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It didn’t really occur to Simon that he was supposed to be a girl until probably later than it should have. His dad treated him and his older sister the same - never once talked about what they couldn’t do, because they were girls, never really brought it up, honestly. He brought them to footy matches, and the pub, and taught them how to stomp on a man's foot if he leered at them, or, when they were tall enough to, how to knee them in the bollocks. There weren’t any other little girls at the pubs with their fathers, only little boys, on their first big adventure, out with their dad. His dad never mentioned it, so it never occurred to him.
Later, when Simon got old enough to learn what feminism was, he wondered if that made his dad a feminist. After a bit of thought, Simon decided that no. His dad wasn’t a feminist. He just liked violence.
Simon was the first in his class to hit 5 feet tall. He was also the first girl to start growing breasts. That isolated him pretty fucking quick - boys suddenly realized he was different from them, and girls, who he had never really connected with in the first place, started seeing him as a enemy, instead of just the weird tomboy. His mother must have known, somehow, what this would do, because she started putting him into sports bras right away. Tight pieces of elastic that smoothed down his budding chest, bidding him time. She was right, and later, Simon would hate her for it. You knew what would happen. You knew what would happen when I became a woman, and you did nothing to stop it.
Eventually, though, a sports bra wasn’t cutting it. Simon doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but his father noticed. His father noticed the very distinctive, no longer ignorable truth - his child was a girl. Simon doesn’t know how, but he knew it was coming. He worried that when his father saw the truth, he would reject him, and wouldn't give him what little attention he did, anymore.
The reality, when it came, was so much worse. His dad doubled down.
Simon got real good at taking a hit, and getting back up again.
There was no solidarity between his sister and him. She hated him - she was older, and yet he was the one to hit puberty first, and the one to bring the extra abuse down on them. It was his fault that dad was treating them this way. If he just got with the program, stopped being such a sissy with little titties, he would stop. She slowly became his tormenter, as well. Their dad had beaten the sugar and spice and everything nice out of the both of them. Later, he would forgive her. He understood.
For a while, he doubled down, believing he could actually become something his father would love again. Cut his soft hair short, joined the rugby team, wrapped his tits down like doing so would make them disappear, got a job at the butchers. It didn’t matter, of course. He was too pretty. Even at 6 feet tall at age 16, built like a linebacker, he was too god damn pretty. Maybe that’s why his father hit him - to make the pretty go away.
Eventually, he realized it wasn’t ever going to be enough. He kept doing it all - it was a way of surviving he had gotten used to, he couldn’t picture himself as anything else. But his mindset shifted. His dad wasn’t ever going to love him again. Maybe he never did. And far before the beatings and the snakes and the poor hooker on the dance floor, the worst thing his father had ever done was make him believe he had ever been anything other than a girl.
—
The day he turned 17, he moved out.
By law, his parents had to support him till he was 18, but when had the law ever mattered before? He had the money, his sister was already gone, and he was starting to see that itch under his fathers skin, the one that said there was a storm coming.
Time to bug out.
It was hard, paying rent, keeping food on the table, and still scrapping by to finish highschool, but he was fucking determined. He’d seen too many fucking idiot bums with no GED sweeping the streets. Maybe he’ll still end up sweeping the streets, but he’ll at least have a degree while he does it. The area he lived in was dogshit, of course, but mostly he didn’t run into trouble. Got mugged a few times, for the little bit of cash in his pocket, but never got raped, luckily. Lucky for him, or them, he wasn’t sure.
Sometimes, he hoped some guy would try something like that, just so he could kill him for it.
They never did though. He wasn’t exactly an easy looking target, even with his blond hair and blue eyes. Nah, the worst he got was at the butchers, where men would look at him behind the counter, call him sweetie, and ask to speak to one of the boys. Speak to them about what? You think a man can pick meat out better than me? That’s kind of fucking gay.
But it was okay. He was used to it, and it was a lot nicer to go home to his own apartment after it all, than to go back to his dear ‘ol dad. The guys working there treated him well, even inviting him out for a pint or two on friday nights. He wasn’t one of the boys, never could be, but they liked him all the same, even if they treated him differently.
It was there, on a friday night, at the local pub with the boys, where Simon was reborn.
“Hey big boy, watcha drinking?”
Simon flicked his eyes over at the sudden noise, to find…what were people calling these guys these days? Twinks? A shorter, skinnier, effeminate man, elegantly draped across the bar next to him. He was older, probably early 20’s, his smile was coy, and he was looking up through long eyelashes at him.
Simon was confused - he had never got much attention from men, even though he did like them, as much as people didn’t believe he did, but this guy was waltzing right up to him, in front of god and everyone. It didn’t fit in with his perception of himself, or his understanding of the universe, and he grasped around looking for an explanation, until it hit him.
This guy thinks I’m a guy.
“Uh- Guinness.” He stuttered out a reply, at which point the twink’s eyes widened. His voice was deep for a girl, but not enough to be confused as a man.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry!” He burst out, cheeks red, Simon’s similarly heated. At this point, Simon’s coworkers next to him took notice, and started swinging around on their stools, guffawing.
“Yeah, she doesn’t have the parts you’re looking for, friend!” They weren’t even being mean, not really - and the twink didn’t even seem offended at the laughter, joining in.
“Shit, I doubt I have the ones she’s looking for either!” The boys behind Simon laughed even harder. More to Simon directly, the man said, “Sorry about the mix up, didn’t mean to offend.”
“Oh, uh. No, no it’s okay. I don’t mind.” The man smiled, again, sweet and with a hint of a knowing gleam. “For what it’s worth, you really are quite handsome.”
He patted Simon’s hand gently, and slipped away from the bar, back into the crowd, leaving Simon raw, floating, glowing - fundamentally changed.
—
Now that Simon wasn’t using his spare time and intelligence to figure out ways to avoid his dad, he started putting it towards something else - self discovery.
