Chapter Text
The engine of the car hums steadily through the seat, a sound that should have been comforting. But in the silence between them, it feels more like a reminder of how quiet the two of them had been for the past half hour since they left the bakery Soap so desperately wanted to visit. Ghost had finally agreed after Soap’s tirade of good reason’s for why a bakery called ‘Sugar and crumbs bakehouse’ near Catshill sells the best chocolate-banana muffins in England and why they should absolutely get them on their way back to base.
They’re only one hour away from base now and Soap can’t and won’t sit in silence any longer.
He has been fidgeting with the bakery bag, the sweet scent of fresh pastries drifting between them. His thumb brushes over the top of the bag absentmindedly as he glances over at Ghost.
He doesn’t know if he should push it. Making the stop at the bakery had been enough as is, with Ghost getting that call from Price to be back on base as soon as possible.
There is always a quiet between them, but today it feels almost awkward. Like maybe Ghost would rather be alone. Christ, Soap hates it. And the fact that the two of them haven’t touched, let alone kissed or fucked or talked about anything related to feelings for the past weeks isn’t really helping.
It’s not that Soap minds, it’s just… maybe it would make things more clear between them. But until then he’ll just call them friends with benefits. Or more like teammates with benefits. Since friendship isn’t in the fucking field manual, but apparently fucking itself is…
“So. I got us something,” Soap says anyway, trying to inject some normalcy into the moment. He holds the bag up in front of Ghost when they’re at a red light, offering it like a truce. “Fresh batch. No crumbsies, I promise.”
Ghost doesn’t even look at it at first. His eyes remain fixed on the road, his hands gripping the wheel in a way that’s almost too tight, like he’s holding onto it and thinking about something entirely else. Maybe Price’s call. But Soap isn’t deterred, knows better than anyone how to crack Ghost’s walls. With sweets. Even if Ghost always complains about it afterwards, how his teeth are rotting away already. Crooked as they are.
It’ll probably ease the stress of Price’s call this morning. New mission. High priority. Soap not involved. Yet. He’ll see what he can do.
When he finally drops the bag into Ghost’s lap, it’s with the most minuscule amount of acknowledgement put into the all too familiar huff - a slight, unspoken concession that this moment, however small, had been accepted.
Soap watches Ghost’s fingers graze over the edge of the bag, leaning down in interest. He waits for Ghost biting into the sweet dough as if it is a rarity, savoring it as though it might be the only thing worth tasting. But Ghost only stares at it for a beat, then tears the top off with an efficiency that makes the act seem mechanical and disinterested, almost brutal. Or animalistic. He can’t help but look at Simon’s sharp canine teeth as Ghost pops the rest of the muffin in his mouth without so much as a glance toward Soap, and doesn’t offer a word of thanks.
The coldness stings sometimes. Soap’s gaze drops to his own lap. He can’t help the lump forming in his throat, but he swallows it down. No crumbsies, he’d promised. He shouldn’t have expected more than this. Not from Ghost. The Ghost.
The rest of the drive is (as anticipated) horribly, awfully quiet and Soap quite literally feels like a dog waiting for a beating or a treat. A dog that was allowed in the passenger seat and doesn’t know which to expect. Yet.
They park at their base, on the compound’s parking lot. Furthest spot away, of course. Good, maybe that allows Soap a little more time with him.
Weather is shit here too it seems, thin rain and grey sky.
Soap is all too ready to escape the silence, but pauses when he catches Ghost looking at him briefly. His chest tightens, a reflexive hope pulling at him. Maybe… maybe this time, Ghost might say something, or offer him a kiss.
Before he can finish the thought, he reaches over for Ghost’s arm, a quick, instinctual touch. Maybe Soap really is like a dog. But, god, he just wants some attention, just the slightest amount of eye-fucking, or not even that, finger-fucking would be fine. Just the barest acknowledgment of connection, something to show that maybe this could be more than just a fleeting thing.
But Ghost moves so fast that it takes Soap by surprise. His body jerks away, shoulders taut as he dodges Soap’s hand, like it is an intrusion, like the very touch had the potential to burn him alive.
“Not now.”
Soap’s fingers curl into his palm, his heart thudding in his chest.
