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Soap's flat was surprisingly clean.
It was nice. Ghost internally kicked himself for not being able to think of a better word to describe the man's home- fucking hell, it was probably the nicest place he'd been for a while; though he would say that about anywhere with a clean floor and central heating. There were plants dotted around (the ones that the old lady from downstairs watered. He remembered Soap saying that on the way here), a variety of old newspapers lay at a pile by the door, and photo frames containing several young-Soap's scattered around like shrapnel at a bombsite. It smelled like cologne and something so Johnny that he couldn't even think of what it actually could be.
Soap had been kind too. Dragging him back to his flat even though it was his leave time and he didn't have to keep this strange pretend-friendship between them together. For all Soap's talk about being mates now, Ghost couldn't help but feel like an intruder in the man's house.
"You planning on throwing any raves here, LT?" Soap breaks him out of his thoughts. Johnny has a tendency to just turn up whenever he's deep in thought- for example now, finally emerging from the rain and the false-kindness he'd been chatting with his neighbour.
He looks so different in his civilian clothes; painfully so, in a way that makes Ghost almost feel bad for not really owning anything outside his military gear. The clothes he wore were the ones Laswell donated last time he ended up on injury leave. He didn't have things. It wasn't his style- men like him, monsters, really, weren't meant to have a lifestyle outside of the horrors they saw.
"No." He answers, lamely.
Conversation didn't ever come naturally to him. He couldn't explain it; it was like his mind was too clogged up with thoughts to make sentences sound clear. It was like he had no idea how to interact with anyone outside of a military standpoint.
"Well, Irene- she's the lady downstairs, I told you about her- has been so kindly informing me of the rules about music over 90db after 9 pm." Soap smiles too much. Too much for someone in the general presence of a murderer. He's always been like that, though, someone who feels the need to make a bad situation better.
"Never was a party kind of guy." He mutters. There's some truth in that; the only party he ever went to was Laswell's engagement dinner, and he left halfway through. Needless to say, she wasn't happy- but she'd hidden it pretty well. Ghost only found out she was pissed about it a few weeks later from Price getting a little too far in a tangent.
"Aye, so you tell me. Probably wouldn't be good for the leg either."
Of course. A shrapnel wound to his leg was the dumbest injury he possibly could have gotten. He ended up with some ridiculous amount of stitches and a day passed out in the med bay whilst they dug bits of metal out of him. That hadn't even been the worst embarrassment of the night; he'd had to announce that he hadn't actually gotten around to getting a new place to stay yet, trying to get Price's laptop for a few minutes to find some hostel somewhere.
The 141 paid well enough that he could have had somewhere of his own. He just hadn't got his life together yet.
"Thanks for letting me stay." He says after a short pause. He wasn't even sure how this situation had occurred himself; all he knew was that for a moment he was on the strongest pain meds ever, and the next he was driving to London to stay in MacTavish's flat for two weeks they had off.
"Course. We're mates." Johnny practically beams at him- he takes him through to the couch he'll be crashing on for the next couple of weeks. Or until Soap finally gets bored and kicks him out.
"Are we?" Ghost asks. He's confused, genuinely, but Johnny just laughs loudly like he'd said something outrageously entertaining. He isn't quite sure what he's done, so he stays silent.
"Very funny LT."
He follows Johnny to his kitchen like a lost dog. The apartment is everything one could expect when it came to Soap MacTavish; maybe missing an oversized Scottish flag and some bagpipes the group regularly ridiculed the other man for. Soap never seemed bothered by the joke- in fact, he was the one illegally downloading some TikTok sound so his ringtone would be as jarringly Scottish as he was.
It was nice. Homely.
Ghost had missed homes like these; it was nice to be warm again.
He helps Johnny cook that night. It's strangely domestic, blasting ABBA on an old speaker held together with duct tape and dreams, having to open every drawer in the house for a sieve that Johnny definitely didn't own. Ghost felt like he was watching himself move through a grainy film camera; like this was some theatre kid project where the plot twist would come sooner rather than later. He would be lying if he said he wanted things to change.
You could tell Johnny hadn't been home in a while. His shelves were covered in dust, the tap gave an angry clunk as they turned it on for the first time, and his knives were too blunt to slice an onion. Ghost offered one of his daggers as a substitute. Johnny laughed again, which was starting to get unnerving when Ghost had meant everything sincerely.
The whole process was undeniably too long. It took them forty-five minutes to pick a playlist for god's sake, despite the fact Ghost had not listened to enough music to have an opinion. Soap grew increasingly excited about showing him the best artists, which all sounded the same. Ghost didn't have the heart to tell him to hurry up. HE had to remind himself they weren't on military time anymore.
Old dogs like him never could learn new tricks, cheetahs couldn't change their spots. Simon Riley couldn't just start living again.
