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Soap gets a knock on his door at 1am, right as his eyes begin to close.
Earlier than usual, this time around.
Usually, he’ll be deep into his rem cycle when someone will come and grab him for something. Most late nights, it’s a freshly recruited Private with an ego starting a problem for no reason or receiving new intel that requires the team to revise their entire operations timeline— but during reassignment periods like now, it could be anything.
Soap shifts from his spot nestled into the couch and lumbers to the door, hair mussed with the beginnings of what was going to be a nice nap. He doesn’t bother checking himself in the mirror adjacent to the entry hall, simply swiping a hand down his face and sighing before opening the door.
It’s Gaz. He’s wringing his hands and tapping the snow off his boots, eyes flitting to Soap’s the moment he appears. He has this look on his face: eyebrows furrowed slightly, lips downturned, mouth half-open in an already aborted explanation.
Soap knows immediately why he’s there. “Where?”
“Bemelmans. Pub just off sixth avenue - right around the corner from where Price and I are stationed.”
Soap turns and walks without a second of delay to the kitchen, grabbing his jacket and slipping his keys into his pockets with one fluid motion. Gaz takes a few steps farther in, looking around curiously. Snow flecks the top of his shoulders and head, dusting him in a faint white. He hums, the same sound he makes when he’s about to say something he knows he’d get scolded for, but ultimately resigns to watching Soap get himself ready instead of trying to be the snide fucker he prides himself on being normally.
“He was fine earlier on in the night. Didn’t even wanna come with us to begin with. But Price really wanted him to get out, since he’d been spending all his time inside. You know how he is when he’s drunk— already had a few shots when he’d asked Ghost— he’s insistent.” Gaz says, seating himself on a bar stool. He wipes the thawing snow off of his coat.
“Well why didn’t ye fuckin’… I dunno, put Price in his place?” Soap grunts, opening the closet in the hall. He grabs the first pair of sneakers he sees and kneels down, hastily putting them on.
Gaz’s face slackens. He stares at the side of his head. “Are you mad? The bastard’s practically deaf to anyone else’s opinion after only three shots.”
Soap pauses. Considers his words for a moment. “...Yer’ right. M’bad.”
Gaz rolls his eyes, voice flat. “Thanks, mate. Like I said— he was doing alright. Had a bit of bourbon, chatted with Laswell for a bit, but then he had one too many and dashed like always.”
“Fuckin’ idiot. Never knows his limits.” Soap ties his laces and straightens, gesturing for Gaz to follow him out the door.
Pushing the stool back in, Gaz follows closely behind as they step out. They walk to the elevator, pushing the down button.
“I can’t blame him. ‘ts been a hell of a boring last few days. Chicago doesn’t have shit going on, just freezing weather and baseball games.” Gaz pauses. “I miss Britain.” He mutters, wistful.
Soap hums. “You know how Ghost is— he lives to fight. Can’t stay idle for too long or he starts to lose his head.”
The elevator opens and they step inside. Gaz presses the button for lobby and the doors slide shut. “Yeah. Poor lad. I found him there after an hour or two swaying on his feet outside. Said he got kicked out.”
“And you left him there?” Soap’s voice drops and he glares at him, mouth twitching into a scowl. Ghost must’ve been cold as shit by now, underdressed with nothing but the alcohol in his gut to keep him warm while he stood there only a few steps from some dodgy back alleys. The thought alone makes Soap’s stomach turn.
“I— he wouldn’t listen to me, Soap. Just kept muttering bullshit, asking for another drink, calling for you. It’s not like I could move that guy anywhere either. He’d bash my head in if I even tried.” Gaz says, eyes wide, almost pleading. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Silence. Soap worries his lip between his teeth. Fuck, Ghost sounded bad. He doesn’t think he’s seen him that drunk in years, maybe longer. “...Fine, okay. Okay.”
