Work Text:
Ghost slipped his newly acquired bookmark into its proper place as slumping parents with wiggling infants and those wearing military fatigues began to queue for boarding.
Damn . Ghost had just become intrigued by the main protagonist’s mysterious past, hinted by fleeting snippets and vague anecdotes about a life prior to her work as an actress. Prose so dreamlike, her indistinct recollections left him itching to turn the page to gain just a little more insight into her batshit insanity . It read almost like a conversation with a superior officer who had seen too much. Often, they refused to divulge such horrors all in one terrible go, no matter the scrutiny of the morbidly curious. (Maybe, it read like a conversation with him , but that thought could be unpacked later.)
Soap had been right; Ghost did like this book - at least, so far. He just hoped it kept his interest for an entire eight-hour flight.
The first gaggle of passengers slinked onto the gangway and disappeared into its depths. Soon, Ghost’s group would be called up. Confirming his memory, he pulled out a folded boarding pass from his front hoodie pocket, “Group B - Premium Economy” stamped neatly onto it.
Ghost ignored the rather silly little dread pulling his sternum at the thought of soon parting from Soap’s side. Equally, he disregarded the impulse to produce an excuse to linger behind until Soap's group was called - if only to spare himself any of the younger man's certain teasing. (Not that a little needling would be undeserved for this… thing Ghost had developed for Soap so fucking rapidly. Bloody hell, less than seventy-two fucking hours, and Ghost already abhorred the idea of Soap being out of his sight!)
Glancing over at said travel partner, Ghost’s heart skipped one too many beats for his comfort. But, fuck, how could it not? Johnny never ceased to look beautiful when consuming a book; the outline of his muscular figure relaxed, dark-lined eyes sharp with concentration, plush lips parted a tiny fraction.
And I caused that.
Pride bloomed in his chest. Soap’s thumb already held a distinct chunk of pages away from their unread counterparts. Ghost, it would seem, had also guessed right. And it felt a little - or a lot - like he won some sort of strange prize. A prize he did not want to let go of just yet.
“What’s your boarding group?” Ghost asked before clearing his throat.
Soap tapped his thumb and mouthed something to himself. He did not look away from his page. In fact, it appeared as if he wanted to memorize some passage (or formula?), even as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans with his free hand. Retrieving his own boarding pass, he finally tore his eyes away from Ghost’s gift.
“B,” Soap replied.
Ghost fought against the impulse to thank the universe for this small mercy of time together. No, no, it had nothing to do with fate or a god smiling down on him. It made perfect sense that since their tickets were purchased at the same time, their seats would be somewhat close -
Soap reached out. His warm - so fucking warm - fingers pressed against Ghost’s. The contact sent a whistling grenade from the back of his hand to the depths of his belly. At the same time, Soap coaxed Ghost’s wrist into pivoting so his boarding pass was more legible at his angle. “Oh, looks like we’re sitting next to each other. How weird is that?”
Oh. Okay. That… no, divine intervention had nothing on this! Absolutely not.
(Thank fuck.)
“You better not snore,” Ghost warned.
Soap snorted. “Oh, Lt. You already know I do.”
Yes, that Ghost did. And he knew exactly how he did so, soft and adorable for a man his age. All the better, those sounds reassured Ghost of Soap’s continued presence without being detrimental to his own efforts to sleep. If anything, they lulled him. And, for whatever god-forsaken reason, that memory caused a swell of affection so massive it nearly stole his breath. God, Simon ached from it.
“...we now welcome boarding group b…”
Ghost tapped his foot with Soap’s. They both stood, mirroring one another as they gathered themselves and their belongings. After a minor stop at the ticket scanner, both men hobbled down the gangway to meet the previous group still awaiting clear passage into their plane.
Shit , stale air chilled Ghost despite his layers. It almost crossed the line into discomfort. Almost. Having tasted real cold several times in his life, it took more than a wintry afternoon in Chicago to get his teeth chattering. Soap, on the other hand, shivered none too subtly next to him.
To his credit, Johnny did not complain. He simply crossed his arms over his chest, pressed his knees together, and danced on his heels. A couple of times, he stood on his tip-toes in an attempt to ascertain the reason for their hold-up - or so Ghost assumed. But Soap did not make so much as a disgruntled snort or impatient click. If anything, curiosity rather than irritation flashed over his intense blues.
Ghost did not know - may never know - why he felt compelled to wrap his arm around Soap despite his better judgment. Rubbing along Soap’s arm, he thought of several excuses. The most prominent one being his instinct, as a commanding officer, to protect his subordinate. Not that those flimsy justifications needed to be vocalized. Soap merely pressed against Ghost’s side and chuckled, “Thanks, Simon.”
Simon. Simon. Simon.
