. Ghost doesn’t reply, just hums a wordless response against his skin, deft hands undoing the button of Soap’s jeans and getting his fly down in a swift movement. Soap can barely follow the action before Ghost’s warm, thick tongue is pressing between his folds. It’s almost embarassing, the way he’s fucking dripping for it already. Ghost licks heavily over his dick, sucking the sensitive head of it into his mouth and Soap can’t even think. He moans, loud enough that he’s almost concerned for the neighbours but the exquisite torture lasts mere seconds before Ghost is pulling away.

Soap cries out at the loss of heat but when he glances down at Simon on his knees, he’s stunned into silence. The evening light leaking through the front curtains spills across the kitchen floor and bathes Simon in a golden glow. His delicate, pale lashes catch the light framing the dark hollows of his eyes. Pupils blown wide, the dark gleam of his gaze makes him seem almost beastial, ravenous.

Ghost’s tongue snakes out and swipes against the sensitive glans of him, and Soap whines before Ghost is bulling his way closer, shoving Soap’s leg up and over his shoulder. Soap cries out and clutches desperately at Ghost, at the wall, teetering on one leg, but Ghost’s iron grip doesn’t abate, just slides around to cup the round globe of one arse cheek in his hand.

The other hand shoves Soap’s trousers down further, hopelessly entangling him. His hips buck forward and the rasp of Simon’s golden stubble against him makes him moan. Simon leans to one side, forcing Soap’s leg further up and out and before he can make sense of what’s happening, Ghost’s long, rough fingers are slipping between his puffy, sensitive folds. Ghost presses forward unerringly, the tips of his fingers teasing at his sopping opening. Soap hitches his hips, trying to get them inside, but Simon pulls back. Soap whines unhappily before those same fingers are pulling him open, leaving his entire cunt open to Simon’s hungry gaze.

Simon hums his approval, leaning in to nose at the dark curls framing his prize. One hand moves up, thumb and forefinger framing Soap’s aching cock, the other slipping back between his legs to pet at his hole again.

“Bleeding hell, Johnny, you’re fucking soaked for me,” Ghost hums. Before Soap can even respond, he slips two thick fingers inside his tight hole, curling them against the silken walls. Ghost furthers the assault when he leans forward to suck Soap’s aching dick into his mouth again.

White-hot pleasure blanks Soap’s mind and he’s barely in control of himself as he rocks back onto Simon’s fingers before thrusting up into his mouth. Simon just lets him move, tongue out for Soap to grind against. His fingers never stop moving inside him either, pressing deep inside him before pulling out to tease at his hole. It doesn’t take long for them to find a rhythm and it’s almost embarrassing how quickly Soap’s release is upon him.

His whole body tenses as he grinds against Simon’s mouth, slick cunt tightening like a vice around his fingers. Simon groans against him and the rumbling vibration does it for him.

The tension coiling inside him breaks, unspooling in uncontrollable waves of pleasure that wrack him from head to toe. He clutches desperately at Simon’s head, shoulders, anything he can reach, the world a roiling mess beneath him. Simon’s mouth never stops either, sucking at him gently until Soap’s hissing in sensitivity. Simon obliges and pulls back but not without an obscene slurp. He looks up at Soap with half-lidden eyes and Soap can see the slick of his cunt shimmering against his chin in the halflight.

“Knew you would taste like heaven,” Ghost murmurs. He leans back in and sucks a mark into the tender flesh of Soap’s thigh. Soap can barely react, chest still heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Simon pulls his fingers out slowly but it still makes Soap hiss, hands tightening in Simon’s curls.

“Been thinking about me, Simon?” he laughs breathlessly.

Simon doesn’t respond, just bends and pulls Soap up into his arms with no apparent effort. The hallway blurs past them and then Soap’s flung onto the bed, bouncing a few times before he can reorient himself. Simon is standing at the foot of the bed, haloed by the light from the hallway. His face is in silhouette but Soap can still see the heave of his chest and the thick press of his cock in his jeans. His mouth fucking waters at the sight.

“Waited a long time to have you in my bed, Johnny,” Simon murmurs, slinking forward. Soap flops back against the pillow to stare at him as he kneels up onto the bed, pressing forward, closing the distance between them.

“Sorry, didn’t realise I was sleeping in the guest room the past month,” Soap pants, licking his lips. His throat clicks when he swallows.

Simon doesn’t miss the motion, hand reaching out to snag the bottle Soap keeps on his bedside table. He uncaps it and slips a hand underneath Soap’s head, fingers tangling in the overgrown locks of his mohawk. Soap goes easily when Simon pulls him up, resting on his elbows. Simon brings the bottle to his lips, not breaking eye contact, and tips it slightly, allowing the cool water to slip past Soap’s slack mouth.

