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The floorboards made a loud and abrupt creak of protest in the gloomy, small kitchen, and Ghost's jaw ticked in annoyance.
He was trying to stay quiet, not wake up his poor subordinate (or anyone else, for that matter) whenever he was still recovering from his gunshot wound. He grimaced underneath the balaclava to himself, setting down the pearly white mug clutched in his ungloved hand, mindful that it didn't make even the slightest noise.
The base's floor slightly creaked his socked feet (again..) underneath his weight as he padded to the coffee beans set nearby. The lieutenant grabbed the bag by an angle as to not cause noise, a deep sigh escaping his chest.
Ghost's mind drifted towards other things as he inserted the coffee beans into the machine, set on autopilot as his calloused hands rested onto the cold marble of the counter. Although his emotions weren't very blatant, he was concerned for the sergeant after their previous mission.
He had gotten a bullet lodged in his shoulder (which he prodded the Scotsman into letting him take out) while in Las Almas, and he had been shot in the side while after their mission in Chicago, where he had nearly died.
He wished he could've stopped it, but that was how Task Force 141 worked. Ghost would never admit that he had a sense of fear whenever Soap had been injured a second time, as the others and himself had been injured more times than he could count while on missions. But this time, it felt... different. He wasn't supposed to get this attached to others on the job, but he did.
The man pinched the bridge of his nose through the cloth of his mask, mostly out of frustration from the thoughts plaguing his mind, before his eyes widened at a almost mouse-quiet creak of the floor that wasn't him. His shoulders tensed, ready to whip around and defend himself.
He had easy access to the knife block, he could whip around and throw it with precise accuracy, even if it wasn't technically a throwing knife-
"Ghost?"
The familiar accented voice made his shoulders relax, dark brown eyes peering back as he turned around, "Johnny."
"I heard s'me racket," Soap gave a sheepish smile after the saying of the fond nickname, his voice gravely from sleep. Ghost's hands felt cold as he watched Soap walk towards him, before he let out a grunt of pain (from both his side as well as his arm) and effort, as he lifted himself onto the counter next to him.
He ducked down as Soap reached a toned arm over his head, opening the cabinet full of mugs to grab one of his own, a small wince from his twinging injury escaping him, similar to the grunt he emitted previously. Ghost felt an ache of worry in his chest from the sounds.
"Making coffee?" Soap broke the momentary silence. It totally did not startle the trained sniper.
Ghost's eyes slightly crinkled around the edges in response, "Couldn't sleep, decided t'go 'long with it."
"Good choice," the sergeant hummed in response, drumming the fingers on his unoccupied hand against the counter. The coffee machine whirring was loud in the silence. Ghost's palms felt clammy, unusual for him. Dull eyes shifted to look at the other, the faintly yellow light of the kitchen doing him no justice. His gaze scanned over his strong cheekbones and lively blue-grey eyes, hoping he wouldn't be caught staring.
However, Soap looked over at him curiously, and Ghost had to snap his gaze away in a natural motion. A fond smile that Ghost thought was permanent on his face split it, and Ghost flushed in worry that he noticed he was staring, before Soap spoke again, "Wouldn't ya prefer tea, though? I remember you mentionin' somethin' about it."
Ghost dragged his gaze away, brows furrowed as he looked over to the coffee machine, around the Scotsman's shoulder. "I prefer it, yeah, but most of this place's tea is shite." Soap murmured a quiet 'fuckin' brits', which was full of amusement. before he broke into a quiet chortle, a scarred and calloused hand coming up to rub the sleep that still lingered around his eyes.
His dark eyelashes fluttered, before he gently turned his body to face Ghost. The Brit was glad he was at least taking it somewhat easier.
The silence was comforting, which allowed Ghost to drift off into the depths of his mind. His tongue felt heavy in his jaw despite not having to talk, thinking about certain things. The wait on the coffee was not suited to his patience. He paid no mind to Soap, who was staring at him with glimmering eyes.
"Aye, Lt.? I have'a question."
Ghost paid no mind, his senses muffled and unfocused. He wanted to hold his hand, which rested next to his side. He wanted to trace shapes into it.