Gaz sighs. The elevator dings and opens up to a sleek, barely furnished lobby. “I told him to stay there - that you’d come for him. Don’t worry.”
Soap makes a perturbed sound but continues walking out onto the street, pushing open the lobby doors with perhaps too much force. The metal ricochets off the walls, its harsh sound echoing into the night. Gaz chases after him, the two coming face to face with the busy streetlife of Chicago late into the night. Taxis’ lined up on the street corners, drunken crowds ushering themselves down the block to their next destination. Snow is rapidly piling up on the awnings, icicles forming on each edge of the lobby’s extravagant overhang.
“I’m sorry, mate. I tried, I really did.” Gaz says. Soap kicks a crushed beer can off the curb. “I always feel bad coming to you with this.”
Soap takes a deep breath in, head up to the sky. He can barely make it out beyond the towering high-rises and their glass reflections, light bouncing off of light all over. The city consisted of stars more-so than the actual sky itself— light pollution had seen to that.
“I know. Thanks, for tryin’.” He relents, tipping his head at him.
“Of course. I’ll be with Price if you need me.” And with that, he begins to turn— but not before removing his gloves and slipping them into Soap’s open palms. He gives him a wave before he’s off, beginning to fade into the crowd of people down the street.
Soap looks down at the gloves and scoffs, smiling.
“Call me next time, alright?” He yells after him, and when Gaz laughs, he chuckles to himself.
He gets to Bemelmans with little trouble, waving down the first cab that rounds the corner and hopping in. The streets, slick with gray slush-snow and glass shards, broken bottles crawling towards rusty gutters, remain largely empty on the roads save for whoever had been stupid enough to try driving home drunk. When they reach the street, Soap pulls out the largest bill he can find in his wallet and slaps it down on the dashboard without a glance, exiting immediately.
Deaf to the driver’s exclamations, all that Soap can think of is what must have led Ghost to end up like this. He knows very vaguely of his past, knows that it’s easy for something small and unnoticeable to most to flare up an unwanted memory or sensation in Ghost. Those moments were rough on him. He’d been witness to it before, the rippling effect of his upbringing recalled. The way his face would turn to stone and his eyes would go blank, and just like that, he’d be gone for days. Radio silence.
He was a phantom in the truest sense of the word most times— never liked to sit with his feelings or thoughts at all. Ghost ran on battle and adrenaline only, the continual risk of death hanging over his head being when he best functioned. Times like now, in between missions of off-duty, were roughest for him by consequence. Soap tried to help Ghost where he could: cooking him meals that would last him through to their next operation, sending him books to read or shows to watch so he could half-heartedly distract himself.
But there were gaps and ravines in him that went deep. Deeper than Soap’s hands could ever reach, deeper than Ghost himself even knew of. Those wounds were volatile, a poison with no salve, apt to resurface at a moment’s notice.
Soap reaches the pub’s exterior and, not entirely surprisingly, finds absolutely nobody there. Only large footprints that have begun to fade in the snow’s fall, resembling that of an uneven gait, back and forth by the entrance. The steps trail off into nothingness, Soap finds, after he looks around. He groans into the soft hum of the cityscape, a small group of people stumbling past him. Where could the dickhead possibly have gone?
He decides to check the pub before widening his search, peeking his head through the doorway. The bell jingles behind him and he closes the door. As he wipes his shoes off on the doormat, he surveys the room. There’s a soft, low chatter that envelopes the quaint space, tables filled with an eclectic variety of individuals looking to wind down on their Friday nights. The bartender nods sagely at him, a small smile on her face, sliding a drink forward with her two fingers to the customer before her. The pub seems rather orderly. Soap thanks the heavens above that Ghost hadn’t gotten into a brawl with someone and broke a table over their head— God knows what that would’ve cost them. Last time he’d almost been sued.