That man in the bar had started something, inadvertently, within Simon. For a bit, Simon thought maybe it was sexuality. Maybe the floaty feeling he had gotten was attraction, pure and simple. But quickly, he dismissed that. That wasn’t it - the man was nice, but he really wasn’t Simon’s type. Maybe it was because the man had been attracted to him? But that wasn’t it either - girls had paid attention to Simon, before, especially when he was on the rugby team, but every time he had had to gently reject them - he hadn’t felt those feelings.
No - the floaty feeling, the shiver, the butterflies, had come because in the bar, that twink had thought he was a man.
Simon had seen this phenomenon before. In the seedy clubs his father used to take him too, there would be beautiful, tall, glistening women in wigs. His father had taught his children, early, that they were pretenders. They were men trying to be women - deceitful, lying, predatory. Simon had never understood what the problem was - if you didn’t like them, just don’t talk to them.
But he had never seen, as far as he knew, the reverse. Never seen a woman who pretended to be a man.
Wait. Was he already doing that? I mean, he wasn’t lying to people, yet, but…but if given the chance, if his voice hadn’t given him away, would he have told that guy in the bar what he was? Or would he have let him think he was a guy?
Simon searched, really searched, for the answer. Eventually, day in and day out, studying for school, hacking away at pigs, cleaning his apartment, he slowly came to a conclusion.
He wouldn’t have corrected him.
—
Simon had only been to the local library once, when he needed some extra material for a school project in the 7th grade, and his mom had taken him. Beanie shoved down far on his head, sunglasses in place, scarf pulled over his face, he began his mission in those very stacks.
He didn’t find a lot, but he did find a little bit. Mostly, he learned about death. The AIDs crisis was still trudging along in the gay community, cutting it to pieces, leaving little behind, but there were still those that weren’t shutting up, despite it. The stuff that got talked about more widely was the plight of gay men, but there were whispers, underneath that, of something more. Men dressed as women, women dressed as men. Women having surgery to remove their breasts, men taking drugs to increase their estrogen levels.
It was terrifying.
Simon wanted it more than anything.
—
It took a long time to track down a doctor who would do it for him. Long enough that he had graduated, and was working full time at the butchers, with enough in the bank to cover the cost of it, as well as a year of Testosterone.
He wouldn’t have, but the doctor made him a deal, cause he was one of the first to get it done in the UK - stick around for 6 months, fill out surveys, let the doctor poke and prod and write a paper on him, and he’d give him a discount.
Fine, but no photos of my face, and you don't use my name, Simon had replied. He had always liked anonymity.
They started the T first - the doctor said it was semi-reversible, at his age of 18, so that way, if he ended up regretting it, he could stop. He figured that was reasonable, but he also kinda hated him for it. He had already done the mental prep, he was ready for this shit, but it was okay. Gave him time to find someone to help him out, after the surgery.
The T made him angry, and pimply, and horny in an intense, clawing way. He wanted to kill, he wanted to maim, he wanted to stick his dick in a warm, wet hole. He didn’t even have a dick, for fucks sake. All he had was ass hair.
He had never felt more like himself in his entire life.
Slowly, the T settled into his system, and he settled into it. It was a month until the big chop. For the first time, he considered, genuinely, if he would regret any of this. The doctor had warned him, and he figured that being stubborn about something like this could lead to lots of regrets, so he let himself truly stop, and think.
The only doubt that floated up in his brain was this - was he doing this just cause his dad wanted a son? Was his stupid, abusive, piece of shit father still under his skin, controlling his desires, even after almost 2 years of freedom from him? Because that, if it was true, wasn’t acceptable. Even if it made him hate himself in the short run, he couldn’t do this cause it was what his father wanted, he wouldn’t fucking allow it.
But then he thought about it more. In his shitty apartment, neighbors yelling on the other side of the wall, his own dishes in his sink, his own ass hair to scratch at, his high school diploma haphazardly propped up on the bookcase he had found on the side of the road.
“Simone Riley”, it said.
He also wouldn’t let his father take away his happiness any more. Even if this was because of his father, that doesn’t mean he can’t make it his own.
—
2 weeks until the big chop, and he didn’t fucking know who to ask to help him post-op.
He didn’t have any friends, exactly, no one he was close to. Certainly no one close enough to share this with. If his coworkers had noticed the subtle changes in his body, they hadn’t said anything. His voice had pitched down a pit, and he had started shaving - not that he needed to, the little bit of stubble negligible on a man, but it would be noticed on a woman, and he just wasn’t quite sure what to do about that, yet. But it was 2 weeks, and he needed to let his bosses know that he was going to be off work for 2 months. He dreaded it, fucking dreaded it, but it was what needed to be done, so after his shift one night, near midnight, he knocked on his bosses door.
“Hey, boss, I need to take some time off in a few weeks. Quite a lot of time off, actually.”
The gruff old man scoffed, and leaned back in his seat, gesturing for Simon to come inside the office fully, and sit down. He took a hesitant seat.
“What’s up, little lady, going on study abroad or sumfin?”
“Uh, no. I’m actually having surgery.” Simon felt himself pitching his voice higher, trying to appeal to his boss, and he hated himself for it.
“Surgery? Shit, lass, you alright? What you havin’ done?” He looked concerned, properly concerned, and Simon realized he had made a mistake. He should have lied, should have claimed it was something else, or just said he didn’t want to say why. He thought the medical angle may have given him more forgiveness for the time off, but now he had a decision to make.
“Um. I’m, uh - I’m having a mastectomy.” It’s close, pretty close to the truth. Simon prayed he wouldn’t ask more, but of course, he wasn’t that fucking lucky.
His boss's eyes went wide. “Mastect…lass, you have cancer?”
Shit. He couldn’t fucking say he had cancer, he just couldn’t, he wasn’t that low down and dirty. And his boss had been cool, that one time, when that nice gay man had flirted with him at the bar, had been perfectly cordial about it. Maybe - maybe it would be alright.
“Uh, no.” He wanted to cringe, where he sat, wanted to curl into himself, but he learned long ago that doing so doesn’t lessen the blowback. He straightened up in his seat, made his voice even, and said the damning words.
