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Alone, he could not stop dissecting what had happened in Las Almas. He accepted the betrayal–not easily, but the facts were there. What he did not realize in the moment, and what he had grown to hate, were his thoughts as he ran towards the town. Selfish thoughts. That time was spent cursing Shepherd, cursing Graves, cursing his throbbing arm and heavy feet. He did not think about his team until he finally stopped running. Did not consider where Ghost had disappeared to, where Alejandro had been taken.
Soap dissected this again–even if he had thought about his team immediately, what would have changed? He couldn’t have run faster, couldn’t have rescued Alejandro and los Vaqueros any faster.
Couldn’t have reunited with Ghost any faster.
That makes him even angrier.
Soap shouldn’t blame himself. But it’s easier for him to. Because if he placed blame on himself, that meant parts of that night were preventable, that everything was just a fluke. It helped him avoid the truth: this is the job description. People betray you. People are hurt. People don’t come back. Luckily, the last one was not true. He suppressed the thought of, yet .
When it was time to get out of his head, he went to the bathroom in the hallway right across from his room. He dropped his clothes hurriedly on a bench and jumped into the shower, impatiently waiting for the cold water to turn scalding. He liked the way hot water pricked his body. It targeted the nearly-healed wound on his shoulder.
After a few minutes of standing there, he turned off the water and toweled himself off. He didn’t wash himself, but promised he’d be back later to do so. Recently, he’d been enjoying more than one shower a night. A weird habit perhaps, but it was a luxury he was going to take advantage of since it was one of the few things that would ground him.
“MacTavish?”
Speaking of things that would ground him.
“Lt.?” Soap called back.
“Nothing, just making sure it was you.” Ghost made his way down to the shower next to him and slipped inside without saying anything else.
What difference would it make if it wasn’t me?
Soap dressed painfully slow. He wanted to listen as the lieutenant took his clothes off, wanted to hear his belt clank against the tile as he tossed it over the shower wall, the friction of his shirt pulling off his body, the slight crack of a knee as he slipped off his pants.
It was strangely intimate. A violation of privacy. Soap swallowed. It was time to go back to his room.
MacTavish had something else he had to dissect too. Feeling for Ghost came too easily and it was startling. When he finally came to his senses in Las Almas, Ghost was his first thought. The calls to him then were internally desperate.
Soap always made an effort to make everyone like him, shooting jokes and smiles at every new face. But recently he’d been playing favorites. In a room full of people, he was only trying to impress Ghost, doing anything to draw out the wrinkles on the outside of his eyes, even if it meant virtually embarrassing himself in front of the rest of the crew.
Last week, everyone was shooting the shit down at the bar and Soap pulled one of those stunts. When his cheeks turned pink, he blamed it on the alcohol and embarrassment. But it was really the ability to pull emotion out of Ghost. It made him warm.
Soap was back in bed. Warmth was something he was always trying to wrap himself in. He was trying to settle in but felt an invisible layer of grime that nagged him. It was time for another shower.
This one finally relaxed him, for good. It may have taken twenty minutes of scrubbing and an unholy amount of soap but it got the job done. He clothed again, and made his way to the sinks.
“Soap?” A voice approached him from behind.
He knew who it was, but made eye contact with him through the mirror anyway. “Ghost?”
Ghost looked at Soap’s body, wet once again from showering. Soap looked down. Secretly, he hoped the other man would steal a glance at the way his shirt clung to his body, or how his hair laid messily. He felt the presence next to him now.
“I went for a run,” Soap said simply. A lie.
“Thought you hated running.” The tone wasn’t accusatory.
“Do. But it’s good for the abs,” he joked. The light tone returned him to normalcy.
“Better do a few more laps then.”
“Lt., you haven’t seen me like that yet. Unless you were peakin’ in the shower.”
Ghost lowered his brows. Soap didn’t back off: “if you wanted a show all you had to do was ask.”
Ghost scoffed. Soap smirked; he liked drawing an audible reaction from the usually-quiet man. But it seemed there was nothing more to say, so he slipped out of the bathroom and back into his bed.
A few more nights came and went, some with more shut-eye than others. The sergeant pretended to grow fond of the moonlight on his late nights up, but he was becoming frustrated at the lack of sleep. Sometimes his head wasn’t even swirling, it was just empty. Sometimes that was worse.
Ghost caught him alone late in the mess hall one night, nursing a small cup of coffee (a little bit of cream). The Brit sat beside him, clanking down his own cup of coffee (with more cream than Soap’s).
It was quiet for a moment as Soap tried to conjure up something witty to say, but the lieutenant beat him to it. “You’re starting to look like me.”
Huh? “What d’ya mean by that, Lt.?”
“Means you need more sleep. Your eyes are black as mine, and I paint ‘em.” Looked like the nights really were catching up to him. “Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time in the bloody bathroom you’d have more time.”
Seems Ghost had figured out Soap’s weird habits faster than he’d anticipated. “One of us has to look good,” he quipped.
“Here we go–” Ghost started, before he’s cut off again.
“I’m just sayin’, if I had an ugly mug I’d be hidin’ it too.” He knew he didn't mean it. Ghost did too.
“Maybe you should start hiding yours,” He pointed towards John’s eyebags.
“It’d probably keep you less distracted, help keep the comms clear in the field.”
He narrowed his eyes, completely visible with the balaclava. Soap knew he enjoyed the banter, but wasn’t sure how much, and it killed him. The way his mask tented over his nose and chin would obscure a slight smile. He imagined one anyway. He tried to look for another sign, the tightening of a grip on his cup, the shuffling of feet–
“MacTavish?”
