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The thing was, now that Soap knew what was hiding underneath that mask, he couldn’t stop. Thinking about it. Picturing it. In not so appropriate circumstances. It was like a curse that Soap had asked for. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
They had to leave base that night. There was no time for exploring the depths of Soap’s imagination. If he thought that before was torture, this was far worse. He kept catching himself staring at Ghost– not that he wasn’t doing it before. But now, it felt heavier. Weighty. And Ghost was meeting his stare right back, as they were restocking their gear, the walk to the plane, the humvee to the op.
It was a regular recon and retrieval mission. Price had sent them out– just the two of them. There was someone with eyes on private military ops that needed dealing with. The debrief was simple enough. Get eyes, make contact, retrieve the package, ideally staying stealth the entire time.
It was something Ghost could have done alone, but apparently none of them were feeling particularly inclined to operate solo after the shitshow that was Las Almas. Soap’s face twisted when Price called Ghost to his office for the debrief before he mentioned Soap as well.
That was new. The L.t. was perfectly capable if not the most deadly of the lot of them. If there was someone who could move through enemy territory like a fuckin’ force of nature and not make a single noise, so that no one knew they were compromised ‘till a knife cut through their carotid, it was Ghost. There was no reason for Soap to feel that twist in his chest, and yet.
They hadn’t even talked about whatever the hell happened. Hiding in the shadow of that building like they weren’t in the middle of a military base, snuck away like teenagers. It was absurd. It was perfect.
The current problem was the mud stuck in his boots, painting the front of his legs and his chest as Soap laid with a rifle pointed at their target. The problem, more specifically, being that Soap couldn’t stop fuckin’ thinking about his L.t.’s mouth while he had to have eyes across some 200 meters.
They had been here for just under 8 hours. They had 72 hours before exfil. The timeline was tight, but they knew the target’s usual schedule and had identified a few possible timeframes for infiltration. Price had got them a safehouse across the countryside in the form of a small shed, which Soap was not happy with. It was too fuckin’ hot not to be setup somewhere with working aircon, but at least they had running water.
Soap adjusted the butt the rifle digging his shoulder. He kept eyes on the target as they moved about their small home, shuffling about the kitchen with a bright red cardigan on. It was hilariously easy to follow. He wasn’t planning on firing, didn’t have his finger on the trigger, but Ghost and him both wanted to get a proper sense of the timeline– evening routine particularly.
Ghost was taking the shift after him, and was likely sweating his arse off while setting up the safehouse. Soap was sweating too; the cool wet earth he was laying on had long since warmed from his body heat. He was going to need a hell of a shower to get this off.
“Ghost. What time?”
A short pause.
“22:56.”
“Thank Christ,” Soap muttered back. His shift was ending soon.
“Not enjoying the view Johnny?”
“Clabbery as hell oot here.”
“English, Soap.”
“I’m covered in fuckin’ mud, L.t.”
“Good lad.”
Soap refused to respond to that. Refused to think about how, if he did, he wouldn’t know how to stop. Where to stop. Not when he had to go right back to their too-small shed for the night. Soap was just able to see the safehouse in the distance, and their coms were enough to keep him mildly entertained. He didn’t want to fuck up this peace they had developed.
They would trade shifts for a few hours, and Johnny couldn’t wait to get this layer of dirt off him. It fused to his skin, snaked into his boots. He’d feel better after a cold shower, for a few reasons.
After a grunted “Affirmative,” from Ghost, Soap gathered up his rifle and headed back to the safehouse. Ghost was keeping watch for the next few hours, and Soap wanted to sneak in as much shut-eye as he could.
The shed was hidden away in the woods, invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking for it. Soap shoved his way in through the front door and past the meager living space. Calling it that was generous. There was a small couch, a counter with a tiny portable camping stove next to a sink, and the saddest kettle Soap has ever seen sitting on the stove.
He got about two steps inside before Ghost stopped him with a hand to his chest.
“Don’t track that mud all around.” He was dressed in his gear, light enough for quick movement but ready for anything to go tits up (as it often did).
“Ghost,” Soap sighed, “we’re barely here long enough to set up. There’s mud in my bones, the boots cannae make it worse.”
Ghost just kept staring at him, unmoving. That bastard. This was ridiculous.
“Yer wastin’ time L.t.”
His clothed chin moved just slightly, like he was grinding his teeth. Then, Ghost dropped to his knees.
Soap barely held himself back from jumping out of skin. What. The. Hell.
Before he could question the man, Ghost tugged none too gently at Soap’s mud–covered laces. The now drying flakes of earth and dirt flaked off and dirtied his gloves. But Soap was busy appreciating the picture of his L.t. on his knees, in front of him, taking off his boots like it was nothing.
Soap balanced gracelessly on one foot when Ghost grabbed his boot and pulled so aggressively he almost fell on the man. Soon enough both nasty shoes were set to the side near the door, and Ghost rose back to his feet.
“Was that so hard?” Ghost asked, now mere centimeters away from him. They were sharing breath.
“Negative,” Soap choked out.
