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John MacTavish was a disease.
A plague that only Ghost had caught. A leech sucking all the sense out of him. Something completely inhuman that slithered in between Ghost’s very carefully constructed defenses. A vine corrupting a century’s old wall of stone.
There was before and after for Ghost. Before he met Soap. After this part of him came to life and couldn’t be killed. It was infuriating. It was everything.
If Soap were any other man he would’ve had a knife through his eye socket years ago for the shit he does to Ghost. The shit Ghost lets him get away with. The shit that Ghost wants to do for him. The whole unit knows it too– they must. It’s still unspoken, what’s going on with the two of them, but they’ve always been them, a pair, the both of them.
They move together, they train together, they eat together. Ever since the day they escalated whatever this was in that horrible fuckin’ shed, it’s gotten worse.
On the rare occasions that they are apart– and they are sometimes, Soap loves people and Ghost can’t always handle people people– their eyes find each other. Across a room, down a hallway, from the other side of the base. He’s seen the looks that Gaz thinks he’s subtly sending Soap. Ghost receives a few as well from Price.
There is an unintentional side effect of this new affliction. As much as people like to give him shit, and as much as Soap plays into it, he’s not an unobservant man. He’s a keen eye and a steady hand when needed, can’t be their demo expert otherwise. And therein lies the issue.
It starts like this.
They had some time on base before the next op. It was starting to get colder out, winter etching its way through the clouds. Ghost didn't necessarily hate the cold– the shock of it was grounding. The problem was what it did to his body.
Across his chest, down his back, wrapping around his wrists; Ghost had seen violence, and had his fair share of scars to show for it. Raised, repeatedly broken knuckles, road rash covering his thigh. Slashes and jagged edges, too many to count. Some poorly healed gouges from bullets.
It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Most of the time he didn’t really feel them. They were present, but most had healed to a comforting numb or caused enough damage to leave him without much sensation. They were there, sure– a history painted on his body. But under layers of clothes and tac gear it was just skin. Most of the time at least.
There were some days, though, that Ghost swore his skin was stretched too tight over his body. Like a shrunken jumper.
It only happened with a particular type of weather. A tragic perfect storm. If it was getting colder and it rained, Ghost could predict which scars would bother him most.
His hands were always affected– too many broken fingers to not feel how they creaked. A particularly jagged one resting underneath his chin, usually hidden, would protest at the stretch and pull of twisting his neck too far. One over his ribs, where shrapnel dug through them, felt like it just might tear if he took a breath too big.
Ghost knew, intellectually, that his skin wasn’t going to pop like a balloon with one wrong step. So he didn’t let it affect him. He dealt with it. He moved the same way as usual, stretched and trained and ran like he always did. It wouldn’t last too long anyway, just until the storm stopped, so it didn’t matter.
He could tell from the moment he woke up this morning that it was going to rain, if it wasn’t already. The familiar aches across his body greeted him as Ghost slowly sat up in his bed. He took a few calculating breaths. Identified the usual perpetrators. Allowed a very minor moment of self-pity. Stood up and went about like normal.
There wasn’t much to do today, and Ghost was selfishly grateful. Mask in place, he headed toward the mess planning to grab something to take back to his room, before catching Soap’s eyes on the other side of the room. He was sitting with Gaz, likely eating oatmeal that was sweetened to something unrecognizable.
Soap raised his head in greeting, probably expecting Ghost to sit by him like he did most days. Today, Ghost didn’t move toward him or offer a word of greeting. He grabbed an apple blindly before heading back to his room. The predicted storm had already begun, pounding on the windows of the building. His skin ached and pulled and Ghost cowardly wanted nothing more than to be free from the watchful gaze of fuckin’ McTavish.
Since whatever this was between them started becoming whatever it is, Ghost hadn’t had a bad skin day. Not like today. To anyone else, Ghost wouldn’t be acting differently. To Soap, the incessant being that had forced himself closer to Ghost than any other living thing dared, he was see-through. Like a pane of glass. Johnny had a fuckin’ book that translated anything Ghost said or did and it was terrifying.
So Ghost fled. He ate the apple he stole until the scar on his neck made it particularly frustrating to swallow and retreated to shower. The heat of the water helped him stretch slightly, but hitting the sensitive burn scars on his back felt like pins and needles under his skin.
He gave up on the shower. Fought the urge to go for a run. Imagined what the rain would feel like through wet layers of clothes sticking to his skin and abandoned the idea immediately.