"Ghost?"
He wanted to gently wrap his arms around Soap - no, Johnny, - and hold him firmly. He wanted to kiss him, would his lips be chapped and rough like his own? Or would they be soft, unlike the stubble around his face?
Maybe they'd be both, like someone of his past.
"Simon, ya listenin'?"
His blonde eyelashes blinked suddenly, before he turned his still-masked face towards Johnny. His train of thought was interrupted (Ghost didn't notice how deep in his mind he was), and he glanced away as he muttered an accented, "Sorry."
Ghost shook his head afterward, realizing that Johnny called him by his real name - not his code name - which he deemed nice coming from the sergeant's pretty mouth.
"I said I had'a question," Johnny - no, he could call him that in his head later, - Soap repeated in a specific tone (not condescending like some of the others would speak to him), one that made the tip of Ghost's ears go warm with the blood rushing up to them. He didn't know what came upon him; he was supposed to be a stoic and stone-cold killer, not like a teenage boy turning red from a simple change of voice.
"Go ahead," Ghost finally responded, feeling reserved due to his convoluted mess inside of his head.
"Have you ever fallen in love? Sorry for being random."
Soap's question threw Ghost for a loop, and he felt his shoulders tense up. As he was conjuring up a response, the coffee machine let out a deafening beep in the thick silence of the cramped kitchen. Ghost felt his Adam's apple bob in his throat in relief as he shifted around Soap (with some distance) to put his mug under the dispenser, shifting his hand to his side to ask Soap if he could have his mug without words.
Soap gave a toothy smile as he handed it over, his face slightly falling in discomfort from the soreness of his arm. He had clearly stretched over a little bit too far.
"Take it easy, eh, kid?" Ghost's voice was a little deeper, more gravely, as he watched the bitter coffee pour into his slightly chipped, porcelain white mug. Soap shifted his glance with a little embarassment at the lieutenant noticing his struggle, before he ran a hand through his short mohawk. Ghost looked over and noticed his cheeks were tinted pink.
The silence was deafening and his brow was raised.
"You, uh- you didn't answer my question, Lt."
Ghost side-eyed Soap as he pulled his own mug away from the coffee machine, switching it out for Soap's and clicking a button, the coffee now pouring into it. After a moment, he lightly shook his head, "I have."
"Who? When? How?"
The lieutenant's hands gripped his own coffee cup tight in his bare hands, a deep huff of air escaping his chest before he finally turned back to Soap. The sergeant had a hopeful expression on his face.
"Stop mithering me, Johnny."
Soap grumbled, the eagerness getting the best of him (as Ghost could tell), accent clearly thicker from impatience as he spoke, "Ghost, I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug, just tell me."
Ghost set down the mug on the counter with a clink!, his jaw ticking, "I don't think I should trust ye with that info, kid."
Ghost grimaced slightly (again) underneath his mask, although not noticeable, as Soap gave a complaintative groan, "I won't tell anyone else! I promise." Ghost gave a disbelieving look to the Scotsman, and curled his lip under the disguise of the balaclava.
Ghost's throat felt dry. The anticipation was killing him, causing turmoil in his head and heart that he wasn't at all used to. It hurt, ached. He was tired of hiding it, so he spoke with a less stable, subtly wavering voice.
"I think its you, Johnny."
Soap went quiet, and Ghost felt like the silence was deafening. He should leave the kitchen, let him and his partnership with Soap rot, Ghost would understand if Soap hated him like everyone else before -
"Y'really mean that?"
Soap's usually so confident and bright voice was meek and quiet, brows knitted into a frown with something Ghost couldn't distinguish.
Ghost blinked, setting down his coffee mug that he barely had the chance to hold again as his deep brown eyes scanned Soap's - no, now it could be Johnny - Johnny's face for any hint of him pulling his leg.
"I'm leaving," Ghost stood up abruptly, leaving his mug full of coffee behind as he shifted to move away. He wanted to flee from this problem like he had attempted to do to all the other ones. Another skeleton in his closet, which was full of them.