Ghost put a hand on his shoulder as he moved past Soap and out of the safehouse without a word. Christ.
Soap ran a hand through his mohawk and immediately regretted it, feeling the way the dirt was clinging to his hair.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mumbled.
Aware that his socks were in just as sorry of a state, he shuffled through the shed to the bathroom. It was just as small as every other part of this place, but there was enough room for a sink, toilet, and shower. Good enough for him.
Slowly, Soap started peeling mud-covered layers off. His tac vest was going to need to be detailed. Buckles and straps and velcro came off, nowhere else to be laid other than the floor. Hopefully Ghost wouldn’t get on his arse about that too.
Left in his boxers– which were largely spared, thank Christ– Soap shut the door behind him and went to the bedroom. The only bedroom that there was in this tiny shed. There hadn’t been any discussion about sleeping arrangements. The mattress wasn’t even a queen, and both men were too large to attempt the couch. At least while they had shifts they could each get a few hours of rest comfortably.
Soap wasn’t even sure Ghost had slept at all yet, actually, which was going to bite him in the arse if he kept it up.
He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a black t-shirt from his things and went back to the bathroom. The blessed, holy shower was waiting for him, and Soap was planning on enjoying every second.
He did, in fact, enjoy every second. Maybe a bit too much, head leaning against the tile, eyes closed. Time seemed to slow, the rhythmic sound of the water pattering on the walls, the floor. Lines of brown and black dirt slowly made their way to the drain as Soap reached for the small bottle of soap resting on the lid of the tub.
It took longer than he expected to get the dirt from under his nails and between his toes. He didn’t feel much cleaner when he got out, but his skin was red and irritated and Soap was beat. He had finished his last shift, and he wanted to actually properly rest before Ghost got back and he had to confront the reality that was the rest of the night.
Soap grabbed one of the two small towels hanging up and roughly rubbed his hair dry. He should really comb it through, but it’ll probably get gross again tomorrow anyway. Putting on his clothes, he had a moment of clarity and remembered to grab his coms from his vest in case Ghost needed anything.
He stumbled onto the bed and under the meager blankets. It was hot in here too, especially under the blankets, but Soap couldn’t be bothered to remove more than his t-shirt and throw it in a corner. The day wasn’t particularly extraneous but Soap hadn’t slept recently. He’s never been able to sit still, and since Las Almas restful sleep has been evading him. It’s not that bad– could be much worse– but it wasn’t doing him any favors.
Soap sighed as his body grew heavier under the blankets. He was melting, sinking into the ground. Just like the mud he was laying in earlier. Thunder cracked outside.
The mud was pulling him down, sticky and thick like molasses. Soap looked down, his boots were becoming harder to pick up with each step. The rain breaking up puddles of reflections with each drop.
“Soap, how copy?”
Ghost, on the radio, asking for him. It was dark as hell, broken street lamps cutting silhouettes of Shadows from the background.
“Johnny, how copy?”
Soap needed to respond. He was barely able to move his feet, the mud was covering his boots, swallowing them. His shoulder pulsed with pain, radiating up and down his arm in time with his heart sending futile blood to the limb. He couldn’t raise his arm.
“Johnny, how copy? I’ve got hostiles.” Ghost asked again, voice rough.
Soap shuffled forward, sinking in the ground. It was getting darker, no moon to illuminate anything near him. All he could feel was the mud, inching up his legs. Soap tried to raise his good arm to respond, but it resisted. Cuffed, metal clanging loudly on a piece of rebar jutting out of the rubble of a collapsed building. Shit, Shadows would hear that.
He had to respond. Soap tugged on the cuff but it didn’t give.
“Johnny, how-” Ghost was cut off with a grunt. The sound of mass hitting mass and bullets ringing out, once echoing on streets and once barely delayed through the radio.
Fuck.
His bad arm was cement. The mud was up to his hips now, he couldn’t feel his feet. The pressure on his legs increased any time he moved, like a constrictor wrapped around his body.
Soap tugged harder on the cuff, digging into the skin at his wrist. More shots rang out. Blood was dripping down his wrist.
The radio came back to life with a rasp. Quiet and muffled, Ghost’s voice came through.
“John-Johnny,” a rattling cough seemed to echo around his ears, piercingly loud in its quiet, “where were you?”
FUCK this. Soap didn’t have time for quiet. Ghost didn’t have time for stealth.
“Ghost!” Soap yelled out, uncaring that he was in enemy territory. He couldn’t reach his radio. Ghost couldn’t hear him. He had to hear him. “Ghost!”
He felt something pop in his wrist. There was blood pouring from it now, too fast and too dark. Soap looked down, the mud was stained a deep red.
“Simon!”
He was rattling, his heart, his chest, he could feel vibrations of gunshots echoing in his bones.
“Johnny-”
That didn’t come from the radio. Soap whipped his head around, where was he?
“Simon!” He yelled, desperate.
“-me. Johnny wake up.”
His eyes shot open and Soap jolted. His wrists were restrained, a large body over him and looming and holding one of his arms down, the other caught under his own weight.