After wasting some time on paperwork that Price wouldn’t need from him for days, Ghost ended up in the gym. At least he could run a few miles on a treadmill and spend some time ignoring how it felt like someone had sewn stiff leather where his skin should be.
Towel and water bottle in hand, Ghost went into the gym. He wore long-sleeves and sweatpants he would surely overheat in, but the idea of having to feel and look at his scars was worse than a little heat.
“Hey L.t.,” his parasite called from a bench across the room. Soap was wearing a shirt- could it even be called a shirt? It had no sleeves and barely connected near the bottom on the sides. His ridiculous shirt was paired with shorts that seemed too tight to be possibly comfortable. Ghost barely had the time to think why even bother wearing clothes at that point before immediately crushing that thought.
The gym was empty aside from the two of them. Any attempt to leave would just make it more clear that Ghost was avoiding Soap. Still, it was tempting.
“MacTavish,” Ghost grunted out, dropping his water by a treadmill and immediately increasing the speed.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ghost could see Soap furrow his brow slightly. He set aside the weights he was using and sat up properly, resting his arms on his legs in front of him.
“Haven’t seen you since breakfast this morning. Been cookin’ up something cruel for the fresh meat?”
A set of green recruits were making a pit-stop at their base before moving on somewhere else. Price had implied (threatened) that if Ghost scared them off there might be consequences. It sounded like a challenge. Ghost nearly laughed at the thought of lightly traumatizing the lot before it got caught in his throat. Instead, it came out as a grunt as he choked on a scoff that the scar on his throat did not tolerate.
“Nothing quite nearly as fun,” Ghost replied. “Paperwork.” He increased the speed on the treadmill as sweat gathered on his brow.
Soap hadn’t gone back to his workout, taking a drink of water and wiping down his face. His ridiculous mohawk was all out of sorts– whatever usually held it in place not holding up after Soap’s workout. It was a bit longer than he usually lets it get, loose strands falling into his face and along the back of his neck.
“Might hit the range later if the weather lets up. Maybe if ya ask real nice they’ll let ya practice with yer knives.”
This time his scoff wasn’t trapped in his throat. That was absolute bullshit and they both knew it. Ghost would not ask real nice and he knew better than to irritate the gents at the range on base. They already let Ghost get away with being in there at all hours of the night. He wasn’t about to test their patience.
Ghost looked down at the speed on the treadmill, debating whether to increase it again. His usual pace was faster but his ribs were already feeling tight.
“It won’t let up,” he said between breaths.
“The storm?”
“Affirmative.”
Soap cocked his head to the side. “And what makes you say that?”
The way his knee felt like a rusted hinge in a door. How his neck twinged with every word he spoke. The impact of each step felt in his left hip.
“Can just tell.”
Ghost increased the speed on the treadmill. This turned out to be a mistake. It wouldn’t have been one, actually, if Soap wasn’t here. He didn’t seem to be getting back to his interrupted workout, dumbbells sitting unused on the floor. The problem was that Soap chose that moment to grab the bottom edge of his barely-shirt and pull it up to wipe the sweat from his face.
It was Soap’s fault, the way Ghost’s eyes caught on the width of his waist. The soft curve of his stomach. The patch of hair leading down his front.
It was the storm’s fault, the way an old injury to Ghost’s knee made it tighten up, then buckle in the middle of his stride. He was only spared from unspeakable embarrassment by his quick reaction to grab the sides of the machine.
A second later, Ghost was gripping the arms of the treadmill. His left leg held most of his weight on the hard plastic outside the track, right leg and traitorous knee just barely not touching the ground, still twinging in reaction.
“Shit, L.t.–”
Soap had jumped up, alarmed, arms outstretched like he would have been able to catch Ghost if he had completely ate shit.
“All good?” The furrow was back in Soap’s brow, concern evident on his face.
“Fine,” Ghost grunted out, but made no move to stop the whirring of the track underneath him.
Soap edged forward and reached over to turn it off, standing in front of Ghost. He glanced pointedly down at Ghost’s leg that was still bent gingerly. “You sure?”
“It’s fine, Johnny. I’ll deal with it like normal.” He stretched his leg out slowly and shifted his weight back onto it. His knee hadn’t locked up like that in a while, but it was only slightly throbbing under him. It would be fine.
“What d’ya mean like normal?”
Shit. Ghost looked up, finally meeting Soap’s eyes and saw that look he always gets when he won’t let something go. He sighed and moved off the treadmill to grab his water and towel, forcing his leg to straighten fully despite the ache.