“Sorry.” He laughs. Sorry for asking for the bare minimum.
Ghost doesn’t look at him anymore. Doesn’t say anything else.
He feels the edges of his smile falter, but he forces it to stay there, the veneer he wore so proudly at all times. He turns toward the car door, pulling the handle.
It’s locked.
He pulls it again, and when he realizes it’s still not opening, he turns back to Ghost.
“The door won’t open-”
“I didn’t say you could leave.”
Soap swallows. Yes, true. He didn’t. But what else was there left to say? Ghost doesn’t even let him touch him. Or kiss him or allow any form of affection??
Ghost leans back in his chair, sighing, like Soap’s ignorance annoys him. A few seconds go by, Soap wondering what the hell he did wrong now.
“You won’t say a word of this to anyone. That you were at mine.”
Soap looks away, wiping at his nose.
“You know what they’d think ‘bout you.”
He turns around again, eyes squinted, “Why would I, Simon.” Soap says, thinking this to clearly be a joke. Ghost has never worried about.. that.
“I don’t have time for your jokes, MacTavish.” The man reaches for the balaclava in the side compartment of his door. He pulls it over his head, some of the blond hair sticking out of the cut out hole for his eyes because he hasn’t trimmed it in a long time.
“Alright, alright.” Soap says, smiling, because seeing Ghost uncomfortable isn’t something that happens often, “I won’t, Jeez.” Granted, the discomfort is due to Ghost’s concern of people knowing about the both of them, but Soap ignores that.
Ghost finally unlocks the car and Soap shakes his head as he jumps out, then heads towards the trunk, fishing out his backpack.
He watches as the other man slings his bag around his shoulder too.
“What’s that.” Ghost says, nodding at the inside of the trunk, hands in his pockets.
Soap squints, takes a step closer to him. “What.”
Ghost doesn’t react, just keeps staring at the trunk.
Soap leans over, tries to look past all the junk, black rubber boots, saws and buckets, all dumbed in a metal cage that sits on the left side of the trunk. It’s for shot wildlife when Ghost goes hunting, but being repurposed it seems… there’s nothing inside that’s forgotten from Soap. And nothing weird or unusual. He didn’t spill anything either…
Just when he’s about to come back up, he’s being pushed down by the neck. “Hmbh-“ he lets out something close to a grunt at the sudden force on his nape, the death grip on the vertebrae there forcing him to the soft ground of the trunk, forehead clashing the metallic strip of the wildlife cage. He hisses at the pain, there wasn’t even enough time to absorb some of the collision with his hands, the whole thing happening too fast and unexpected.
Ghost’s mouth is next to his ear he realizes, as he’s flailing vulnerable, folded over the edge of the car like a puppet.
“Bending over for me like that.” He growls, “Cheap, even for you, Johnny.” And then Ghost’s hips push against him from behind.
Soap is stunned for a single second before he regains his composure.
“You- get tae fuck off me-” he hisses, elbow connecting with Ghost’s chest before he whirls around, grabbing Ghost’s hoodie where he first can. “What the fuck, Simon.” He pushes him away, the taller man only stumbling one step before he finds his footing again.
He’s chuckling. His boots make a crunchy sound in the gravel and the fact Soap had to use too much force for that small movement makes him even more furious.
“You dick-”
“What.” Ghost asks, fingers rubbing at his clothed nose through the balaclava in false innocence but Soap hears the continued grin in his voice.
“Are ye outta yer mind?!” He touches his own forehead, feels something wet. He’s fucking bleeding. Not only that, what if someone saw?? He doesn’t need another rumor added to his name.
“Come on.” Ghost says, grabbing for the lifted trunk-door and slamming it down to shut it. “I’m sorry.”
“Fuck you.” Soap hisses, flashing his eyes at him. Prick. He wants to punch him for it but the moment is over and any other action now would be over the top.
“Can’t take a fuckin’ joke now.” It comes back, like Ghost’s the one in right disbelief, like Soap is the one overreacting.
Unwilling to show the vulnerability that has started to sting in his chest, Soap walks away first.
Ghost follows behind him, too close as always and too quiet. The Sergeant mutters and curses under his breath, doesn’t care if Ghost can hear him. He even hopes he does. He keeps walking, shoulders straight as he presses the end of his sleeve against the wound on his head, make the bleeding stop. At least now he won’t be surprised when he pulls something like that again.