Soap chalks his being kicked out of the pub to being too drunk, then. He must’ve been asking for too many drinks too quickly. That, or the balaclava creeped the bargoers out. He steps closer to the bar, leaning across its surface as his eyes dart across the room.
“What’s your drink?” The bartender says, a sharp little smile on her face.
“‘M good, thank you.” Soap declines, removing Gaz’s gloves. “By any chance, have ye seen—”
“—The skull-faced guy?” She finishes for him, disappearing momentarily beneath the bartop to grab a new bottle. When she reappears, she’s holding an expensive-looking vodka.
“...Yeah. Know where he went?” He watches her pour half an ounce of alcohol into her jigger before emptying it into a stout glass.
She juts her thumb behind her. He follows in its direction and, after leaning a bit to his left, finally catches sight of Ghost at the very back of the bar, barely sitting upright on his stool. Soap can’t make out his eyes from where he stands - only the outline of his nose and his hood, covering everything else.
“He looked like he was freezing out there. We felt bad so we let him back in and he fell asleep right away.” She says, and Soap’s stepping away before she can even finish her sentence.
Even as he draws near, footfall heavy on the wooden floorboards from behind, Ghost doesn’t move an inch. He simply remains as is, head tucked into his arm, leaving on his side. The crowd has collectively veered far from him, huddled in large groups in all other places then where he sits. Brows furrowing in concern, he leans in hesitantly.
“Ghost?” He tries. Nothing. His eyes remain shut, blonde eyelashes splayed across the gaunt shadows of his blackened eyelids, makeup smearing off from what he presumes is wet snow.
Soap pulls up a stool next to him and sits, exhaling heavily. He tries, again, “Ghost?”
He stirs if not slightly. Soap can smell the bourbon on Ghost even just sitting next to him. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded as they struggle to focus on the figure in front of him. Soap very gently squeezes his arm twice, letting him know it’s him.
Quieter, he says, “Simon.”
And that brings him to life. Ghost blinks at him for a long moment, the thinner mask he usually dons while not on duty riding up his neck slightly. He’s cold to the touch, and it worries Soap.
“Johnny.” His voice, thick and heavy with alcohol, finally comes to life. “You came.”
“Oh, fuck off. Don’t act surprised.” Soap says, huffing through his nose. He brings his arm around Ghost and pulls him closer to keep him from falling off the stool entirely. “Yer absolutely fuckin’ steamin’.”
Ghost groans, long and drawn out. Soap laughs.
“Means yer drunk as shit. I could smell ya from a mile away.” He says, arm dropping. Ghost doesn’t move from his spot tucked against Soap, head near his shoulder, barely grazing against one another. Soap’s gaze lingers on the sleeve of his hoodie riding up his forearms, tattoo visible in the lowlights of the pub. His veins, ropey and thick, twitch as he opens and closes his hand around his empty glass. Soap swallows.
“...Shouldn’t have called for you if you were gonna be an ass.” He says, though it’s more of a mutter as it comes out, throat rumbling inches away from the cavern of Soap’s chest. He can hear him louder than anything or anyone else in the bar, the lowness of his every word sinking into him, pulling him in with a dangerous magnetism.
“You are not in the position to be questioning me right now, Simon.” He says.
Ghost makes a sound, eyes slipping shut again for a moment before they open again, low and heavy on him. He doesn’t say anything, only gazes at him and eventually grunts, and it’s as good an answer as Soap thinks he’ll get out of him now.
His hand reaches forward to pull the bottom of his mask down, knuckles brushing against the rough stubble on his neck, and he lingers there a moment too long. Ghost seems to notice, pale blue eyes sliding downwards, and in the same instant Soap moves to leave he feels him lean into his touch. He stills. Ghost doesn’t look at him. His Adam's apple rides against the sprawl of Soap’s calloused fingers.
Slowly, Soap rotates his hand until it's his palm beneath his chin, and Ghost sinks into him with the heavy weight of what must’ve been a hellish day for him. Soap can’t form words— he can only stare at Ghost, at the barest unraveling that he’s allowed himself for once.