"Noo, jist haud on!" Johnny's voice suddenly shifted closer, and he heard a foot hit the cabinets.
A hand gripped his shoulder, though, and eyes narrow with nerves turned to gaze into pretty blue-grey, dull from experience yet sparkling with something.
Ghost's mouth felt dry like cotton, and he shifted his body to face Johnny head-on. Soap searched Ghost's covered face rapidly with his eyes, brows curving into what looked like worry. His face looked almost hopeful.
"Simon. Really? Do you really mean it? Is this not some sick joke that you're trying to show you're really funny?"
"Yes. Yeah, really, swear down," He felt as though a weight from his shoulders had been dragged off of him, and the weight had been dragged by Johnny himself. Johnny gave a hesitant and toothy grin, brows lifting as he shuffled closer to Ghost.
"Steamin' bloody jesus, yer aff yer heid," Soap's voice was breathy with laughter, and he inched his hand slowly and hesitantly downward to Ghost's hand, which dangled by his side limply. Ghost looked down subtly to see the action, and in a quick moment their fingers were intertwined and Soap was squeezing it, and the touch burned but it was so good. His nerves were still ablaze, and he felt a shiver rack his spine as Soap slipped closer to him.
"Can I kiss you?" Ghost's question was sudden, and Soap's eyes widened with pleasant surprise, shaking his head subtly.
Soap's dark eyelashes fluttered as he leaned upward, neck slightly craned as he uttered the words, "Aye, ya bampot," giving Ghost the permission he needed. They both parted hands, Ghost fidgeting with the loss as both of his hands came up to his face. Soap gently wrapped his own around the Brit's wrists, and watched with owlishly wide eyes as he rolled up the balaclava to rest on his nose bridge, slowly but surely.
"I've seen your face, y'know," Ghost paid more attention to the crooked smile on Soap's face rather than his words, bringing one of his hands away from the fabric of his mask to instead cup the Scotsman's left cheek. His heart thawed in pleasant warmth as he noticed how Soap leaned into the touch.
Ghost's gaze was uncharacteristically soft-looking, compared to the hardened gaze across his face in combat or interrogations, "Later." Soap nodded, eyes still owlishly wide, before Ghost leaned in, and their lips locked into a hesitant kiss.
It was gentle and not at all what Ghost was used to. Soap's lips were a little rough from being chapped, but soft, or that might be because Ghost's own were split and dry, and he loved it. The kiss was chaste and sweet, and they both pulled away, eyes opening in tandem.
Ghost opened his mouth to speak again, but Soap dived back in and immediately wrapped his arms around his torso, smiling into the kiss. Ghost laughed breathily into it, his hands resting on the other man's waist with some stiffness, before they pulled away after a few beats to take in air. Ghost had a subtle smirk on his face, flush reaching down to the bottom of his neck, while Soap had a big smile that scrunched up his pink cheeks.
Soap then yawned, a hand lifting up between their bodies to cover his mouth.
"M'chuffed with this situation, kid," Ghost broke the soft and short silence, brown eyes and tone both warm with something as Soap brushed away a stray strand of hair from his mohawk away from his forehead.
Soap cocked his head, his need for sleep evident, "Aye. M'pure done in, that just made me feel even better." His eyebags looked even more prominent than before, betraying the lie that he had indeed been 'getting tons of rest' after their mission with Hassan.
Ghost sighed, glancing subtly at their abandoned mugs that he knew they wouldn't finish (a disappointing waste), before leaving Soap to go over to him. With swift efficiency, he poured them out into the sink and started the tap. Water poured into the mugs to clean them, and Ghost was hyper-aware that Soap now hovered beside him, the warmth radiating from him. God, he would be able to sleep well for once tonight.
When he was finished, he turned to Soap and gave him a knowing look as put a hand on the lifted line of his balaclava,"Ya want me to sleep in your cot, m'guessin?"
Ghost could feel the embarassment from Soap being caught, "..Yes, ya eejit." Ghost gave a confident smirk, lightly shaking his head at the nonsense, before blonde eyelashes fluttered in shock as Soap latched his hand around his wrist. What a sight it would be for the Task Force, to see the man resting at a fair 5'11 dragging a 6'4 man behind him like a wee kid.