“It’s a sex reassignment surgery.”
—
It still stung, when his boss told him to not bother coming back. He clearly felt weird about it, but being shifty-eyed instead of outright rude doesn’t lessen the fact that he just fucking fired him.
Piece of shit.
Whatever. He was becoming his own man, that was going to require some trials and tribulation. Once he was done with the surgery, and healed up, he’d move out of this shithole town somewhere better, where he could be himself. He’d always wanted to anyways- in a way, his bigoted boss had only set him free of Manchester.
When the day came, and his doctor asked him, pre-surgery, if he had someone to come pick him up, he lied.
As the nurses discussed him like he wasn’t there, they mentioned how sad it was that such a beautiful young woman was cursed with such a terrible mental affliction that led her to this. That one didn’t even sting, if anything it was funny. His face may be pretty, but the rest of him was anything but. He laughed, and when he went under, it was with a smile on his face.
When he woke up, it was to pain. When they rolled him up to a mirror, his heart cracked in two. At first, overcome with emotion, he thought it was because he regretted it, but no, that wasn’t it.
It was a Becoming - a shedding of skin, to reveal smooth, truthful bone underneath.
He wanted to be what his daddy wanted, he wanted to be what the world wanted, but he couldn’t be. He could only be this - himself.
The doctor fretted at him, commanding him to stop crying, lest he pull at the wound. The nurses tutted around him, probably about his Holy Tits he had just tossed in the bin. They rolled him out into the lobby after he finally pulled himself together, and Simon realized he didn’t have anyone to take care for him. Distantly, in the back of his brain, he had a little child-like tantrum. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. He just wanted to be himself, but no one wanted to be with him when he was himself.
But he was too weak to truly have the tantrum out loud, so he breathed in deep, and asked the nurse to roll him over to the pay phone.
—
His sister was not happy to see him.
They hadn’t talked in almost 3 years, since she had moved out to go to community college. She was still the same bitter, awful, bitchy slag he remembered her being, and she chewed out the doctor when she got there. He took it like a champ, if shooting Simon disapproving looks in between his sisters cursing.
At least she showed up.
She drove him home, and helped him up the stairs. She got him water, and changed his drains, as the nurse had told her too. She fed him soup, and got him into bed, scowl cemented on her face the entire way. She didn’t bother to say goodbye on the way out. He wasn’t sure if she would come back, honestly. Wasn’t sure if he would be left here to either die, or rip his wounds open trying to get to the toilet.
She did, though. He suffered through the lecture she brought with her because of it, and then the lecture every single time afterwards. He didn’t bother listening, not really. It didn’t interest him. When she stopped showing up a week later, and $100 from his wallet was gone, he wasn’t even mad.
Just tired.
—
Recovery was hard, maybe the hardest thing he had ever done. The pain was bad, but that wasn’t it, not really. It was the mental shit - sitting still, not itching, not raising his arms, not moving too fast. If there was food on the top shelf, it may as well not have existed. A few nice people would help him at the store, though, seeing his ragged look and helping him grab a few cans off the top shelf when asked.
But at home, he was alone. And slowly eating through his savings. He wanted to push it, he was bleeding money and had no way to make it - maybe if he went back to work now, it would be okay. But every time, he talked himself back out of it. If he was careful, his savings would last, and the surgery would heal right. The last fucking thing he needed was complications - he could go a little hungry if it meant saving himself a second surgery down the line.
Painstakingly slowly, he healed. He also kept taking hormones.
Over 6 months, it became easier, then better, then all worth it.
Shirtless, he was a fucking animal. He had always been strong, but the testosterone in his system had bulked him up even quicker. He had grown 2 inches, too, now approaching 6’ 3”, blond, curly chest hair covering most of his scaring, the real beginnings of a beard gracing his face.
Now if he could only afford a real fucking meal.
He doesn’t know who, if it was his sister, or his old boss, or just someone who noticed him on the street, but he had been clearly and effectively blacklisted from every butcher in Manchester, as well as every single entry-level job he could think of. What he should do is move - go somewhere where they don’t know him as Simone. He thinks people probably wouldn’t look twice at him as a man, now. But he doesn’t have the fucking money.
On a balmy autumn day in September of 2001, news blaring from the pub, the answer to his problems was presented to him.
—
Years later, as Ghost, he would think about this moment. Choosing the surgery, the loss of his job, it all led to the military, and the military led his family, and himself, to destruction. If he had only resisted, if he had only tried to be someone else.
But no. Firstly, his boss is the one who fired him, and secondly, he didn’t choose the military because it was his last option, not really. He could have figured something else out. But it called to him with butter-soft promises of violence, and anger. It wooed him away with whispers of self righteous fulfillment. He had made the choice not because he was broke, and not because he was a man, but because he wanted a family, and a reason to hurt people. And that was a different problem entirely from his transexual nature.
—
You’d be surprised how much a 6’3” frame and a rolled up sock in your underwear can hide. You’d also be surprised how easy it is to lie to the government. “Simon Riley” rolled off his tongue easily, and the recruiter didn’t even notice the extra ‘e’ tacked onto his name, or the big fat F on his license when he handed it over.
There were a few close calls. It’s not like they had separate showers, but if he went when it was steamy enough, or after most people were done, no one looked at him twice. People noticed his shyness, of course, some barrack bullies theorizing more than once that he had a little dick, but Simon had been around men long enough to know what that actually meant about them. When he got the nickname ‘pretty boy’, that made him more nervous, but time passed, and no one questioned his gender, so he learned to live with it.
He flew through basic, and landed right in SAS for his killer instinct, and his tenacious nature. He loved it, he really did, felt at home in the thick of it all. The sand of the middle east, and the comradery he built with his brothers in arms changed him, fundamentally, but it also felt like coming home.
But eventually, he had to actually go home. He had to look his sister in the eye, as she begged for his help, had to watch as his mother couldn’t even look at him, even as he came to save her. He wanted to take pleasure in finally sending his dad out on his ass, grinding concrete into his wounds, but he couldn’t.