“You’re warm.” He says. His eyes close.
Soap tentatively strokes his finger against his masked jaw. Ghost hums, pleased.
“You’re…” Soap doesn’t know what to think. He’s angry at Ghost for doing this, dragging Soap out into the dark like this again and again at the most inconvenient times when he needs him. Yet there’s a sense of guilt, too, for allowing him these affections, for relishing in them with a fondness he knows he wouldn’t want him to feel after all these years. Ghost doesn’t know how to ask for help and Soap doesn’t know how to not care.
It doesn’t mean anything. Soap sighs. “We’re talking about this tomorrow.”
“Okay.” He says. Then, “No we won’t. You always say that.”
Soap frowns and slides his hand further up, across his face and inching towards his hair. Ghost’s head lolls to the side, swaying against him. Each breath he takes, ribcage rising and falling, Soap can feel through the material of his jacket. He melts into him with deprivation.
It breaks Soap a little, watching him tip too far over the edge and ending up here, plastered and with the exterior he works so hard to maintain falling to pieces as it always does when Soap comes to take him home. He knows Ghost will hate himself a little for this and disappear before Soap can get a hold of him, tomorrow. He wishes he wouldn’t.
“Alright, come on now. No falling asleep on me.” Soap nudges him with a soft pat on the cheek, hand on his shoulder. “We can’t be here all night.”
Ghost slurs an incomprehensible complaint, his warm breath fanning against the skin on his neck, and Soap has to remind himself he’s here solely to make sure Ghost gets home safe. That was all. He takes a deep breath and the two begin to hobble towards the entrance, Ghost leaning on him with entirely too much weight for someone of his stature. The bartender bids them farewell, waving, and Soap tries to return the gesture as best he can with a six-foot-six man practically sprawled across his shoulders.
They make it outside, snow still falling as gently as it has been in the last few hours. The streetlights, haloed in their white haze, frame them beneath clouds of fog and gentle white sheets that press themselves into their jackets. Soap slides Ghost off of his shoulders and presses him into the cold brick wall, holding him upright. He tries to steady himself as Soap looks for a cab, his right hand digging around in his left pocket.
He leaves him there to get closer to the curb, casting a sidelong glance down the street. Traffic has begun to slow now, almost to a sluggish claw, engines sputtering their disparate plumes of tar-grey smog into the streets. Soap grunts frustratedly, crossing his arms. No one up right now would be sober or willing to give them a ride. They were going to have to walk, it seemed.
Soap set his sights back onto Ghost to find him still standing there, thankfully, an unlit cigarette dangling between his exposed lips. A rare sight. Soap took him in, the paleness of his jaw and the large scar there that disappeared into the depths of his woolen balaclava that he had traced with his fingers once, only once before. He tilts his head up, taut against the brick, and struggles to flick his lighter open.
“Fuckin’... cold,” He says, cigarette bobbling with each word. Ghost holds himself stiffly, shoulders up against his ears, beginning to shiver in the cold.
“Right. It’s the cold and not the ten shots of bourbon.” Soap muses, crossing the space between them. Ghost relaxes almost by instinct, chest falling, muscles loosening as his gloved hand swipes at the lighter.
He flicks his wrist once and the lighter splits in two with a metallic snap like bones breaking, a feeble flame coming to life inches from Ghost’s face. His eyes flicker between the flame and Soap. He nods his head, shielding the fire from the snow with his free hand. Ghost leans forward slowly and Soap watches him inhale, their faces hovering over the lighter. With the few inches Ghost has on him, he has to tilt his head up to look at him in the eyes.
Soap’s free hand wanders to his face. Ghost exhales and Soap swallows the smoke, lets it sit in his throat. He presses his thumb into the scar on his jaw for only a moment, and Ghost stiffens.