“It’s nothing, Soap.”
Soap crossed his arms and stood in front of him. Ghost pulled up his mask to take a drink of water.
“Dinnae seem like nothing.”
“Leave it, Sergeant.” Ghost’s voice was like gravel. He was at his full height now, a figure most people found threatening. Soap had none of that good sense.
“Is that an order, Lieutenant?” Soap said, spitting the title out. Ghost wouldn’t rise to the bait, not anymore. They both knew it. But they both were just as stubborn as each other.
Ghost made to push past Soap, headed for the door, when Soap raised his hand to grab at his arm. Unfortunately for the both of them, his fingers dug right into the spot where a younger Ghost met the heated end of a fire poker.
Ghost flinched away from him the moment Soap touched him. Genuinely fled out of his grip like he was the thing burning his shot nerve endings, electricity under his skin. Ghost instinctively brought a hand up to his arm, pressing into the skin around the raised and irritated scar like that would distract him from the pain.
Soap had pulled back, shock and something else covering his face.
“Simon?” He said tentatively, like Ghost was a thing to be gentle with. Like he was a cornered animal. Like he had done anything wrong when Ghost was the one in this broken and malfunctioning body.
Ghost’s heavy breaths filled the silence between them.
“It’s fine,” Ghost muttered. Though a look at Johnny’s face told him that answer would not suffice. “It’s ... usually not this bad,” he finished lamely.
“Well it sure doesn’t seem good.” Soap had this sad kind of smile on his face that Ghost would do anything to fix.
“The rain– the storm. Sometimes, it– my scars react badly. Tighten up.”
It’s not your fault, he wanted to say. I’ve always been like this, he wanted to say. I don’t want to hurt when you touch me, he wanted to say.
A moment, a pause where Ghost wasn’t sure he managed to keep those thoughts in his head.
Soap grabbed the rest of their things left on the ground. “Follow me,” he said. The man turned around and headed for the door without looking behind him. Ghost followed blindly.
They headed back through the base, winding through hallways as the rain slammed against glass and brick and mortar. For a moment Ghost felt a spike of tension, thinking Soap was bringing him to a medic, but then they turned a different direction towards their sleeping quarters.
Soap stopped in front of the door to Ghost’s room.
“Wait here.”
“Johnny–”
“Trust me?” Soap asked as he walked backwards, a smile on his face.
“Of course.”
“Wait. 30 seconds.” He pointed where Ghost was standing and before he could yell back his offense at Soap throwing commands at him like a dog, Soap had already turned the corner.
Ghost felt uneasy, stood in front of his own door, waiting for Soap to come back. He felt unmoored, prickling underneath his skin and unstable. He brought a hand up to feel the edge of his mask around his neck, soothed by the familiar texture. The echo of the storm moved down the hallway.
Soap was back a moment later, looking not at all different except for something small he was holding in one of his hands.
“Well? Get in, then.” He herded Ghost toward his room until he opened the door. Soap charged in before Ghost, like this was something normal that was happening.
“Soap,” Ghost started. Johnny had put the little jar of whatever he was holding on the small table next to Ghost’s bed.
“Yer actin’ like I’m leading ya to yer death. Get in here.”
Ghost shut the door behind him but didn’t move any closer in the room. Soap scoffed like he did something funny and gestured to his bed.
“Sit down. I cannae promise it’ll work for you– everyone’s different– but it does wonders for me.”
He eyed the mysterious jar but couldn’t see much from the other side of the room. In a few strides, Ghost moved and sat on his own bed, Soap still standing near him.
It looked like some kind of cream, not unlike the ones Ghost has seen Soap use on his face right out of the shower. The label was faded enough that he couldn’t even tell if it was written in English.
“What is it?” Ghost asked.
“Ah dinnae ken.”
“What?” Ghost whipped his head back to Soap. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest, right in Ghost’s eyeline.
“I swear it’s some magical shite, Ghost.” He picked up the jar and held it like it was precious. “If I knew what it was I’d buy more of it. The old hag who sold it to me didn’t speak a word of English. She just shoved it in my hand, pointed,” Soap brought a hand to the scar that wrapped around his chin, “and demanded £10 from me.”
Ghost would have paid more than £10 to see Johnny get bossed around by an old woman.
“Don’t make that face.”
“I’m not–”
“Mask or nae I can tell when ya look like a right eejit.” Ghost raised his brow, amused but not at all surprised.