All that time, all that fear, and his dad could even fight to save his fucking life. It was disgusting.
He hated it, he hated it all, but he couldn’t refuse them. Maybe the military had installed a sense of duty in him, cause despite the itch under his skin to get back to the fighting, he stayed.
In the end, he was glad he did. He got closer with his sister, and his mother. Became friendly enough with his sister’s eventual husband, even if he was a little weird around him. Was rewarded with a nephew, Joseph. It was nice, he supposed. The closest thing to a happy ending his fucked up family was ever going to see.
But still - when the call came, and it was time to go again, he didn’t look back.
God damn him for that.
—
Ghost won’t tell the rest. Doesn’t feel the need to. The story is this, in the end - he was betrayed, and his family died. He was reborn, and he got his revenge.
Now, he’s dead.
Well. He’s death, certainly. Not just a Ghost, but The Ghost. Dead himself, and the Harbinger of Death as well, courtesy of Her Majesty’s military, and the good ‘ol CIA.
Ghost supposes it’s an okay life, given everything. After all, what did he expect, closeness? Family? No, he had made peace that he wasn’t ever gonna have that, not in this lifetime. And that was okay. He could do his job, and he could do it well, all with his mask securely in place.
—
“Let’s get a win, yeah L.T? Save you a seat, sir.”
The kid, a Scottish Sergeant by the name of MacTavish, reached out, and patted his shoulder. What the fuck? No one, and Ghost meant no one , touched him, let alone within seconds of meeting him, unless they were meeting a quick and untimely demise. For a second, Ghost considered being offended, being angry. He was fucking DEATH , goddamit!
But then, out of the depths of his frozen heart, he was just a little bit charmed.
“Fucking hell.”
He did save him a seat. It wasn’t just a silly line. They sat, elbow to elbow, as they flew to their mission, and MacTavish chattered his bloody ear off. The whole time, Ghost offered stilted, slightly grumpy replies, if he said anything at all, but MacTavish didn’t even blink.
“Call me Soap!” MacTavish insists. Okay, he’ll bite just this once.
“Why’s that?” He grunts out.
And the kid has the fucking gall to turn to him, and wink .
“That’s classified.”
It’s clear he’s used the line before, smiling to himself even without Ghost’s reaction. And Ghost very purposefully doesn’t react.
“They call you Ghost. Why’s that?”
Ghost levels him with his best stare. He knows the power it has - either the kid is smart, and he’ll back off, or he’s a pussy, and he’ll run away. Of course, Ghost isn’t let off so easy. MacTavish - Soap just grins that side-mouthed grin of his, posture easy and relaxed as ever, and opens his mouth again.
“Simon Riley. You know, I did some time with the SAS. You left an impression there, even if your records are scrubbed to hell and back. Ol’ buddy of mine says your old call sign was -”
The only reason Ghost doesn’t drop him then and there is because he’s the commander officer, and they’ve got marines surrounding them, but he does interrupt him.
“Watch yourself.” He keeps it quiet, and deadly, letting his baritone roll with the words.
And Soap, smile still on his face, has the fucking gall to look a little bit flushed. His eyes gleam with a new interest, no longer just bantering, and fuck, fuck. He’s very hot.
Ghost wants to hit something.
Soap does shut up, at least on that topic, toeing the line perfectly, stupid smile still plastered on his face. When they reach Las Almas, and are introduced to Alejandro, Soap, annoying little twat, has to say something again.
“Actually, I think he prefers to be called-”
“That’ll do.” Ghost growls out, unable to contain the aggression in his voice. Alejandro doesn’t skip a beat, and Soap just snickers. Fuck, he’s usually so calm and controlled, he’s usually so collected. It’s been a long time since his days of aggression problems. As they load into the trucks, ready to be briefed on the City of Souls, Soap continuously no more than 3 feet away from him, Ghost has to very purposefully, and very deliberately, squash down on the little flitter inside him, the little spark. Not yet.
If the kid survives the mission, maybe he can allow himself to like him, but not before.
—
Soap is, admittedly, very good at what he does. He’s got that other-wordly instinct about him, the kind Ghost has only seen in the very best soldiers - true warriors, ones who were born for it. He’s curious about his past, curious about what sort of life crafted him into this bundle of intricate dissonance.
He’s open and joking, and seems to pull people in like moths to a flame. He gets to know them, quick, and know them well. Each marine that he’s spent even a few days with, he’s got their story. All of that makes Ghost think that it’s a miracle he’s survived so long in this kind of work. He should be a desk jockey, running the teams from some office somewhere, with those people skills, not out here in the thick of it.
Ghost knows him being here isn’t a fluke - he trusts Price to pick his men well. But at the same time, at the first firefight, he isn’t exactly counting on Soap. Call it mistrust, call it being careful - Ghost isn’t going to count him as an asset until he’s seen what he can do.
But damn, is he proven wrong. Gloriously wrong. Blunt and deadly, graceful and precise. No matter how efficiently they train you, the second there’s any sort of awkward angle or close proximity, things get ugly. If you can’t get ugly with them, you die real quick. Soap, for all his smiles, and jokes, and kindness towards his marines, can get dirty with the best of them. Every one of the muscles stretching out his infuriatingly small tshirt and jeans works in perfect, violent unison, keeping Soap safe, and executing their mission like a bloody dance.
They capture Hassan without a single hitch. Graves seems weirdly excited about it, but who is Ghost to judge. It’s not like he isn’t in the same weird, corrupt profession he is. And as so often is the case, they ended up risking their lives and those of their men for absolutely nothing. They let Hassan go, with the orders of Shepard.
Onto the next thing. But this time, Ghost knows he can trust Soap to get the job done. Over a week of high-octane missions, slowly, and mostly over the comms, Ghost gets to know Soap. Proud Scottsman, football fanatic, bit of an authority problem, which is clearly one of the reasons he tries so hard.
And god dammit, he likes him. Genuinely, in a way he can’t control, likes him.