Soap had called him by his given name plenty of times. But murmured around such a sweet smile? While his eyes sparkled with mirth? As Ghost held him? Fuck, those two simple syllables punched him right in the chest.
Eventually, the crowd thinned and funneled into their aircraft. If not for the frigid walkway, Ghost may have mourned Soap’s physical presence on his body. As it was, he could not be happier traversing a narrow aisle toward their seats.
Another minor miracle, Laswell must have pulled some strings to ensure that the (injured) men under her hospitality had a comfortable amount of space on their way home. Additionally, neither of them had to sit next to a stranger, assigned to double seats next to a window.
Ghost’s headphones lost a little bit of their utility. Not that he minded. All the better.
Soap scooted into his seat and adjusted his computer bag over his lap. As Ghost dropped into his own, his companion wasted little time retrieving his book, nearly kicking the rest of his belongings beneath the seat in front of him and diving back into his exploration of stellar chemistry. Once again, the world lost Soap. And, once again, Ghost’s ego purred.
Never in need of a conversation partner, Ghost pulled out his own novel, nonplussed by Soap’s inattention.
At page forty, their plane began to pull away from its gate and a safety demonstration replaced the advertisements on Soap’s screen. He sat his open book over his right knee. The fingers of his left hand curled around their shared armrest. Bracing, his chest tightened and joints locked.
Fuck. Here we go. Soap flew so often, he had long since memorized the configuration and emergency materials of most modern commercial and military aircraft. Yet, takeoff and landing still sent his heart rate soaring, a reaction he could not seem to shake regardless of his experience or training. Hell, Soap had an easier time parachuting out of a moving plane than taking a landing on the same fucking thing.
In most circumstances, Soap would grin and bear his trembling, hoping the other passengers didn’t notice his sudden swell of anxiety (or how suspiciously easy it fell away once they were in the air). He comforted himself in the knowledge that at least some of his fellow travelers suffered the same bout of nervousness. Humans were not meant to fly, after all. But, next to his lieutenant, Soap’s fear had an added sour note: shame.
Shame made his heart palpitations all the more intense, eeking toward pain.
Of course, Ghost had seen him fly more than a handful of times in the last couple of weeks they’d worked together. However, there was a stark difference between a cargo plane’s worth of space in the dark and mere centimeters of separation illuminated by overhead lighting.
Maybe Ghost won’t notice. Maybe -
“Take my elbow,” Ghost whispered.
Like a good soldier, Soap did not overthink or hesitate to comply with his commanding officer's order. He closed his eyes and took the offered appendage into his tight grip. Without plastic edges digging into his palm, it was a much less painful experience than attempting to crush his armrest. (Yet, less to distract himself with.)
Wheels up, Ghost reminded Soap to inhale. “Just breathe, Johnny. That’s good.”
A small tremor shook their cabin. Soap bit back a yelp. Steamin' Jesus , due to the common nature of air pockets, his planes had plummeted, without warning, hundreds of times with nary a peep from the Scot. Yet, he needed to hide his nose in Ghost’s upper arm just to keep himself from whimpering over a little unexpected turbulence.
Thankfully, only a few minutes passed before an announcement that they’d reached ten thousand feet opened the vice grip on Soap’s lungs. As sudden as it had come, all trepidation fell away, leaving behind only sheer mortification.
Soap peeled away from his lieutenant's side and opened his eyes. Ghost peered down at him with an expression so gentle and curious it provided a mild balm for his wounded pride. At the very least, Ghost wasn’t upset with him.
An abashed chuckle bubbled out of Soap. “Sorry about that. Shoulda warned you."
"Didn't take you for a nervous flyer," Ghost teased. Something like amusement crinkled in the corners of his eyes.
"I'm not. It's just the -" Soap made an ascending and descending motion with his hands. "-parts that get me." He laughed.
"I know," Ghost patted the knuckles still white against his hoodie.
Soap released him. Ah. So he had noticed.
How often had Ghost observed him? The oddest combination of flattery and humiliation churned in Soap’s stomach. At least I'm cute enough to warrant admiring.
Soap licked his lips. "Commercial flights get me the worst," he added with a chuckle. "Can't really hide and it somehow, er, makes it worse." Not… exactly a lie. Being unable to hide from Ghost did somehow make it worse.
Regardless, Soap meant it more as a joke. Ghost, for his part, nodded in a contemplative manner. “Ah, so it’s the fear of the fear that gets you.”
Soap blinked up at him. “What?”
Ghost hummed and shifted in his seat a bit. Uncomfortable, as if caught saying something he hadn't meant to. “Sometimes, it's the fear of an …episode that triggers one."
Wow. Ghost said so much in that one statement. Although it may not have been a canyon's worth of depth in terms of vulnerability, it was a start. A spidering crack in his walls just for Soap.
