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–
it started with a blizzard. or really, ends with it.
in a rare moment of mercy, the universe had made the mission go smoother than normal–an occurrence that became more of a nice dream the longer you served in the military in any capacity. that was not to say it went as planned , just smoother than normal.
laswell managed to track a group of interest to a nameless town in romania, of all countries. the group of five men had been suffering from a severe onset of hypothermia, a particularly nasty blizzard plaguing the northern region recently, and had been mostly dead by the time they found them. their fingers were black, skin peeling off in thick chunks, the last stages of frostbite etching it’s way into their skin long after death.
price’s dissatisfied grumble filled the radio briefly, ending in a crackle as his voice died down. ghost’s eyes swept across the house not for the first time, but less alertly so. he kicked his foot almost absently against a toppled over wooden chair, and brushed his heel against the moss climbing through the wooden planks of the floor. nothing but a small, dying candle lit the end of the house–if it was big enough to even be called that, looking more like a shed than anything else–shadows accentuated by the lack of sun. both from the storm clouds, and as night fell.
soap rose from his crouched position, clenching the muscles in the left side of his face, swiping his eyes over the bodies, their last pose immortalised in the way they crowded around the empty fireplace. clinging to the warmth of a candle, ghost silently thanked his tolerance to the cold.
“ghost, how copy?”
ghost cleared his throat, reaching for the radio. “clear. two men here, died of frostbite long before we arrived.”
price sighed over the comms, not bothering to shut them off. ahead of him, soap shifted uncomfortably, his eyebrow twitching at the sight of pus leaking from the dead men’s hands. “nothing here either,” said gaz, followed by a sigh, “save for some rats.”
“right,” price said, mostly as affirmation to confirm he’d heard both parties, pausing to debate what to say next.
“we should call for exfil,” soap piped up from across the room, to ghost and not the comms.
ghost pursed his lips beneath his mask. “negative. we might find something of use here.”
“like what?” soap sniped back, “besides a frozen candle?”
ghost bit back a sigh, lowering his rifle. internally, he knew soap was at least partially right, they’d likely not find anything, but he wasn’t quite ready to call all his bases covered just yet. “laswell mentioned briefcases, and they’ve got no guns on them.”
“reckon we’ll find them here?”
“maybe,” ghost answered truthfully. “never hurt to look.”
soap breathed through his nose in mild amusement, his breath panning out before him in a white cloud of smoke. “that’s not true.”
“no,” ghost agreed, watching the other man’s face for much longer than he’d like to admit–dragging his eyes across his chin, and his eyebrow when it twitched, and savouring the almost amicable silence–turning on his heel to check the other end of the house, “no it isn’t.”
–
soap ended up being right. nobody found anything, not even the hint of a pistol or the idea of a briefcase. the blizzard picked up again by the time price called for exfil, leaving the group–141 and a handful of royal marines–stranded in the beat up town until the helicopter could push through the thick snowstorm to their location.
ghost, human heater that he wasn’t, ended up huddled into himself on one end of a green couch that hadn’t been dusted in ages. it smelt like someone cooked week old eggs on every square inch of the furniture and left every fibrous pore filled with skunk odour. soap sat on the other end, his jacket wrapped around him like a blanket, frowning at the opposite wall.
gaz had taken to filling the comms with idle noise, sometimes whistling, sometimes pestering price with bad knock knock jokes. price most definitely had the comms muted by now, and ghost would’ve kept them muted too if not for the sheer boredom overtaking him. the one thing they never tell you about the SAS is the sheer amount of waiting you do–never something you’d think you have trouble with until you do.
soap clicked his tongue. broken from his stupor, ghost slightly turned to face the other man, mostly because he’d gotten tired of counting the holes in the wall.
soap’s face was contorted thoughtfully, his lips pressed together, his cheeks pushing upwards into his eyes, making them crease at the corners. ghost almost wanted to push, to ask what he was thinking, but decided abruptly against it.
the silence held for a few more minutes. ghost knew soap knew he was being watched, and didn’t mind, subsequently, not an inch of his body betraying any sort of distrust. besides him being curled in on himself to counteract the cold, his hands rubbing the sides of his chest, he continued to stare at the wall.
ghost looked away for a moment. it felt uncomfortable, after staring for so long at the mottled skin of soap’s chin, it felt weird to stare at the wall once more. from the corner of his eyes he saw soap chance a glance at him, pursing his lips and looking away once more.
ghost licked his teeth. something in him stirred uncomfortably, forcing him to shift his weight around to properly envelop himself. perhaps it was the cold, or the uncomfortable feeling of the blood around his heart feeling cold. like an adrenaline spike, or the hint of excitement at the prospect of danger. ghost was not excited.
ghost looked again. soap was still staring, unabashedly, unashamed. his pale blue eyes searching his mask, as if to draw his face with his eyes. ghost wondered what sort of picture soap would draw of him. he’s seen his notebook, filled to the corners with mindless doodles. pictures of gaz, his old bunkmates, keepsakes he’s kept throughout his time in the military. he’s seen his drawings of price, detailed down to the few eyebrow hairs dangerously close to his eyelids.
ghost wonders if soap’s ever drawn him. if when they stared across that table in las almas, if soap was trying to memorise his face with his eyes. reaching deep into himself, ghost finds that, if it turned out to be true–that there was a page in his notebook with his face plastered over it–he wouldn’t mind all that much.
ghost swallows. soap’s still staring. then he looks away, and his heart shamefully drops into his stomach. like he’s done something wrong, or like a kid growing up in a second, watching the colourful world drain into the ugly grey’s of adulthood.
it’s been like this for a bit. the past few weeks have been plagued by this non-speaking. ghost isn’t one to initiate conversation, finds that he never has quite the right words to start anything meaningful, but will gladly follow suit.
soap’s beginning to watch ghost pass him by. silently, every time they pass by the other for a glass of water back at base, or on a mission, soap’s eyes follow him, then turn away. turn down, in a look of shame, without a word exchanged.
ghost can’t figure what he’s done to push johnny so far away.
his gut turns. the blades of a helicopter slicing through the air fills the sound outside, approaching closely. with a heavy heart he stands, removing his hands from digging into his thighs, and moves slowly towards the door.