It was a failure in the end. They were making something so simple, just pasta with sauce from a jar yet it still went wrong. The pasta tasted like rubber, the jar had most likely gone out of date. Culinary pathetic fallacy, if that was such a thing.
How Soap could laugh at the attempt was beyond him. Ghost already felt like screaming out of frustration, and the man was laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world. He felt like he should have laughed along too just as not to appear too uptight.
"I told you I was shit at cooking." Soap says. Ghost never remembered him saying something like that.
"It was a group effort." He replies. Soap laughs once more, and his heart almost plummets to the floor. Lately, he's been feeling this intense pain in his chest whenever he's around Soap- at first, he assumed it was just the adrenaline of a mission, but it never seemed to go away. He finds himself imagining whether his touch would feel as comforting as his voice.
"Let's make a group effort to never do that again. I knew I joined the army for a reason, I'd've starved if I'd had to cook for myself." Soap jokes. Ghost has a feeling that's not the complete truth. He'd seen him and Gaz making pancakes on a whim before, using some old tins and a self-made fire.
"Sounds plausible."
"It is. You should have seen Christmas dinner last year, almost killed my mother with some potatoes. Rock solid, how was I meant to know you had to boil them first?" Soap continues. He has these strange tangents he goes on every third or fourth sentence- it's a rollercoaster trying to understand how each topic connects to the last.
It's endearing.
"So that's where you disappeared last year." He'd ended up with Price and Laswell, hunting across New Mexico and lying to various spouses about how quickly they couldn't get home. Gaz originally was supposed to come too, but Price was in an oddly good mood and traded in a few IOUs for Gaz to go back for Christmas.
"Of course. Did Laswell give you a nice Christmas at least?" He's so close to Johnny. This conversation, normally hundreds of metres away over unstable comms, occurs within reaching distance. If Soap reached out, Ghost could hold his hand.
"She sent me into a gunfight and bought me a pint after."
"Sounds like something she would do."
They end up watching some shitty British reality show that night, just because Soap was offended that Ghost hadn't heard of it before. Come Dine With Me, a classic, or so he said.
It turns out to just be background noise whilst Soap complains about his neighbours. Another perk of being completely shunned from society is not having to deal with half the shit that Soap does when mixing with the general public. Soap could talk for hours- though Ghost did not mind listening.
"You also want to avoid Mr. Richardson- you'll know him when you see him, man is so old he's got dinosaurs coming out his arsehole- he always gives me shit for making too much noise, even though I'm not here half the time." He groans. He's turned against the arm of the sofa, one ankle hooked around Ghost's like they're little kids at a sleepover and not full-grown military men.
"He's the one that yelled at Gaz for walking on the grass." Ghost nods- it's not the dumbest thing Gaz has been yelled at for. Price had to give him a fair few lectures on telling people Soap was actually Irish.
"He is. He had a wife, but she left him for some lady she met at bingo. Maureen, or something like that." Soap continues. His life seems to consist of pissing people off; Price and other members of the ageing population the most. Makes sense. He only enlisted because he wouldn't stop his wild lifestyle to get a normal job. "Across the hallway, that's Nina, I swear she might be an angel-"
Ghost is able to tune himself out for the rest of the night. He lets Soap's words wash over him, barely following along with various tales of people in the local community. He's finally able to feel tired- he has no reason for hypervigilance when it is so safe in Johnny's presence.
It hurts to see Johnny's face so soft, his eyes so bright. Every nerve in Ghost's body is on fire. If he was to love Soap the way he wanted to, would he ever smile like that?
He's back there. Enemy ground. Siberia, Los Almas, Manchester, they're all the same. All flesh is grass.
Soap is laid, lifeless on the floor. His eyes open; wide enough that Ghost can tell they're grey, borderline blue. He's looking right at him, the remnants of the smile he'd always give on his face. There's so much blood, pooling out under his head like lipstick across a mirror- and his eyes are open, staring, staring, soul pouring out onto the concrete.
His body feels too heavy. He remembers this feeling, the drugs clouding your senses until you feel like your body is full of lead and the world around you is a dark, unforgiving ocean. You want to scream, but your tongue is so heavy that you'd choke.
Someone comes in. Ghost doesn't look at them. He's focused on the way that it still smells like cologne and Johnny and something so sickeningly metallic that he has to swallow the acid that rises in his throat. If he could move, if he could hold Johnny once more, he'd be stiff and cold as Roach had felt when they dragged his charred body back to the barrack.
He can't look away. Someone starts undoing his belt. He knows where this is going, and he's powerless.
Soap's empty eyes are still on him. The hands start exploring. They don't stop.