Soap tucked that little nugget of gold in his front pocket. While he hated that Ghost had his own demons to fight in public spaces, him sharing that with him? Willingly? Outside of a life or death situation? Soap could practically dance in his seat as he went back to his book.
Maybe they could be friends after all.
Several hours passed with little incident. One by one, section by section, overhead lights began to switch off as most prepared to nap the rest of the way to London. Soap, succumbing to either exhaustion or polite sensibilities, also turned his personal light off.
Damnit. Ghost only had a handful of pages left. Oh well. He, too, reached up and turned his reading light off. If Soap planned to sleep, he would not disturb him. The kid needed as much rest as he could get. His book could wait.
Soap leaned back and to the right - away from Ghost. In the dimness, he watched as Soap shifted and winced, trying and failing to find a comfortable position that didn't aggravate his sore arm. A few times, he closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. But then he would blink and the process would begin again. Ghost rolled his eyes. Enough of this.
Ghost popped their shared armrest from its locked position and swiveled it into a hidden compartment between their seats. "Here," he offered, patting his right arm.
Any expectation of hesitancy on Soap's part shattered the moment he readily snuggled up against Ghost. “Thanks, mate,” he yawned as his head lolled onto Ghost’s offered shoulder. In a matter of breaths, Soap appeared out for the count.
The corner of Ghost’s lips curled behind his mask. Once again, Soap defied all predictions. Refreshing, after so many men under his command had to be barked at in order to accept assistance. Soap, on the other hand, seemed to find little shame in extending or accepting a helping hand. If anything, he had a healthy appreciation for his comrades watching his back, always trusting their intentions to be good.
Even Graves, until the very last moment, had Johnny’s faith. Ghost remembered distinctly how Soap pulled Alejandro back by the shoulder to protect that American prick from enraged hands. At the same time, he put a hand out to stop Graves from approaching his newfound friend. Admirable, so fucking admirable, for Johnny to try to prevent them both from doing something that - in his mind - they would later regret. As if all they needed were cooler heads and clearer words, and they could all be buddies again.
Maybe, maybe, seeing that display was the catalyst for Ghost’s amorous affection. Maybe seeing that small token of kindness, of compassion in spite of Grave’s inevitable betrayal spoke to something he had long since buried. Truth be told, by that point, Soap had already won Ghost’s respect for his bravery, intelligence, and survivability a hundred times over. Therefore, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on must have changed that esteem into sheer and utter infatuation.
But, no, Ghost had known by then what kind of man worked alongside him. Saw it with every fist bump and shoulder pat. Heard it with every new Spanish word in his vocabulary. Felt it each time his expression grew gnarled at the mere mention of children in danger’s way.
So, could it have been Soap’s more private display of tenderness? That gentle apology Soap made to Ghost after he dug the bullet out of his arm? Recontextualizing everything he knew about the Scot?
Ghost leaned back and closed his eyes, thinking back to a lifetime ago in Alejandro’s safe house.
“That could not have been fun to do,”
Soap had added to a small little 'sorry' under his stuttering breath.
At the time, Ghost did not understand what Soap meant. Unthinkingly, while bandaging Soap’s wound, he replied,
“It wasn’t that hard. The bullet wasn’t that deep. And you actually stayed still when you needed to for once.”
That quip had not earned the playful pushback Ghost divined. Instead, Soap - pale, sweating, and heaving - shook his head. “Naw, I meant… seeing a teammate in pain… it’s fucked. Sorry about that.”
Ghost realized, then, that Soap’s empathy extended far beyond basic human decency. Soap saw to the heart and soul of a person. Saw through Ghost’s mask and legend and found the squishy human parts - the parts that would ache in the presence of his subordinate’s pain - that still made him Simon Riley.
It would make sense if that had caused Ghost to fall head over heels for him. He would just not feel it until the adrenaline and shock wore off, until he took a moment to rest beside him, until he groped for Soap’s comforting presence in his sleep.
Still, Ghost knew the mystery had not yet been solved, may never be solved. All he could do was revel in the way his stomach flipped as Soap cuddled into his side, appreciating every touch point where their bodies met as he drifted into a state of half-sleep.
Several hours later, Soap awoke to something idly rubbing the side of his injured arm and a presence above his head. He breathed in through his nose and yawned. Upon fluttering his eyelids open, he peered up to find Ghost staring down at him. His own eyes drooped with more than just standard disinterest.
“Morning, Lt,” Soap murmured. He stretched his shoulders minutely around Ghost’s arm, by no means encouraging that he remove it from his person. If anything, he would mourn its warmth and safety. Although, on that thought, he became aware of just how long and uncomfortable he could have made his partner’s flight. “Did you sleep okay? I didn’t bother you too much did I?”
“Slept better than I normally do on flights,” Ghost rumbled, voice deep and thick with recent waking. And soap did not detect a hint of irony in his tone. Good. “How’s your arm?”