–
they’re back in hereford by midnight. price offers to take them out for a drink, half because the AC unit back at base is perpetually busted and they’re all cold, and half because they all need it after a whole lot of whatever that mission was.
ghost’s not one to drink, but if he was, then he’d need this drink for a different reason. it’s enough to make him contemplate actually going for it, before his hand stutters over the empty glass and he decides it’s not worth it. not yet, anyways.
soap opts not to tag along and just head to bed. ghost knows, reasonably, he’s probably not going to do that and spend the night passing time in any way he can, probably by drawing or daydreaming or whatever else he does. ghost know’s soap’s sleep schedule as intimately as he knows his own–partially because of how many times he gets woken up by soap swearing quietly after stubbing his toe at half past two.
he can’t tell if he’s being avoided. it’s possible he is. price gives soap a weary once over and opts not to ask, and ghost watches soap walk away to base with a sadness lurking in his gut that he hopes doesn’t reach his eyes.
ghost opts to sit next to gaz. better than brooding silently in a corner, at least he could sit in some sort of knowing silence. the pub hummed with life around him, people with reasons to laugh filling the air with their happiness. the emotion felt like a pungent odour, plying his chest open to reveal the negative emotions buried underneath.
gaz was cool. at first, like many others, he’d flinched a bit at ghost. the mask, combined with his stature, didn’t really give the idea of friendliness. not that it was the idea he was attempting to give away, anyways. but gaz was nice. cool, down to earth, he was about as normal as you could be in this line of work. like a breath of fresh air, when something was wrong he’d say it.
he probably should’ve seen the next words coming, in hindsight.
“look, mate,” gaz had started, swirling his drink around in his glass. ghost gently glanced at his face, the seat between them feeling more like a placeholder than anything. “i don’t mean to pry, but i can’t exactly ask him directly.”
ghost pursed his lips, like anyone would see it.
“do you know what’s going on with soap?”
ghost felt like he needed a drink to get through this conversation. selection almost felt a preferable experience-and he woke up to a leech on his ass on his first day in the jungle. “no,” he answered eventually, finding a keen fascination suddenly with the various alcoholic beverages stacked neatly in rows in the back of the bar. “been avoiding me like the plague.”
“hm,” gaz muttered, setting his glass down. “cause he’s been kind of…” he paused, cracking his knuckles mindlessly, “stiff, lately. absent in a way. thought you might know what’s up.”
“no.” ghost parroted, wishing he could give gaz a better answer.
“well, if anything comes up let me know, yeah?” gaz said, turning to look at him. “we’re a team. we don’t suffer in silence.” and it mostly felt like the last part of the sentence was directed more to him than to soap.
“right,” ghost said in acknowledgement, still studying the wooden base of the bar.
gaz stood. “right. tell price i’m heading back to base.”
“mm,” ghost hummed in agreement, drumming his fingers against the mahogany and listening to gaz’s retreating footsteps. silently, he lifted his eyes to the empty bar, and thought that maybe he could deal with the noise of the crowd a little longer, if only to not have to return to his empty room.
–
ghost thinks about soap a bit too much the coming night. when he returns to his room at quarter past 1, his bed feels more like a chore than a blessing. he’d be up by 4 anyways, and it takes him an hour to fall asleep to begin with. ghost clasps his hands on his stomach and stares at the ceiling, thinking maybe tracing the patterns of moonlight will make his heart feel lighter.
johnny’s the first thing that comes to mind. not soap, johnny. his too long mohawk that he’s been too lazy to cut. his fingers curling into silent fists when containing his anger, his notebook. the hypothetical page of ghost, of simon. of johnny’s face, curled up in itself, frustration in his eyes, scanning the room but never finding what he wants to find.
the skin of his face. the scratch of his half shaven beard. ghost runs a thumb down the back of his other hand and wonders. in the next room there is nothing. not snoring, not cursing, not even the sounds of johnny’s quiet breathing, the too-thin walls betraying the complete emptiness plaguing that room.
he thinks about memories. ghost has never been a photographer or particularly skilled in any form of artistic composition, but he thinks about puzzle pieces. he recalls a time when johnny was surprised, his eyebrows raised just slightly, and his breath misting out of his mouth. he remembers what johnny’s face looked like in the moonlight, driving to alejandro’s safehouse.
he remembers in las almas, when soap whispered ‘ghost,’ into the silent comms, hoping for some reassurance that he wasn’t, in fact, alone. ghost plays with the memory, and thinks about how he could’ve said his name if it wasn’t in a ‘i’m going to die,’ kind of way, but more of a ‘i want you right here, right now,’ kind of way. he thinks about his accent. he thinks about how his lips might wrap around his real name, around simon.
and he thinks about the time he pulled his mask off. he thinks about johnny’s hands doing it instead. he thinks about greeting him bare faced, bare heart. leaving his emotions splayed across his entire face, and not just his eyes. he thinks about johnny's lips.
ghost blinks, and it’s gone.
his hand unravels itself from the tight hold he was gripping his shirt with, pressing into his eyes to rub away the sweet memory and he’s–crying. has been, apparently. ghost presses the heel of his palm into his eyes and wills himself not to continue crying, but once the first tear is gone, the others break through easily.
and he realises the problem. he loves soap. ghost loves soap.
and soap knows.
simon covers his other eye, and feels himself fall apart.
–