And the worst part is, Soap seems to like him back. A few days in, after a rather ragged firefight, as they work to clear a slightly rat-infested barn to hole up in for the night, Ghost slips up, and calls him Johnny. His tone is joking, bordering on friendly. Soap is professional, of course, not looking over till him until the building has been efficiently scoped out. But 2 minutes later, when they call the all clear, Soap looks over at him, absolutely beaming. The scar over his brow and cheek pulls a little bit with it. He calls him L.T., with that infuriating accent, pats him on the shoulder again, and volunteers for first watch.
Ghost sleeps way too well, considering his bed of moldy straw and animal shit.
—
“Johnny, get out of there!”
“Ghost, this is Soap, how copy?”
“We made it out, L.T.”
—
He should have known, he should have fucking known. He did know, really, seconds before the rest of them. He should have made the first move, should have gone for that Shadow Fucker as soon as he suspected.
If wishes were fishes. Well, the fish wouldn’t be driving a tank.
At least he got Johnny out. He wasn’t quite sure what he would have done, if he hadn’t. He’s gotten attached, real fucking fast, and that really scares him.
Nothing to be done, for now. Just complete the mission. And if, because of the mission, he shows his face to Johnny, testing the waters there, then maybe he can see how Johnny feels about him.
He gets a surprising lack of response. Ghost barely registers Price welcoming him back, he’s so focused on the Sergeant’s reaction, and at first, he is disappointed. Not surprised, but disappointed. But then, he thinks about it. As they load into the truck towards their next firefight, Soap pressed against his side, like always, he realizes something about Soap. Soap never has a calm, controlled reaction, unless he’s doing it to hide something.
Hmm. Maybe Soap didn’t mind seeing his face. But still - mission comes first, and at any time during that period, one or the both of them could bite the bullet. It’s more likely than not, really, far more likely. So Ghost, as much as he can, keeps his growing attachment to his Sergeant under wraps in his own psyche. From Mexico to Chicago, he keeps everything down, down, down.
When he takes Hassan out, saving Soap’s life in the process, it’s all he can do not to leave his post to make sure he’s okay in person. To patch his wound, to be there for him, when the adrenaline crash inevitably comes. It’s the first time in a long time he kind of hates his job. He doesn’t move, though. Soap wouldn’t want him to.
—
It’s only later, when he learns the sort of value Soap places on that kind of debt. He’s been following Price around for years for the same reason, and Ghost worries, for a long while, about having a life debt, on top of his commanding rank over him. But he also knows Soap, and knows he wouldn’t let anyone take advantage of him, life debt or not.
—
It seems Task 141 is a bonafide unit now. They did good work, on the missile case, under despicable conditions. Before they’re shipped off again, they’re awarded with a month of shore leave.
Ghost isn’t back on British soil for 48 hours before he finds out where Soap lives. There’s an itch under his skin, pointing him North, and he’s been around himself long enough to know it isn’t gonna go away.
Hacking into the SAS database is harder than it used to be, by a long shot. But Ghost has always been a quick learner, so it only takes a few hours before he’s got Soap’s location, and only another few minutes to book a train there. He could go steal a helicopter, it wouldn’t be difficult, but he doesn’t want to have to return it, so the train will do.
It feels wrong to not have the mask on, but a beanie, sunglasses, medical mask and a tightly tucked scarf on top of all of it does almost the same thing - squeezing his face, muffling the clanging aggression of cities and people and transport. Tucked into his seat, concealed carry holster angled so it doesn’t shove up against his back too much, he suddenly has too much time to think about what he’s doing.
What if Soap doesn’t want to see him? And what if Soap doesn’t want to see him, like really see him. What if he sees Soap, and it isn’t what he expected? What is he expecting?
And with all the time in the world, he can’t figure it out, except that he wants this feeling under his skin to go the fuck away, and he knows Soap’s presence is the only way to complete this goal.
—
Soap’s flat doesn’t look very lived in. There’s a few basic pieces of furniture here and there, and a generic ikea-looking picture, hung crookedly on the wall, cans in the cabinets, but not enough to make a whole meal. A few books on the mantle. There’s just enough that someone looking would believe it - it’s not like Ghost’s own on-base apartment looks much more homey than this, but Ghost knows it’s not right. It just doesn’t feel like Soap, even if he hasn’t been here in months. No, this is a cover.
Smart man.
Luckily, he doesn’t have to do any more digging, because the click of a 9mm’s safety going off is echoing from the doorway.
Ghost’s hands are in the air immediately, conscious that it may be Soap, and that he’s the one breaking and entering here. Slowly, he spins around. There he is - in civilian clothing, on the other side of the barrel of his glock, a slightly confused look on his face.
Ghost can’t help but smile, under all his layers.
“...Ghost?” Soap sounds confused, and Ghost realizes, right, he doesn’t have the usual mask on, and his face isn’t showing either. But then how did he…?
“Johnny -” is all he can say, but Soap is immediately flicking the safety on and holstering his weapon, wiping a hand down his face. He looks like he has questions, lots of them, but he can’t choose which one to ask. He looks at him, still crouching on the floor, face considering.
“Alright. C’mon, you nut. Let’s go.”
Ghost decides not to ask. He follows Soap out of the apartment, grabbing a box of dusty records by the doorway when directed, and is led out to a half-rusted pickup truck, stocked with Soap’s field gear. Ghost places the box in the bed, and then helps pile a duffle bag previously in the passenger seat into the back as well, when Soap tells him to. He gets in, when Soap gestures at him, and they’re off. They spend a few hours, flicking between radio stations, in soft, companionable silence. Ghost doesn’t know why he thought this would be awkward.
The Scottish highlands are beautiful. He’s never been before.
It reminded him of some other countries he had done missions in - a beautiful and stark mosaic of Russia, Patagonia, New Zealand, all a 3 hour train ride from his home town. He says as much, to Soap, voice gruff with disuse, and Johnny smiles into it immediately, taking the bait. He goes on a rant about the beauty of Scotland, throwing in a jab or two at Brits, which Ghost chuckles at.