His eyes muddle, beginning to fade into vacancy. Soap quickly retracts his hand and snaps the lighter shut. The sound brings Ghost back, and Soap moves to stand at his side, their shoulders touching.
Ghost takes another drag and turns away from Soap, face hidden from him. He can only make out the gentle pinch of his skin against his mouth, how he puckers around the cigarette with some faint bitterness. Soap tips his head forward.
Ghost’s hand rests on the exact place where his once was only seconds ago.
His chest tightens, convulsing around the razor-sharpness of his ribcage. He slumps into the wall, the heat of Ghost next to him a searing burn, and tries to veer back into something more comfortable— something that won’t let him think about Ghost’s hands and how they linger.
“Must’ve missed me real bad, aye? Whinin’ to Gaz like that.” He teases, sliding back into their banter with contrived ease. There’s a tightness in his voice, a narrowness to the words leaving his mouth like he’s asking Ghost to humor him. “Y’coulda just called if ya wanted to see me.”
Ghost’s eyes slide to him, scintillating. Like ashes, or like embers of a fire, his eyes glitter with countless white specks. He removes the cigarette from between his lips and taps the ash off, bouncing his fingers against his thighs. Soap almost thinks he imagines it, but there’s a smile on his face for a single second, and his eyes catch on it immediately. But then it slants and falls crookedly into a small smirk instead.
“Well, that’d be no fun now, would it?” Ghost hums, exhaling a grey cloud. His eyes remain on him.
“You admit it then.” Soap says.
Ghost shifts his body more towards him. Soap looks up at him. “Didn’t say anything like that. Only that the chase is fun.”
Soap’s mind goes blank. Ghost’s breath fans across the coldness of his cheek, his lips exposed and so close to him.
“Go on. Be honest, Johnny.” Ghost says, his voice quiet. “You like it - running after me. Saving me. Getting to touch me.”
Soap shoves at Ghost’s chest. He doesn’t move. “Fuck off, Ghost. Yer drunk off your ass.”
“I like it.” He utters. Soap narrows his eyes, face hardening. He scans Ghost’s face, hand on his chest. Nothing. He won’t give.
Soap glares at him, heart pounding. He leans in, dangerously close. Ghost throws his cigarette to the ground; his tongue darts out and swipes over his lips. Soap follows the motion with his eyes, left to right.
“Tell me you don’t want this.” Soap says.
“I’d be lying if I said that.”
Soap surges forward and Ghost meets him with parted lips, pliant in their shared indulgence. His hands slide up his back, caging him in as they near his nape. Soap bites at his bottom lip and revels in Ghost’s pained grunt, hands moving to grasp at his face with fervor. Breath quickening, he licks into his mouth, prying him open.
Ghost’s hands find purchase in Soap’s hair and he falls back into the brick wall with a hiss, feeling the quickly building friction of their pants against each other. Soap commits the shape of his lips, the low sound of pleasure from the depths of his throat to memory as best he can. He rocks into him slowly, and Ghost slumps forward, mouth agape, trying and failing to form words as he pants desperately against Soap’s lips.
“Fuckin’ hell, this is—” Ghost groans, voice breaking. He leans back, head thumping against the brick. “We need to… stop. And go.”
“Go? Go where?” Soap says, urgent, wiping at his mouth. He’s spread Ghost’s thighs apart with his knee, and even with the two parted from one another, he can still feel his half-hard dick through his trousers. The heat of it against his leg has him going mad, just a little bit.
Trying to catch his breath, Ghost inhales deeply. His mouth has bruised bright red, spit-shined under the streetlights. Soap stares unashamedly. “Your place. Where else?”
“Smartass.” Soap remarks, hooking his hand around his underarm and urging him off the wall. Ghost exhales through his nose, the closest Soap ever gets to hearing him laugh. “Bet ya planned this.”
“You bloody wish.” He shoots back.
The two begin to walk back with newfound haste.