They stand in the hallway. Somehow parting ways is even harder today. They had a great time. Up until the trunk incident at least.
The Lieutenant and the Sergeant are residing on different floors. Soap considers planting a kiss on Ghost’s now masked face but then reminds himself they’re not at Ghost’s flat anymore. Also, he just bashed his head against a fucking cage.
He’s wearing the mask again.
Ghost looks apathetic as always and Soap already misses the past days where he had left it off.
No marble scarred skin he can gawk at, no curly blond hair he can wish to comb through with his fingers.
Yes, the Ghost had actually invited him to his home on the two last days of leave, had offered him to drive back to base together, spare Soap the train ticket.
No masks, no uniforms, no over the comms banter they can hide behind. Just Ghost’s flat in Manchester, okay, not Manchester, but very close to it - Hadfield, to be exact - and the most minimalistic furnishing he’s ever seen. Not impersonal, just… very little to look at. Mostly books and oddly enough: scent candles.
They went to a small pub down the street called The Anchor-Inn. Best pub in town and they served in Stella glasses. They even offered a free fun quiz every Thurs at 2100 and karaoke night on Friday but obviously Ghost neglected Soap’s pleas to go.
They even slept in the same bed. Agonizing, if anyone were to ask Soap. Because he had a hard-on throughout the whole night. Ghost hadn’t touched him once in those two days.
He had enjoyed the fleeting moments between them when it had started - it being, whatever it is now. They’ve been… together… in a relationship? No. Let’s call it… exclusive - from Soap’s side at least - for a few months now. It happened without them having spoken about it. Ghost went from being a cold prick on the field to someone who looked out for Soap when he couldn’t look out for himself. Not that he would care much if Soap died. Or maybe that’s just what Soap thinks Ghost thinks of him.
Sex was good. The few times it happened.
But now, a few months later, it’s come to a halt. Ghost isn’t pushing him up against walls anymore, doesn’t squeeze Soap’s ass when nobody’s around. Has stopped knocking at his door. Now it’s always Soap coming to him, earning himself a “Busy.” at best. Or, apparently a fucking cage to his head.
Nothing happened in the last two days at Ghost’s place. Niche. Nada. It drove Soap up the wall, except it also didn’t. It was quite nice actually. Peaceful. Home-y. And kind of scary to be honest. The thought they would be like this more often or never again. Maybe that’s what made Ghost so quiet today too. Also, his social battery must be fucking empty. Soap knows he can be a lot, so two full days with him must’ve been… tiring.
“Thanks fer takin’ me.” He says, staring up at those black eyes. He doesn’t bring up the incident at the trunk again because if there’s one thing he learned is that you never leave without saying goodbye. Especially with Ghost. Soap wouldn’t be heartbroken if Ghost just up and ignored him, but still it would be… sad. Right.
“Course.” Ghost says, big hand settling on hip, the other one on the bag strap he’s got slung over his shoulder. Soap can’t help but follow the movement, watches the gloved fingers press into the top of his jeans, find the hooks there and settle.
Maybe he should kiss him.
“Was nice...” Soap says with big eyes.
“Mmh.” He hums.
“Sorry if the bakery break set ye back a bit.”
“It’s alright, I’m sure the old man was overreacting.”
“He didn’t sound like it.”
Ghost nods. Nice. Give me nothing.
“If ye need anythin’ for that bridge he was so worried about, just tell me, yeah?” As in: please call me for anything, I don’t really give a fuck about the bridge you want to blow up but just TALK TO ME. Or fuck me, that is. “Ye know where my room is, yeah.”
Why the fuck would he not know, Soap?!
Ghost eyes him warily. “Will do.”
Silence. More silence. Somebody passes them so Soap can’t say what he’s been wanting to say. He slightly shifts his weight from front to back, back and forth. His heart almost stumbles.
Ghost is practically glaring at him now, or at the people behind him, or maybe he’s just tired. Who knows.