“Anyway,” Soap continued, “This shit helps. With the scars, I mean.”
Ghost glanced back at the apparently magical jar. Even though Johnny’s been good at distracting him, he can still feel the tightness all around his body, up and down his limbs. Ghost doubted it would do anything to help; he’s always dealt with this, ever since he was a kid. It’s just something he got used to.
Johnny brought a hand to the back of his neck, now seeming shy after his bravado of inviting himself into Ghost’s room.
“It might not work, and you don’t have to try, but–”
Ghost cut him off with a nod.
“Yeah?” Soap asked, seeming surprised to get this far.
“I trust you,” Ghost said, sitting on his bed, looking up at Johnny.
“Okay,” he said softly, barely loud enough for Ghost to hear. “Okay,” Johnny repeated, a bit firmer this time. “What’s bothering ya?” He glanced quickly at the area of Ghost’s arm he tried to grab earlier, not quick enough for Ghost not to notice.
Ghost took a breath and tried to tune into his betraying body. The irony was not lost on him that most of the time, especially on days like these, he was actively tuning out the signals his body sent him. His knee was still bothering him, but it wasn’t as intense as before. His arm, his back, his shoulders; there wasn’t really an area of his body free from carnage.
“All of it.”
“All of it?”
“Affirmative.”
“Okay. Um,” Johnny had that crease back in his brow again. Apparently that wasn’t the answer Johnny was expecting. “What’s the worst right now?”
Right now, his neck was aggressively telling him to stop looking up at Johnny. Ghost disagreed.
“Neck.”
“Okay,” Johnny repeated. He moved to sit near the head of the bed, just a few inches away from Ghost, his body turned towards him. He unscrewed the lid on the small jar and scooped some white cream on his hand.
“May I?” he asked, voice soft again. Johnny’s other hand reached for the edge of his mask, and all at once Ghost realized exactly just what he had gotten himself into.
There was only one thing he could possibly say. There was nothing else he could tell Johnny that would even begin to describe what this was to him, who this was for Simon. It was bright and it was blind and it wasn’t anything that he deserved. Nothing bought, no contingency; this was Johnny and he was underneath Simon, between everything, inevitable, because he made himself a place here, because he wanted to be here.
“Simon?” Johnny’s voice brought him out of his head. Fingertips rested near his collarbone, brushing the fabric wall there.
“Always.”
Johnny’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, but he kept his mouth closed, obviously holding back a real grin. This close to each other, Simon mapped out the plane of his cheekbones, the freckle under one of his eyes, the way the scar on his chin carved through his facial hair.
He felt Johnny’s hand slowly lift up the fabric of the mask. He knew what the scar must look like. Jagged, raised, red. Simon lifted his head slightly and closed his eyes as the mask rose to just underneath his nose. He didn’t want to look at Johnny’s face when he saw it.
When Johnny’s fingers lightly grazed the scar he let out a shaky breath. The cool touch of the cream wasn’t painful at all.
“This the one bothering you?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Simon responded, breath between them shared.
He slowly started spreading the cream on the irritated skin. “I can tell why,” Johnny murmured, “doesn’t look like you’ve done this before, Simon.”
Simon hummed something into Johnny's hand that he hoped came off as definitely not. It was meditative, the movement of his hands, the way that Johnny touched him like something breakable.
“Let me know if it’s too much,” Johnny said as he rested his other hand lightly on the back of Simon’s neck.
He didn’t have time to respond before the pressure of Johnny’s hand slowly increased, massaging the scar as the cream dulled the sensations down to something manageable. He wasn’t choking anymore; instead a wave of prickling and tingling followed Johnny’s hand.
Simon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, eyes still closed, completely wrapped up in everything Johnny as the tension in his neck slowly dissipated.
“Better?”
He finally opened his eyes to look at Johnny. He had a smile on his face still, looking at Simon like the person in front of him was light and unbroken. In reality, it was Johnny who noticed something was wrong today. It was Johnny who tried to catch him. It was Johnny who took his too-short sentences and filled in the missing words and brought him the answer.
How could Simon ever tell him that? He couldn’t. There weren’t words for what Johnny was.
The fabric of the mask between them was too much, even pulled up under his nose. Simon pulled the rest of it off and brought his scarred hands up to cover Johnny’s. He pressed his forehead to Johnny’s, wishing he could find the way to tell him that he was at the center of everything.
“Hmm. Better,” Simon said, voice rough.