He swallows eagerly, the water soothing his parched throat. Simon smirks cruelly and tips the bottle another inch, forcing Soap to keep swallowing. It’s too much for him and he chokes, water spilling out of his mouth and spilling down his chest. He coughs, eyes watering, and Ghost relents, pulling the bottle away and setting it on the bedside.

“There’s a pretty sight,” he murmurs, hand cupping Soap’s chin. He wipes away the drops from Soap’s jaw with an almost predatory tenderness. His hand strays down to Soap’s chest, plucking at his sensitive nipples through the thin fabric, making Soap hiss. “Shirt’s all wet, Johnny.. Better take it off.”

Soap nods, still catching his breath. He lets Ghost pull his shirt up and over his head. It’s tossed carelessly onto the floor and Ghost immediately swarms into his space, mouth already moving against his throat. Soap groans, tilting his head to give him better access.

“Simon,” he whines, drawn out and needy even to his own ears. He can’t fucking think, just clutches Ghost closer, hands digging into his absurdly broad back. “Simon, I need you, please.”

Ghost chuckles and pulls back, eyes roving hungrily over Soap’s face. His cheeks burn and he can see the flush spreading further down his chest. Ghost follows his gaze with a hand, caressing down his throat, over the pale scars curving under his pecs, over his stomach, coming to rest at the open vee of his jeans. There’s the tease of fingers against his slit before Simon is pulling away, up and off the bed. He reaches down, fingers curling in the waistband of Soap’s jeans before yanking them down. Soap gasps, lifting his arse and shoving them down, off his heated and sensitive skin. His legs part without his say so, and he lays, sprawled and spread against the sheets.

He watches as Simon shrugs off his shirt and when it’s cast onto the floor, he looks back at Soap and groans, hand dropping down to squeeze the thick swell of his cock through his jeans.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Johnny,” he says, popping the button of his jeans open. Soap watches, rapt and in awe, as Simon pulls his fly down, tooth by agonising tooth. Soap has half a mind to lunge at him and bodily rip his jeans off but he’s stunned mute by the sight of the weeping head of Ghost's cock.

Simon doesn’t really tease him, but he does pause to fist his cock for a long moment, just taking in the sight of Soap’s leaking cunt on display for him. Soap squirms, an embarrassing, pathetic sort of whine escaping him and he turns it into a groan of frustration. Ghost smirks and pushes his jeans down the rest of the way. Soap doesn’t even have time to appreciate the sight of him fully nude before Ghost is crawling over him, almost smothering him under his broad frame.

Soap moans, hips bucking up, trying to get Simon’s cock on him, in him, anything. He wraps his arms around Simon’s neck and licks up the side of his throat, relishing the salt sweat taste of him. Simon groans and presses Soap back against the pillows. He goes reluctantly, taking the chance for one last nip at the pale skin under his mouth.

“Fucking hell,” Simon groans, rocking back onto his knees. Soap doesn’t even have time to react before Simon’s arms are curled under his thighs, pulling him forward and up into Simon’s lap. His legs are forced wide over his thick thighs, cunt left spread between them. Simon hums, pressing down his cock with his thumb until the fat, drooling head of it presses over Soap’s aching clit.

He rocks his hips and the delicious friction has Soap nearly weeping. He thrusts his hips forward, head thrashing against the pillows as he moans. “Please, please, please,” he babbles. Coherent thought has long since fled him and there’s no sign of it returning any time soon when Simon uses his other hand to squeeze Soap’s swollen lips tight around him.

The added pressure makes each thrust even more intense. Soap can feel the head of Ghost’s cock fucking over his own with each pass, can feel the entire length of him pressed against every inch of Soap’s most sensitive skin. His eyes have fallen closed without him realising and he peels them open, desperate to take in every second of this.

Simon’s face is slack with pleasure, gaze transfixed on the joining of their bodies. His pink tongue darts out to wet his lips and Soap moans again at the memory of those lips against him. The heat inside him intensifies and he gasps, his release building quicker than he expects.

“You’re gonna make me come,” he whines, hands grasping uselessly at the sheets. “Fuck, Simon, I’m gonna come.”

Ghost groans, his thrusts deepening until his thighs are hitting Soap’s arse with enough force to bounce him against the bed. “Fuck, come then. Come for me, Johnny.” His thumb slips in the slick mess of them and ends up pressed right against the sensitive head of Soap’s cock.

Soap’s orgasm overtakes him almost immediately, pleasure blotting out sight and sound. All he can feel is Ghost’s cock against him, the thumb pressed against his clit. His cunt clenches around nothing and he screams, too overwhelmed to even think about keeping it down.