“…Ghost.” He starts, lips trembling with how nervous he is. He wants to ask if they’re alright. If he did anything wrong- “I wanted tae kiss ye good night earlier.” He eventually manages, twiddling with the carrying straps of his backpack, looking softly, hopeful up at the taller man, eyes all wide.
“I know.” Ghost says from behind the mask, but makes no attempt in covering his annoyance, with how his eyes already dart towards the direction of the elevator. He’s one floor above Soap. He wants to leave.
“Maybe we can meet tomorrow. I could come over to yer room-”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“I know we haven’t been…” he struggles for the right words, “Close.”
“Can we talk about this la’er.”
Ouch. Expected, but still. Ouch.
“Alright.” He says, voice high-pitched, gripping the strap, smile vanishing behind a tight line of his lips, but after he turns, so Ghost can’t see it, sparing himself any further embarrassment.
He hurries back to his room, the walk feeling like minutes instead of seconds since another soldier stares at his forehead for too long.
Thanks to Ghost. That prick.
Back in his room, he throws his backpack onto the floor, then picks it up again because he knows he won’t be able to sleep with it on the floor and full of dirty clothes. He takes the dirty clothes out, puts them into the laundry basket in the bathroom and rearranges the shampoos and gels he took with him, lines them up from biggest to smallest in the shelf behind the mirror. Uses his deodorant, then also puts that back into the shelve.
He looks himself in the mirror. The bleeding has finally stopped it seems like.
He takes the shower gels out again, decides to shower, showers with them, uses the hair mask he didn’t use at Ghost’s place because he didn’t want to take half an hour for a fucking shower, his head stings, then he puts the shampoo bottles back on the shelf again. Then uses the deodorant. All in order.
Later, in bed, he imagines those big hands around his waist, his neck. It feels wrong to think of Ghost when clearly, the bastard has no interest in him right now. But that’s how it’s always been. Ghost rarely needs touch. Or kisses. Or after sex talks. Or sex in general. And if he did, it was brutal, not uncomfortable, but all too much in very little amount of time.
Soap won’t leave. As much as he’s being pushed away. It’s just one of Simon’s many tactics that are supposed to hurt him, drive him away.
It will get better. Ghost will tell him when he needs him.
Gaz leaves first, towel slung over his shoulder, already talking about pacing his run and how the air outside will probably clear his head better than another hour inside recycled gym humidity, and Soap understands of course. Still, he can’t help the sadness as he watches him leave. He won’t see him until tomorrow, which isn’t long but Soap doesn’t want to be alone right now.
The man always seems balanced in a way John has to consciously manufacture, he never seems unsure whether Soap’s friendship is of honest character. He just trusts it to be. Soap grabs his own bottle and an hour later because the course starts in seven minutes and he refuses to be the bloke who slips in late looking like he doesn’t give two fucks.
The briefing room is glass-walled, frosted from the waist down, milky glass so nobody from outside would be able to decipher who’s sitting in here but since outsiders would pass closer to the glass, they’d be more or less recognizable from inside.
Soap picked this course deliberately.
And who would’ve guessed, it’s all the lieutenant’s fault once again.
When Ghost’s voice drops low and controlled right in his ear - either some dirty little promise of how hard Soap’s gonna get fucked tonight if he does as he’s told, hell, just a mere bark suffices sometimes - and something in Soap narrows so fast it almost hurts. The world around him suddenly is nothing more than objectives, targets, outcomes. And most importantly: Ghost’s approval afterwards. Even if the fucker doesn’t hold up his end of the bargain like 87% of the time.
Especially when there’s no reward, when Soap goes home after the pub alone, when Ghost doesn’t open his door to him, there’s always that faint unease that maybe he wasn’t entirely steering himself. Almost killed himself over a promised blowie. And he hates that.
Hates the possibility of being predictable. Controllable. But then why does he work so well when he is?
The instructor is a tall bald man, whose veins are too present on his forehead when he speaks - for Soap’s taste at least. He starts with an hour long monologue about cognitive load theory, decision fatigue, the documented phenomenon where soldiers under strong charismatic command often outperform baseline expectations.
The slides he reads contain words like “unit cohesion” and “leadership trust” and “social facilitation”. All that shite. Soap listens hard enough that his pen dents the paper, because part of him wants the science to say this is normal, tactical even, not personal. That it’s not a therapy session.