“I hope you got tea where we’re going.” Ghost huffs.
“You’re gonna have to make due with coffee.” Soap snarks
“You degenerate.”
Soaps true home, it appears, is a shoddy little fishing cabin on the shores of a lake. They’re the only people for miles, and Ghost understands, immediately, why Soap comes here. The house is small, but warm and comfortable. Footy jerseys on the wall, next to old fishing supplies. TV and gameboy, dust free in the living room. Record player, by the window, a real book collection, stacks of firewood. A modest kitchen, with some cheesy flower-patterned napkins, folded on the table. Pictures of friends and family.
He’s starting to think that maybe he’s intruding. After all, Soap has a family. If he wanted to be with people, he would have chosen to be with them - but then Soap squeezes by him, in the little hallway, patting his shoulder as he passes, as solid as always, and the rising storm inside him calms once again.
God, this man makes him feel so fucking weird.
Soap throws open the back door, letting the weak sun flood into the house, and stepping onto the back porch, looking over the little lake, and the rocky, mossy cliffs surrounding it. Ghost joins him, takes in the surroundings, and suddenly realizes that there’s no one else here. He can take his mask off.
He’s done this once, and he can do it again.
Heart pounding, every instinct in him making him as silent as possible, he raises his gloved hands up to his face, and slowly peels away the layers.
Scarf, unwound from his face, left hanging around his neck. Mask, pulled off his ears, tucked gently in a pocket. Sunglasses, off, folded, hooked in his sweater collar. He leaves the beanie on, letting the warmth of it against his ears muffle the wind. Even as stealthy as he can be, Soap freezes next to him as he does it, and very purposefully keeps his eyes on the skyline.
Breathe in, breathe out. Distantly, a hawk soars on the wind, crossing from a western valley into theirs. The wind feels interesting, on his face, tingling, waking him up. Slowly, so slowly that he could stop him if he wanted, Soap turns towards him.
His eyes, a deep gray blue, pierce him through. He looks his fill, not bothering to hide the way his eyes roam across Ghost’s features. Ghost can’t decide if he wants to shrink away, or straighten his shoulders in pride, as Soap seems to make some sort of determination, and a soft smile tugs at his mouth.
“The SAS was right, Ghost. Or is it Simon?”
Ghost’s heart stutters in his chest. SAS…is Soap saying what he thinks he’s saying?
“Uh. Simon is okay. Or Ghost. Whichever.”
“Hmm. Simon.” Soap seems to be feeling the name out on his tongue, trying it out for the first time. Ghost’s name - Simon’s name, in Soap’s voice, is hummed out perfectly.
Soap tilts his head, then, a smile still quirking his lips, and one calloused hand up. It lands on Simon’s neck and jaw, his thumb just below his ear, hand strong against him. It’s a brotherly touch - familiar, but not too familiar, and yet Simon has to stop himself from melting into it anyway. Soap pats him, once, twice, and then is pulling away, and heading back inside.
Was he saying I’m pretty?
—
A few days pass, at the little cabin, and then a week, in comfortable company.
They eat simple, hearty meals, all home-cooked. Simon was never one to make much of anything unless it can out of a box or a can, but Soap seems to enjoy fresh ingredients. Venison stew with locally grown potatoes, bratwurst and sauerkraut, bacon, eggs, and slightly overcooked spinach. It’s the best Simon’s eaten since he left his parent’s house. They eat on the couch, watching old movies, or at the little table in the kitchen, talking and joking between them.
Simon’s never laughed so much in his entire life.
On sunny days, not too chilly, they sometimes take the janky little canoe Soap’s grandfather passed down to him onto the lake. They bring the fishing poles, sometimes catching nothing, sometimes catching enough for dinner. On rainy, windy days, they stay in. Soap seems to really like reading, which surprises Simon, but also doesn’t surprise him, somehow. Soap tells him to pick whatever he wants, off the shelf, brow furrowed, lost in his own book about Western Asian religion. Simon chooses the most beat-up book on the shelf, the one Soap has clearly read a million times - a tiny little collection of short stories from the Vietnam war, by an American author.
At night, they sip at frosty glasses of Guinness or bourbon, and Simon considers why Soap even has bourbon - he thought he liked Scotch. When it’s time to turn in, Soap heads to the little bedroom, and pulls a pillow and a few afghan blankets from the queen mattress. They exchange quiet goodnights, and Simon listens from the living room as Soap shuffles around, getting ready for bed, before finally the shuffling stops, and it’s replaced with the quiet, even sounds of Johnny MacTavish soundly sleeping. Then, and only then, does Simon slip into his own dreamland.
Not once does Soap ask why he came looking for him.
—
“Simon, can I ask you something?”
It’s an unseasonably warm day today, but instead of taking out the canoe, Soap decided they should just soak it up from the shore. They’re both layed out, on the deck, Soap in nothing but his boxers in order to properly take in all the vitamin D he can, Simon still in his tshirt and jeans. He’s still getting used to his face being bare, he’ll take some time to work up to more than that.
“Shoot.”
“What was your family like, growing up?”
Hmm. Fuck. Simon knows that in order to grow closer with someone, you’ve gotta share parts of yourself, as well. That’s the fucking deal. But he’s never really talked about his childhood with anybody before.
Time to nut up and do it now, he supposes. With only a little bit of editing. He sighs.
“Shitty. Dad was an abusive asshole. Mom was getting it too, of course, but she also was complacent in it. My older sister learned to be a bully pretty fast as well, though later we reconciled.”
Soap looks over at him, sun lighting him up, expression mildly surprised.
“Shit man, didn’t think you’d cough it up so easy. I’m sorry that happened, thank you for trusting me with that.”
God, he’s thanking him. Why does he have to be such a good man?
“Uh, yeah. I mean you’re smart enough to know just by looking at me I didn’t have a normal childhood.”
Soap settles back down against the deck, hands pillowed under his head, and snorts. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true. I’m certainly the odd man out, amongst our kind.”