His eyes snap open. Someone is screaming, but it all sounds like he'd been plunged into the deep sea and was slowly sinking towards the bottom. His chest is too tight to draw in a breath.
"Christ- Ghost, Ghost wake up, it's okay-" Static. It's all static in his ears. He's got to rip these hands off him. He's going to die.
Someone's hands are around his wrists, restraining him against their own chest. He tries hitting his head against their collarbone. They use one arm to pin both of his fists in a cross over his torso, using the now free hand to cushion the back of his head from injury.
"Shh- you're okay, I'm not going to hurt you-"
Lies. He's still the same target he always was, the kid that hid under beds to escape fists and writhing creatures. Simon Riley is still so excruciatingly alive, despite all of Ghost's attempts to get rid of him. Phantom hands press down on his body. His stomach lurches.
"Shit, Ghost, please- it's Soap, I promise you're okay-"
Soap is dead. His eyes are blank and glaring, his body crumpled on the cold tiles of an enemy base. Ghost squeezes his eyes closed, trying to ignore the way the pool of blood burns the back of his eyelids.
"That's it. Breathe, LT, you're alright."
He peels his eyes open, his heart still high in his throat. The only light is the soft glow of the lamp just a metre away from the sofa. Soap kneels at the side of the sofa, by his head, looking softer than Ghost had ever seen him before in the golden light. His hands are warm against his arms, grip gentle as he holds Ghost together. His breathing hitches. He'd never been treated gently before.
"You okay?" Soap asks. Ghost nods his head jerkily- it's easier than explaining what Johnny just witnessed. "You don't have to lie to me, Simon."
"Don't call me that." His voice is hoarse from screaming. "Please, for the love of god, Don't call me that."
There is silence, for once. Soap never lets go- and Ghost never asks him to, never wants the comfort to end. Johnny moves to sit next to him, and his arm encases the other in a hug. No words are exchanged, but a thousand things are said. I love you is one. As more than friends is another.
"Can I see your face?" Soap asks after a short while. His voice is clouded with sleep- he's wearing only shorts and an old band shirt Ghost doesn't' recognise, shivering in the cold air of the night. Ghost has half a mind to share his blanket between the two of them.
"You have seen me before." He replies. He can feel Johnny's smile.
"Not really. It was dark, it wasn't really you."
"You don't want to see me." And for once Ghost really is being honest. Johnny would catch a single glimpse of the scars and be disgusted, just like everyone else was.
"Why not?"
"Because you won't love me anymore." Now Ghost really is lying. Johnny does not love him, because there is no one to love. They're acquaintances, and colleagues, but never lovers.
"I would never. I love you, Simon." Soap whispers. If he had needed to, he would have yelled that for the entire world to hear- but the entire world is here, in his arms. Ghost, Simon, he was the love the poets describe- if Soap was any smarter of a man he would have told him earlier.
His fingers move to the edges of Simon's mask, waiting for the man to reach out to stop him. He doesn't move.
He's slow when taking Simon's mask off. Simon wouldn't have wanted the sudden change; his hands come up, a knee-jerk reaction to the sudden exposure of his face. Soap barely knows what he's about to see. Burns, Glasgow smile scars, bruises that never seemed to heal even weeks after he got them. It's a mess- He's a mess.
Johnny looks at him like the stars.
"I knew you'd be fucking beautiful." He breathes, after the world had stopped for long enough for him to memorise Simon's face.
"I'm not."
"But you are, Simon. I'll say it as many times as it takes you to believe me."
His hands rest on Simon's cheekbones. Blond curls wrap around his fingers like snakes, and his mouth tastes like blood and Simon Riley. His heartbeat is suddenly in his mouth; their lips are centimetres apart. For a second he wonders if this is just another wild fantasy- but when he leans in to close the gap, the man's mouth is chapped and warm and so very real.
The mask falls on the floor, forgotten.
Johnny doesn't want to let this moment end. There's a buzz of life and he feels sixteen again, like he's snogging someone's son behind the bike sheds and trying not to get caught- he feels everything, all at once, and he had never known that Simon Riley would taste like stolen cigarettes and warmth.
After a moment, they break apart. He stands, wordlessly, pulling Simon to his feet.
"Come on. You're not going to sleep alone tonight." Or ever again, if Soap could help it.
Simon wakes up with Johnny's arms wrapped around his waist, back pressed to the other man's chest. It's unbearably warm, yet he would not move even if the heat was killing him.
"You alright Simon?" The other asks, his voice thick with sleep.
Simon couldn't imagine any way he could possibly feel not okay again, if Johnny would hold all the broken pieces together like this. His face feels wet. He didn't even know he was crying until now. Something about Johnny has broken the shell Ghost constructed to keep himself safe, and Simon Riley is seeping through like the sun through the clouds.
He'd never be able to explain that, so he nods.