He keeps glancing sideways at the other Sergeants in the room, cataloguing their posture and wear, their reaction speed to questions. Who looks bored, who looks sharp, who might make lieutenant before he does if he lets himself slack for even a second. He will not. Let that happen.
Halfway through, a movement outside the glass catches his peripheral vision.
He doesn’t look immediately, of course, because that’s not what they’re supposed to do. It’s not what he’s been trained to do, to snap to motion, he must maintain that at all times.
But that doesn’t mean Soap doesn’t exactly know who it is.
The very reason he‘s here walks by.
Like the devil himself, the broad silhouette passes the frosted panes. When he finally comes into view, Soap sees that the hooded head sits on his broad shoulders like that of fucking vulture. The bad posture doesn’t cost him any of the frightening coinage he still emits, when everything and everyone parts ways wherever he goes. For good enough reason.
And it’s ridiculous how fast Soap’s nervous system reacts, spine straightening, eyes sharpening like they could make out more details, like for example the expression on his face, if he‘s upset and on the way to rip someone’s head off - if that someone is Soap - it’s fucking impossible of course with the mask and the milky glass.
He keeps his eyes on the slide of the presentation when Ghost nears the doors, afraid he might actually enter, which is paradox, because mere minutes ago he yearned to see the lieutenant.
He knocks on his door a few days later. Until now, there’d been no sign of life from the other man. Except his short appearance behind glass.
Soap opens him without hesitation, the familiar knocking code could only be him.
Ghost looks exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes are the only visible sign if he didn’t know him any better. The tense posture of his wide shoulders is another. And the lack of eye contact.
“Did ye ask Price if I can come with?” Is the first thing Soap asks as the lieutenant walks past him. Ghost didn’t say hello either, so why should he.
“No.”
Soap bites the inside of his mouth. He’s had a hole in his stomach because of this. Why didn’t Ghost ask him?! Soap asked him to ask.
He stares at the back of Ghost clothed head, can’t believe the fact that he really means this little to him. The prick. He missed him so much, and all he has to say is NO?? Wouldn’t he want to be on a mission with Soap? He for sure is more fun than Sgt. Kinsley or Jameson.
Jealousy bubbles up inside of him as he tenses up. The taller man comes to a halt right in front of him, brown eyes mustering his reaction it seems. Soap wants to slap him sometimes. But Ghost won’t get the reaction he wants. Soap knows the latter wants him to snap. It brings him joy it seems.
“Didn’t have to ask.” Ghost says then, when nothing comes. “Price wanted you in on it anyway.”
“Bastard.” Soap says, a careful smile growing on his lips. “That means we can finally have another mission together?”
“I guess so.” He mutters, unimpressed, then sits down on Soap’s bed, tearing the balaclava off. His hair stands off in spikes, like it hasn’t been washed in a bit.
“What’d ye mean you guess?” Soap huffs, but he doesn’t get anything in return. “Ye need me. And Price apparently knows it.”
The taller man takes off his boots while he‘s sat, even though Ghost knows he should’ve done so the second he stepped in here, with Soap’s cleaning obsession and all.
“Otherwise he wouldn’t have done that.” He adds, ignoring the tiny pebbles that had been caught on the soles of his boots, now getting knocked free. Ghost remains silent, just the small stones clattering across his floor.
“Ghost.” Soap says. Please, he wants to add. Tell me you need me.
“I’m tired, Johnny.”
Fine. Go fuck yerself then.
He makes Ghost a tea, stepping on one of the gravel stones on his floor while he walks back over to the bed. He strokes through Simon’s greasy hair, carefully avoiding his ears and neck, since the man doesn’t like that. It’s almost like petting a wild dog, slumbering when you do everything right but there’s always the option of loosing a few fingers when you touch him. Soap always hated dogs.
“I talked to Gaz today. We were on break together.” Soap starts, unable to resist telling Ghost about his day. “He told me he’s getting deployed on Friday. Is that with us?”
Ghost shrugs and says, “What do you think.”
“So we’re all in on this.”
“Yes, Johnny, we’re all fucking in on it.”
Soap’s smile widens. He lies down behind Ghost. He hopes Ghost will stay the night.
He doesn’t.