Soap scrambled, trying to get away but the hand holding his head wouldn’t let go. His breath was gasping.
“Just me. It’s Simon, Johnny. I need you to breathe.”
It wasn’t quite as dark, not the pitch black of deep Shadow territory. Soap’s eyes moved rapidly around the room. Wood paneling to his right, a mound of blankets thrown to the floor, and-
Simon, thank Christ. That was Simon above him.
He took a rattling breath and met uncovered eyes and disheveled hair.
Simon kept a hand cradling his face and slowly loosened his death grip on Soap’s wrist.
“That’s it. Breathe. I got you.”
With every word Soap felt the nasty hole in his chest uncoil. He could feel the tears on his face.
“Fuck, Simon. I-” Soap choked on the rest of his sentence. He brought his healed arm to grab the wrist holding him so gently. He shuddered as he felt the strong pulse, proof of life, through his veins.
“Shh,” Simon hushed him, “you’re fine. You’re okay. I’m here. We’re fine.”
He took solace in the short statements, trusted them unequivocally, with his life. Soap closed his eyes and leaned to rest his forehead against Simon’s. His gasps slowed from adrenaline-high and frantic to exhausted and pained.
“I was back there,” his rough voice was barely a whisper. He kept his eyes squeezed shut. “You were- you called. And the mud, I couldn’t- I couldn’t move and-”
“We’re not back there, we’re not. Johnny, look at me.”
He met Simon’s piercing gaze, so close to him.
“We’re fine. It’s just past 0300. We’re in this tiny, shitty shed and you can hear all the fuckin’ bugs outside in these woods. It’s not raining.”
He was right– of course he was. Soap could feel the sweat on his skin, the way the temperature hadn’t even dropped, Simon’s thumb brushing across his cheekbone. His fingers resting lightly on his head, his palm warm against Soap’s cheek.
He pushed into the hand, into the feeling of warmth, and not wet cold bloody mud.
Soap finally managed a deep breath. “Christ alive.”
“Feeling better Johnny?”
Simon’s eyes were moving back and forth between his. Soap let himself take in Simon, unmasked, unguarded, so different from the Ghost he usually saw. He had a slight furrow between his brows. His stubble was shaved down– when did he have time for that? His jaw was tense. There was another scar that cut an eyebrow shorter than the other. His hair looked like he hadn’t brushed it in a week.
God, Johnny loved his man. It hit him fully, completely in this moment. No one else got to see him like this. No one else got to know what he knew. No one but Johnny.
He pushed forward suddenly, lips finding Simon’s, because he needed to, had to kiss this man.
Soap came to his senses a moment later, just long enough for Simon to be completely surprised. He pulled back.
“Shit- fuck. I’m sorry,” Soap stuttered out, “I’m-”
Simon didn’t let him say any more, reaching Johnny and kissing him again, firm and present. He was warm and here on top of Johnny, his other hand releasing his wrist and holding the nape of his neck. Johnny brought both hands to grab Simon’s shirt, his chest, desperately, needing an anchor that would keep him here and not back there in the mud.
He gave that to him. Simon gently laid himself on Johnny’s chest, like he was worried he was going to smother him. That’s what Johnny wanted. He was still feeling unsettled, unstable, and then-
And then Simon opened his mouth, and Johnny was gone. He gasped, suddenly remembering the piercing– how could he forget? The cold barbell was shocking in the best way. It invaded Johnny’s mouth, sending electricity down his spine as Simon licked his way inside. Johnny pushed and prodded at it with his tongue, eliciting the most gorgeous sound from Simon.
“Fuck, Johnny-”
Johnny needed to hear that again, immediately.
“You should try to sleep,” Ghost said with a rasp. He moved to kiss along his jaw, up to his ear, hips resting on Johnny’s.
“I’m nae-” he interrupted himself with a yawn.
“You’re not what?” Simon pushed back to look at him with a grin.
Johnny rolled his eyes and pulled Simon back to him, resting his arms around him. He shoved his face in the crook of his neck and breathed in.
“I won’t be able to sleep,” he muttered into Simon’s neck.
“And if we’re like this?” Johnny filled in the rest of the question: will that help?
The tiredness from lack of sleep was being replaced by the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from a nightmare that has you nearly punching someone in your sleep. But even if Johnny couldn’t sleep, maybe Simon would be able to. One of them had to be functional.
“Hmm.” Johnny tightened his grip on Simon and used his legs to help roll them over. Simon quickly got the idea and shuffled up the bed, throwing an arm out to grab a stray pillow to shove under them both.
Johnny was content hearing Simon’s heartbeat under his ear, a consistent thump, thump, thump that matched his breathing. He wrapped his arms around Simon’s sides, one sliding underneath his shirt. He needed to feel his warmth.
“Is this okay?” Johnny mumbled, eyes already closed.
Simon brought his face down into Johnny’s hair. He could feel himself slipping into sleep as Simon’s hand moved up and down his back.
“Of course, love.” Simon whispered. Johnny was already asleep.