“That’s it, that’s it, love,” Ghost croons. His pace slows and the slow drag of him against Soap’s over sensitive core has him shivering. “God, you’re so fucking good for me, Johnny. Gonna let me fuck you?”

Soap nods, pulling Simon down so he can kiss him messily. He licks into Ghost’s mouth with a hungry moan. Simon kisses him back, harsh teeth marks soothed by a soft tongue. Soap hitches his hips up, too turned on to be embarrassed by the slick sound from between them.

“Fuck me then, Simon,” he whines, hips milling in an unrelenting circle. He feels feverish, almost out of control. He throws his head back against the pillows and thrusts up against Ghost, a guttural noise escaping him when his sensitive cock grinds against the hard length of him.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, maybe for Ghost to flip him over and take him from behind. The mental picture makes him moan but not as much as Ghost grabbing his thigh and bending it up and out, opening his cunt up to him. Simon doesn’t even pull away, just reaches down between them and lines himself up. He thrusts into Soap in a single move, not stopping until he’s fully-seated, Soap’s wet cunt soaking the dark blond curls at the base of him.

Soap’s mouth drops open in a silent scream and he clutches at Simon’s broad shoulders like a lifeline. He wants to speak, wants to tell Simon how good it feels, how full he is, but his brain seems to be completely offline.

Simon doesn’t pause, just pulls out and thrusts back in roughly. He groans hotly against the side of Soap’s face. “Fuck, Johnny, you feel so fucking good,” he pants. “Made to take my cock, aren’t you?”

The next few thrusts are rougher and Soap fucking loves it. “God, fuck me hard, please. Fuck me hard, Simon,” he begs. He sounds pathetic, even to himself, but Simon seems all too happy to oblige. He fucks into Soap with a brutal rhythm, the smack of the headboard loud against the wall.

Soap can barely even hear it, his world narrowed to Ghost in him, on him, over him. Ghost’s arms move from where he’s been holding himself up to wrapping around Soap, pulling him flush against Ghost’s broad chest. Soap pants thickly against the sweaty skin, hips still rolling up to meet every thrust. “Like that, like that,” he pleads. “Please, I’ll come again.”

He will too, he realises. His cock is pinned against the hard muscles of Ghost’s stomach, every thrust a heady drag against the sensitive bundle of nerves. His blood feels almost fizzy, pressure building in him again.

Ghost hooks his arm under Soap’s thigh, holding him wide open while he thrusts deeply into his sopping cunt. The sound of it is obscene but it only adds fuel to the fire. “Fuck, I’m close,” Ghost pants. “Wanna come in you, Johnny.”

Soap cries out, head thrashing against the pillows. “Please,” he begs. “Come in me, in me, in me!”

Ghost groans, his hips stuttering. “Gonna come,” he says. “Gonna fill this cunt up.” He regains his rhythm, pressing his cock into Soap over and over, lost in the motion. Soap’s vision blurs as he stares up at him, in awe of the wondrous expression aglow on Simon’s features.

Simon looks down, meeting his gaze, and his hips falter. “Fuck, shit, I’m coming,” he groans. His grip tightens into something just this side of painful as he thrusts in deep. Soap whines, feeling each pulse of Simon’s cock as he’s filled. One hand rushes to rub at his cock but it’s knocked out of the way by Simon’s own. Simon pins Soap’s cock between two fingers and rocks his hips, riding out the rest of his orgasm while he jerks Soap to completion.

Soap’s too exhausted to make any noise this time so he shudders through it with nothing but a contented sigh. He presses up into the sensation mindlessly, whimpering when it becomes too much.

Pulling his hands away, Simon moves back slowly and Soap keens already mourning how full he felt with Simon inside him. He feels a hot rush between his legs and Simon almost growls.

“Look at you,” he says, spreading Soap’s cunt wide with a thick thumb. “Look so good like this, Johnny. Made for it.”

Soap doesn’t respond- can’t. He blinks and has to force his eyes open again to blink up at Simon who’s gazing down at him with something indecipherable in his eyes.

“Hm?” Soap wonders wordlessly. The world is like a thick soup around him, weighing his lips down. He’s barely aware of it as Ghost cleans him up, wiping away his dripping seed with a warm cloth, and tugging him over to the dry parts of the sheets.

He does stir when Ghost gathers him into his arms, pulling him back to rest against his chest like he does every night.

“You didn’t need to lie to me, you know,” Soap says around a yawn. “I was already yours.”

He’s already too far gone to hear Ghost’s murmured reply but it’s not like it matters anyway. He’s right where he wants to be.