“Sir?”
Ghost blinked at him, blank. Shit what did he miss? A heavy pause.
“To your room.”
MacTavish laid his forehead on the table. He didn’t want to try to sleep yet.
“Your room. Now.” Ghost said it harder, but quiet. A command, but not as a superior. Soap didn’t budge, forehead on the table, both hands on his cup. A hand rested on the center of his back. The lieutenant stood, then the sergeant, and they made their way wordlessly to Soap’s room, sans coffee. The hand stayed on his back.
When Soap opened the door, Ghost wasn't sure what to do. He paused a moment before there was a soft tug on his shoulder, signaling him to come in and kick the door shut.
Soap sat at the foot of his bed and looked up at the still-standing man. “You want to ask me something? Or just enjoying the view?”
“You’re already deflecting.”
Soap frowned. He liked using his wit to get out of tense situations but he was left to wallow in this one.
“When’d it start?” A confused eyebrow raise from Soap. “The no sleeping.”
“Happens sometimes.” He laid on his back, knees still hung over the edge of the bed, so he didn’t have to look Ghost in the eye anymore. It was tiring. The bed dips as Ghost sat beside him, but did not lay down.
Soap’s heartbeat quickened. For Ghost to close the space between them was unheard of. No, it was always Johnny to take every millimeter he could get, trying to always get closer discreetly during a joke, always placing himself next to him at meetings.
He had to figure out something else to say, but it was hard to concentrate. The other man obviously was not satisfied with his answer. He started slowly, hoping to find the words along the way. “After Las Almas. When I think of it, I feel dirty and bloody. Can’t wash the feeling off, no matter how many showers I take. I just wish– I would have acted differently. I didn’t like splitting from the team. I didn’t like that I only thought of myself. Fuck every man for himself, I need my team. I’m a fraction as good when I’m alone. I don’t know how you work by yourself.”
Ghost chose to focus on one part. He couldn’t offer solid advice, but he needed to say something. “You’re good at what you do. You’ve already proven that to everyone. What, you still need that confirmation for yourself?”
Soap groaned. Not the direction he wanted the conversation to lead. He wanted eye contact again. This was the closest they’d ever been. He wanted closer. Focus .
“I don’t want to think about myself. I want a team. I want–” you . The word was so close to slipping out. He saw Ghost’s hand lying on the bed between their thighs. It was gloved, but still just sitting there. He moved his own over it. He closed his eyes–he changed his mind, he didn’t want eye contact, didn’t want to see if he fucked up.
Ghosts twisted his body towards Johnny, placing a thumb on his brow bone, practically raising his eyelid up himself. “We’re past Las Almas. What do you need to recognize that?” His voice was low. It’s a genuine question.
“Sleep.”
Ghost stood to the side of MacTavish, slowly slotting his hands under Soap’s shoulders and knees, scooting him up to properly lay down on the bed. He unlaced his boots, echoing when they hit the floor.
Johnny couldn’t take his eyes off him. He liked to watch his hands work. Those hands, how Ghost would flex them before picking up a dumbbell in the weight room, how he’d wrap them with a single layer of thin tape to spar, and now how they were gently moving Soap around.
He’s also learning how to read Ghost, trying to figure out why he’s being indescribably kind. He wanted to think it’s because he feels the same. He wanted it to be true, at least a fraction so.
The lieutenant came back to stand at his side.
“You don’t have ta do this ya know.” Ghost goes to move, but Soap couldn’t let this moment go, not yet. He grabbed his wrist. “Thanks, though.” He gave a sheepish smile up to the lieutenant, then yawned.
“G’night Johnny.”
“Ghost–” he couldn't restrain himself. He knew the second Ghost walked away, this night would be like any other. But he didn’t want to be too soft, didn’t want to scare him away. “How’ve you been sleeping?”
The taller man simply stared. John wanted to cower but refused to give the other man the satisfaction. If it was the wrong thing to say, he would blame it on sleep deprivation.
Finally, an answer: “haven’t.”
This was his opportunity. Soap pulled back the blanket beside him. Eye contact. “I still won’t be able to sleep alone.” This was his way of encouraging Ghost, and it worked .
After he crawled into bed, shoeless but everything else still on, the two men weren't quite sure which direction to face, how to place their limbs. They paused, faces to each other.
“If you keep lookin’ at me, you’re gonna make me sleep with the bloody mask on.”
Soap laughed lightly. “So you do sleep with it on. Bit weird, eh Lt.?” His smirk was back.
“Don’t push it,” he grumbled.
Johnny, half sarcastic and half serious, flipped to face away from Ghost and slotted himself against his chest. “How ‘bout this,” he teased. Ghost exhaled through his nose, but it seemed to do the trick. The balaclava was off. Soap doubted the lieutenant actually cared if he saw his face but he stayed in the position just in case, plus it felt nice, especially when an arm draped over his waist.
He wanted one last reaction out of Ghost. “It’s like we’re havin’ a sleepover.”
Ghost actually laughed at that one. “Focus, Johnny. Sleep.” He brought his hand over Johnny’s eyes. In response, John reached back and gave a quick tug of the other man’s hair. Dirty blonde, he knew. If he couldn’t see him without the mask, he would touch.
Ghost grabbed Soap’s hand, guiding them both back to MacTavish’s waist. Soap made sure their forearms and hands stayed pressed together.
Johnny didn’t want any more from this moment. He was happy drifting off to sleep.
But maybe, if he was lucky, he’d be greeted in the morning by sunlight across Simon’s face.