Simon smiles, into the open air. “Yeah, middle class kid, football goalie, I bet you had straight A’s too, you wanker.”
“You know what’s funny?”
“No way.”
Soap tilts his head, looking over at him, and pauses for dramatic effect. “I had a perfect 4.0.”
Simon tilts his head back in a laugh. “Jesus christ, mate, why the hell’d you enlist?”
“I was too impatient! I wasn’t gonna wait for officers school. I even tried a few times before I was 18, but they caught me every time. What can I say, I knew I was born for it.” He sounds smug.
Simon scoffs. “Damn, you shit at lying or something? Back in my day, it was easy to lie to the enlistment office, no problem.” It’s a carrot he’s dangling over Soap, a little hint of a secret he has. Maybe he should feel scared about it, but instead he just feels good teasing the younger man.
Soap targets it immediately, rolling over onto his stomach, his big arms propping him up to look at Simon. “Oh shit, what’d you lie about?”
Simon just smiles. “That’s a story for another day.”
“Oh you fucker.”
Then Soap was jumping on him, flinging himself across the deck. Simon anticipated him easily, cackling as they rolled around, sun-warmed skin on skin, trying to pin each other. It was perfect, it was easy, it was everything Simon had ever wanted.
Almost everything.
—
Simon was achingly conscious of this fact: the closer he got to Soap, the more it would hurt if he rejected him, when he told him the truth of his past. Simon is almost confident that Soap likes men, and maybe, potentially, that Soap even likes him. But if he doesn’t have the right parts - Simon doesn’t know what he’ll do, if he has to face that.
But for some reason, telling him doesn’t feel like an if, it feels like a when. They’re hurtling towards each other, light speeds, cosmos colliding. Simon can feel it, and he’s learned to trust his instincts.
He supposes he will just have to soak it in, while he can, and face Soap’s judgment when it comes.
—
That same day, wind beginning to chill the valley, they sit on the back porch watching the sun set, and sip on body warming glasses of bourbon. It’s quiet, save for the tickling of ice against glass, and the distant sound of birds calling, and soft lake-waves breaking against the beach below them. It’s beautiful.
Simon looks over to his right, at Soap, to find him already looking his way. He’s beautiful, Simon thinks. It’s thick in the air, the sort of aura that creates deep conversations, whispered confessions. Soap looks at him, into his eyes, unabashedly, and Simon just doesn’t know if he’s brave enough to take the first leap.
Brave as always, Soap does it for him.
“Hey, uh, I wanted to say,” Soap’s voice is a little bit thick, and he clears it. This is the time, now, when usually a man would look away, but Soap doesn’t. “Thank you for coming here with me. I know I didn’t really ask, but it’s been a lot easier to be off duty with you here.”
God, Simon wants to look away, wants to close his eyes against the unwavering intimacy that Soap is throwing at him, but he won’t. If Soap can do this, so can he, god damn it.
“I - it’s been easier with you, too. They think shore leave is what keeps us from cracking, but it’s when I’m off duty that things are hardest.”
Soap smiles, his eyes kind and understanding, before finally looking away to the horizon. “Yeah man, I feel the same way. I come out here to be alone, cause my family doesn’t get it - it’s too hard for them, to see me like that, all fucked up inside. But uh, it’s been good, with you here. Easy.”
Simon sips his drink for something to do. “Yeah. Easy. It’s uh. It’s why I came to find you. I just -” He has to take a breath, his throat threatening to close up here, every one of his past experiences telling him that he shouldn’t be saying this, but it’s Johnny, for fucks sake.
“I just had this itch under my skin, and I knew it wasn’t gonna go away until I felt safe.”
Damn it, Soap’s looking at him again, and he has to steel himself before looking over to meet his eyes, the confession overwhelming. What he finds is the softest, most open, understanding expression. But then, so fast he would have missed it if he blinked, Soap flits his eyes down to his lips, and back up again, before looking back at the horizon.
Silence follows, between them, and Simon is glad for it. The last rays of the sun pitter out, behind the mountains. They stay out there though, even though there isn’t much to look at anymore, and slowly finish their glasses. Finally, when it’s too dark to see past the porch in front of them, Soap stands, turning around to face the door, and places his hand on Simon’s shoulder.
“I feel safe with you too, Simon.” he says, hand a comfortable weight on his shoulder. The words barrel him over inside, lighting him up, squeezing at his heart. Soap just pats him, once, and then heads inside.
—
When Simon eventually makes his way inside as well, the pillow and blankets are already set up for him on the couch, and Soap is behind his closed bedroom door. Distantly, Simon listens to the shower running, and then to Soap padding around his room. When the padding stops, Simon assumes he must have gone to bed, even if it’s still relatively early, and prepares to do the same. Stripping down to his tank top and boxers, he lays out the blankets on the couch, the feeling domestic and comforting.
Soap hadn’t said goodnight to him - it’s a break in their normal routine, but even with the hint of anxiety that comes from it, Simon feels comfortable here. Even if things between them are weird, Soap is on the other side of that door, and as long as he’s close, Simon can sleep well. The couch is comfortable, not too soft, and the blankets are just the right kind of scratchy against his skin. He’s just on the edge of sleep, when he hears the bedroom door creak open.
Simon is propping himself up instantly, and Soap is there, standing in the doorway in just his boxers, looking wide-eyed and uncertain. Simon wants to say something, to wipe that expression from his face, but he doesn’t know what.
Soap moves towards him, slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal. He doesn’t break eye contact once, eyes fearful like Simon’s never seen them, as he moves to sit on the couch in front of him. They just sit, looking at each other, for what feels like minutes, Soap searching his face for something. The air is heavy around them, and Simon realizes, distantly, that he’s started breathing hard.
“Johnny -” Simon says, but he doesn’t know if it’s a question, or the beginning of something else.
Soap swallows.
“Simon, if I’ve read this wrong - stop me, okay?”
Oh god. Oh god it’s happening.
Simon’s brain short circuits, as Johnny slowly brings his hands up to his face, leans in, and presses his lips against his.