It happened so quickly, that Ghost didn't process they were already in front of Soap's door.
He could peer into the crevice of the barely opened door, the luxury of privacy being blatant. Blue-grey eyes shifted backward and he let go of his wrist, pushing open the door with a subtle creak of the aged wood.
Ghost noted that it was tidy overall, but his desk was messy with paperwork, an open journal (with a page showing drawings of Alejandro, Rudy, and Valeria), as well as scattered pens and pencils and a set of coloured pencils, ones you'd buy from a dollar store.
His bed, which Soap was walking towards, was unmade and messy, one or two pillows added on that were not provided by their superiors. Ghost assumed Soap had bought them himself, as he shut the door behind them, and the lamp was turned on with a click. The light was an orangey-yellow, and Ghost approached the bed, his hands holding each other in front of him.
Soap looked up at him, gaze full of what looked like love. Patience, even.
Ghost's throat felt dry as he rested a hand on the rolled up part of his balaclava, gaze avoiding Soap as he finally slipped it off over his head, gaze being invisible before the slightly frigid air his his upper face. He ruffled sandy-blonde hair with a hand, already messy from being in the mask he worse constantly. His kohl remained smudged around his brown eyes, blonde lashes stark.
Although Soap had seen his face once, briefly, this by far took the cake.
The shadows of the nigh and the lamp casted across his face, highlightling his downturned eyes and sharp brows. His nose, which was marred with a thin and long scar on the bridge, was crooked with far too many breaks, fitting his face perfectly. His lips were downturned almost permanently, Soap decided, as he gazed over the slightly exposed teeth on Ghost's left corner of his mouth. The scar was so Ghost, thicker than the other scar on his face and reaching close to his cheekbone. His face was clean-shaven, and the entire sight all together made his stomach flutter.
Brown eyes shifted away, so uncharacteristically nervous of the larger man, before Soap reached up and cupped his face in both of his calloused hands.
"Simon, still can't believe what a bonny lad ya are," he breathed, thumb swiping across blonde lashes as Ghost's eyes closed, a sigh he didn't know he was holding escaping him. Ghost felt an ache in his chest at the words, the tip of his ears and his nose-bridge pink with blush.
"Now yer flattering me," Ghost's voice wavered, sounding the slightest reserved and thicker with his accent from Manchester. Soap had a tired yet bright smile on his face, hand lowering to Ghost's shoulder again, before he craned his neck and gave a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth with the scar. He caressed his face with the thumb of the hand still cupping his face, before he pulled away with a little noise from their lips.
"Now lay down with me, ya malinky longlegs," His accent seemed thicker than before, which Ghost didn't know was possible, as he was tugged down into the mattress. A sigh full of humor and sleepiness, he slid into Soap's cot and turned to the lamp (which he was closest to), pulling the dangling cord to turn it off. They were encloaked in darkness, minus the slightly brighter light of the night, which might've now became the early hours of the morning.
Soap pulled the covers over both of them, wrapping his arms around Ghost's torso under the blanket and tangling their legs together. Soap's chest pressed against Ghost's broad back moved with each breath, giving the sniper a sense of security that warmed his heart. He could feel his heartbeat, too, the thought making his face warm as he rested a scarred and calloused hand over Soap's own, which was around his stomach.
Ghost felt Soap nuzzle his face into the nape of his neck, nose brushing against the skin that tingled with the contact, and then a kiss was pressed there. The affection was foreign, but he thought he could get used to it, as Soap smiled drowsily against him.
"Goodnight, Johnny," his tone was quiet, a whisper seeming loud in the silence of the room.
A content hum.
"Goodnight, Simon," Soap whispered against his neck, half-asleep. The breath was hot, comforting. Ghost felt his eyes flutter shut, sleep already bringing him and wrapping him in its warm arms.
He gave in with no fight to the darkness that fluffed his sense, all the other ones muffled and blank with only the slight snoring of Soap being there, pressed up against him, and slept with not a hint of a nightmare.