By the time they return to Soap’s apartment, trudging through windy alleys and crowded intersections, they grow so fatigued that there’s little banter exchanged between them. They instead settle into a comfortable silence, with Soap offering Gaz’s gloves to Ghost after he had caught sight of him rubbing his hands together. Otherwise, it’s qualmless, the two of them caught in the gentle flurry of snow until they eventually get to his front door.
Soap shuts the door behind them, relishing in the home's heat. He wriggles his fingers together, trying to get some sensation back, and kicks his shoes off in the entryway. Ghost does the same, taking his hood off. He removes the gloves and sets them down on the end table.
Their motions are synchronized, fluid with the recurrence of countless similar nights. Different cities, yet the same routine. Ghost pokes around in the fridge and Soap looks through the closets in his bedroom for sheets and pillows. When Ghost finds nothing of interest there, he pours himself one last shot of bourbon and then drags himself to the couch.
Soap eventually returns with a sheet and two pillows. He slows, hovering at the end of the couch opposite Ghost, and settles the items down on the cushions.
Ghost won’t look at him.
Now would be when the night ends. He’d leave, back turned to Ghost, and there would be no evidence that the man was ever even there the morning after. No sheets, no shoes. He cleaned after himself like he was the perpetrator at a crime scene, meticulously— painstakingly. But it’s different this time. There’s something unfamiliar between and within them, like shrapnel sitting in their lungs, shards of irreversible change festering.
He sits down. A chasm-like space lies between them.
Ghost casts a sharp glance at him, disbelieving.
Caring for Ghost is hoping a dead man comes back to life. It’s a nearly impossible task, one that’s selfish in its nature, and not for the first time - Soap can’t help but think maybe that’s fine.
“What are you doing?” He asks, dour. The smell of bourbon and Soap’s cologne lingers on Ghost as he turns.
Soap reaches forward and dusts any remaining snow off of his shoulders. His hand trails further up, a hairsbreadth from the bottom of his balaclava. Ghost inhales sharply.
“Soap, what –”
“I’m not takin’ it off.” He says. His thumb swipes over his pulse. “Don’t you worry yer pretty little head.”
“Fuck off.” He says, though with not as much bite as there might normally be. Soap lifts his mask until it’s resting on the bridge of his nose.
“Why won’t you leave already?” Ghost says, voice strangled. Begging. Soap doesn’t hear him.
“I don’t get why it takes you seven shots of bourbon to come here.” He murmurs. Ghost’s tattooed arm spasms as his hand roams its length, kneading into his cold skin. “How many would it take for you to stay?”
Ghost’s chest deflates, a shaky exhale pulled from the depths of his lungs. He falls prey to the magnetism drawing them to one another, leaning in, lips hovering over Soap’s jaw. He breathes him in.
“If we start again I won’t be able to stop myself this time.”
“I know.” Soap says.
He presses a chaste kiss to his jaw, his neck. Softly, he speaks, voice by Soap's ear. “Wish it took none.”
Soap lifts his head, exposing his neck. The two of them sink into the couch. Ghost stares at him with rapture, and their eyes meet, holding each other in place. They remain stagnant. Ghost presses his hand to his throat, gripped with how badly he wants.
Soap closes his eyes, at his mercy.
“Try then, tonight.” He says. Ghost’s fingers dig into his skin. “To stay.”
Ghost goes quiet. He releases Soap, hands dropping.
Soap’s eyes, still shut, flutter at the sound of glass clinking. The sound of Ghost finishing his bourbon and setting it back down. Then, his hands are on him again, unbuttoning his shirt. Soap can feel his hands shake against the thin fabric.
It’s something. He’s trying.
Soap will take it.
And when he wakes, he isn’t mad at the emptiness of his bed, no. Only numb to it, the still-present outline of his once sleeping body pressed into the sheets— and, in the aftermath: deeply, undeniably shattered.
Ghost tried.