The kiss is soft, achingly soft, and yet fireworks echo in Simon’s ears, his skin tingling at every place they touch. It’s not an active decision, when he leans into it, shuffling closer to Johnny, wrapping his arms around him to feel him better, nothing but instinct, chasing the perfection he’s feeling. Johnny sighs into the kiss, pleasure-drunk, and god, god, it’s everything Simon has ever wanted. He drags it out, turning one kiss into 2, then 5, then 10, their noses rubbing together, their stubble softly brushing. This. This is what Simon wants, what he wants forever. Peace, with Johnny, in a little cabin. Finally, finally, peace. Even if this all falls apart soon, at least he will have it once, right now, Soap’s hands on his body, their lips working together to weave heaven, hearts stuttering in time.
This. This. This for eternity, Simon begs, silently, even as he’s swathed in it.
Finally, Soap pulls back with a shudder.
They don’t let go of each other, arms tangled together, breathing hard. They look at each other, really look. It’s almost perfect, so close to being perfect.
There’s one more thing Simon has to do. He closes his eyes, and allows himself three breathes, in and out, before opening them again.
“There’s something I need to tell you, Johnny.”
“Oh - uh, okay.” He sounds deliciously out of breath, eyes wide. Simon hopes he isn’t ruining this, before it’s really even started. If he ruins this -
“I - fuck, I don’t know how to say this.” Johnny’s eyebrows stitch together at his tortured tone, concerned.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay - is there a way to show me, instead of telling me?”
Well. Yeah, he supposes there is a way to just show him. Fucking hell, is he really about to do this?
Swallowing down his fear, he grabs Johnny’s hand in his own, splaying out his fingers, cupping underneath it to guide his way.
“Just - just trust me, okay?” He doesn’t know what else to say, heart in his throat, as he guides Johnny’s hand down. Johnny’s face pulls together in a mix of emotions - confusion, at what’s happening, a different kind of confusion, as Simon brings his hand down to cup at his lack of bulge, and then a growing understanding.
“What, oh…oh!” His mouth opens with surprise as he brings the pieces together in his brain. Simon slowly pulls his hand away, and lets it go.
Back straight, jaw clenched, he waits for judgment.
Johnny seems to watch him as he prepares to be rejected, brows still pulled together, clearly thinking hard. A beat of silence, one that Simon could hardly stand, until Johnny saves him from it.
“Okay, mate. Can we kiss again, now?”
Instantly, Simon is disarmed. He was prepared for questions, lots of them, whether good or bad, judgmental or not, but he wasn’t prepared for this - just simple acceptance. And yet - Johnny. Of course, it was Johnny.
“You don’t - you don’t care?”
“Nah, I like all sorts, what do I care?”
“It doesn’t…you don’t…have any questions?” Simon doesn’t know why he’s trying to do this, why he’s attempting to get Johnny to poke and prod, but he just doesn’t understand.
“I mean, there’s a few things I’m curious about. I was gonna wait till later to ask them, but I can ask now, if you want.”
Simon nods. He knows the sort of misinformation that’s out there, even today, 20 or so years after he had his surgery.
“Were you born like this?”
Huh. He doesn’t know why he keeps underestimating Soap.
“No. I had top surgery in 2000.”
“Holy shit, man. 2000. That’s real fucking brave.” And that - that cuts something open, in Simon. Brave, for this? He had never considered that. Brave for other things, sure, but not that. It just felt like what he needed to do, felt like correcting something wrong about his body. But Johnny…Johnny thinks he was brave.
He interrupts his train of thought. “Can I…can I see?” His hand is on his forearm, now, slowly trailing up his arm to the hem of his shirt. Simon nods, Johnny tugs the shirt up, helping him shrug out of it, barring him in the little cabin living room.
Simon has to pull blond chest hair away, and stretch his arms over his head, for Johnny to properly see any hint of the scars along his pecs. He runs the pads of his fingers along the scar tissue, the calluses on his hands deliciously rough, no matter how soft he touches him. Simon shivers.
Suddenly, Johnny stops his inspection, and is jerking his head up to look at Simon.
“This is what you lied to the military about? Holy shit, the balls you have!”
Simon grins. He’s right - that, he can be proud about. He could have been thrown in god damn jail if they ever found out, not to mention dishonorably discharged.
“Oh my god, SAS called you pretty boy, and they didn’t even know!” Simon barks out a laugh with that, and Johnny’s doing the same. Soon they’re holding onto each other for dear life they’re laughing so hard at it all, and god, Simon is so fucking relieved.
They quiet down, finally, grins still in place, hands still comfortably on each other - hands in hands, on arms, on waists. He should’ve never doubted Soap, should have never thought he would be anything other than ready to see him.
“Can I kiss you again, Johnny?”
Johnny looks at him with white-hot affection, hands tightening on him.
“Of course, baby.”
Johnny isn’t as gentle, this time. He cups the back of Simon’s neck and pulls him in, his hands working up and down his now-bare chest and back, feeling, groping, touching every inch of skin he can reach. Soon he’s pulling him into his lap, and Simon thrills at the ease with which he does so. He’s not exactly a small man, after all, but Johnny makes him feel dwarfed, anyway, his hands big around his waist, tugging at his hair, kneading at his thighs. His kisses are aggressive, biting things, perfect against Simon’s mouth.
“Can I call you pretty? Is that okay?” He whispers it against his neck, and Simon is nodding instantly, something like a whine escaping from his mouth.
“Oh Simon, pretty baby, thank you, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he’s kissing down his neck, now, each word tumbling out of him like a prayer against his skin, and Simon is throwing his head back, each touch so much, yet not enough.
“Please, Johnny, please -” His voice is absolutely wrecked, and they’ve barely started, but god, he’s never felt anything like this before, never felt so wanted.
Johnny’s leaning back up to look at his face right away. “What do you need, gorgeous, tell me.” His accent rolls his words, he sounds so good, looks so good, in the soft light of their little haven, and Simon knows exactly what he wants.
“Bedroom?”
“Bedroom.”