Soap gently flapped his elbow out of Ghost’s hold, testing the boundaries of his aching muscles. Hmm, not bad. A marginal improvement from how it felt the previous morning, in fact. “Better. Thanks for that by the way.”
Arm settled back to his side, Ghost returned to soothing Soap’s appendage with nonsensical motions over his flesh. Up and down, the backs of his fingers refused to break contact.
Fuck
. Soap tamped down a shiver. “Don’t mention it, Johnny.”
For the remainder of their steady altitude, Ghost did not stop holding him. Not when coffee and tea were served. Not when Ghost finished his novel. Not when Ghost picked a movie from their entertainment selection and shared an airline-supplied earbud with him so they could both watch. And that entire time, Soap did not miss the way Ghost’s fingers curled protectively around him, or the way his eyes roamed his body as if checking for new injuries.
It made Soap’s reality hazy, his body floaty, as though he were still dreaming. If Soap leaned up and kissed Ghost on the cheek, would he accept it? The very fantasy of it had Soap’s heart climbing into his throat.
They only separated once their aircraft began its descent.
An announcement called for them to secure their belongings and return their seats to their upright and locked positions. Soap focused on the task at hand and not on the sweat slicking his palms, or how his diaphragm contracted painfully beneath his stuttering lungs, or the disappointment that came with the swan song of their chaste canoodling.
And, once again, Soap clutched his armrests, latching on if just to give himself something to do until they landed.
A much larger hand swept over the back of Soap’s left, causing him to almost jump in his seat. He looked down; the same long, dexterous fingers that filled pages of his electronic sketpad peeled his palm back from where it trembled. Then, those familiar digits laced themselves with Soap's.
Soap glimpsed up at Ghost. For a long moment, neither spoke. Oh, but Ghost's eyes asked so many questions. Is this okay? Are you okay? What do you need, Johnny? Can I give that to you?
Soap nodded, once, subtle, silently conveying: Yes. Yes. I just need you. Please.
"How was your book? Did you finish it?"
Licking his lips and swallowing, Soap nodded more enthusiastically. "Y-yeah, it was really good. Went into explaining the interconnectivity of elements produced by stars and how necassary they are to life on Earth, but in an approachable way. There was even -" Soap cut himself off with a yelp as their plane rocked forward slightly. His grip tightened on Ghost's.
"Even what?" Ghost pressed conversationally. There was no admonishment in his tone. Or pity. Simply interest in Soap continuing his train of the thought.
Soap swallowed again. "There was even this storyline about the author and her struggles with fertility and marriage. Using chemistry as a metaphor for her life. Kept it really interesting."
"Tell me about that."
And Soap did. He spoke at length and in detail about every aspect he could remember of the author’s autobiographical passages, even adding some of his own commentary to the mix. Such as, how he could somewhat relate to her inability to have children. He, too, mourned his chance of having biological offspring, as his continued use of testosterone may have robbed him of them. And much like the author - whose life centered around a demanding career - he, too, had to reconcile two very conflicting desires: a life of authentic purpose and a life of peaceful domesticity.
After several minutes of blathering on and on, Soap hardly noticed their plane touching the runway until they lurched forward in their seats. Ghost squeezed Soap’s hand, although, by that point, it was hardly necessary. As typical, the screech of aircraft breaks signaled the end of Soap’s panic.
Not that Soap was in any hurry to pull away from Ghost’s thumb sweeping over his knuckles. Quite the opposite, he dreaded their taxi-ing coming to a close. And when it eventually did, seatbelt sign pinging off and passengers coming to a stand all around them, Soap felt an unbearable weight in his stomach.
Do it. Do it. Do it now. Do it now, or you’ll never get another chance.
Ghost gazed down at Soap. Soap gazed up at Ghost.
Soap leaned towards Ghost and planted a kiss upon his clothed cheek.
“T-thanks, for, um, helping me calm down,” Soap breathed out. “I appreciate it.”
Ghost tugged the fabric of his mask down until it rested underneath his chin, revealing his strong nose and cut jaw, the barely-there freckles over his cheeks and the elegant shape of his mouth. Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Was Ghost actually going to -? Soap hardly had time think such a thought. Before his heart could gallop through his ribcage, Simon’s lips brushed delicately over his own.
Simon pulled away, summoning the smallest of gasps from Soap’s mouth. He replaced his mask over his visage. “When we get back to base, you can recover in my room for a bit. I have a private shower and bigger bed. Might be more comfortable for your arm than -”
Soap interrupted Simon by exhaling a breathless chuckle. “You don’t have to make excuses, Simon. I’ll stay with you just because you want me to.”
“Stay with me, Johnny.” Simon asked, no hesitation.
Soap grinned.