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When Ghost woke up at 2:13 in the morning, it was to an empty bed. He groaned, letting his head fall back onto the pillow.
Just under 72 hours had passed since an attempted infiltration of one of Makarov’s ally cartels had gone south. Following the fight, the 141 relocated to a safe house in Zlotoryja. Gaz had been rushed to make four fake identities in Poland, Price was being pissy due to the setback, and Soap was on bed rest with a sprained ankle.
Or, at least, he was supposed to be.
Forcing himself upright, Ghost donned his balaclava and emerged from the quarters he shared with Soap. While he had gotten much more comfortable showing his full face around his partner in the six months since they’d gotten together, he wasn't quite there with the rest of their team. Not yet. Paranoia covered him like layers of paint, and Johnny chipped away at the years-old coats with more gentleness and patience than Ghost deserved.
The light in the dining room was on. The group had been using this section of the house as a makeshift briefing and planning area. Ghost wasn’t surprised when he rounded the corner to find Soap standing over a spread of maps, his computer open. He leaned heavily on the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright. It probably was.
“ Bloody hell ,” Ghost muttered. Why was he not surprised? “What are you doing up?”
And Soap, being the bastard he is, shrugged. “I could ask the same of you.”
“How long have you been awake? What’s goin’ on?”
“Not sure, maybe a couple of hours,” Soap brushed him off. “What’s goin’ on with you ?”
It was obvious what his partner was doing. He was trying to ease them into their usual banter as if nothing was wrong. Ghost wasn’t going to let him. “I asked first.”
“It’s just- We’re so close to nailing Makarov, I can fucking taste it,” Soap responded, gaze glued to his computer. “That last base, the coordinates Gaz found could-“
“You’re not nailing anyone in this condition, Mactavish.”
“It’s just a sprain, I’m fine,” Soap dismissed, still tracking movement on the screen. He’s decidedly not fine.
Without considering his tone, Ghost snapped, “You’re a bloody hypocrite, you know that?”
That gets Soap to look at him. “Bit harsh, Lt, don’t you think?”
A part of Ghost wanted to be mean about it, but he noticed how his partner’s voice was clipped, a clear sign that he was in more pain than he was letting on.
Sighing, Ghost crossed the space in two strides, stopping at Soap’s right and resting a hand on his shoulder. “When I got sick in Latvia, what did you tell me?”
“Fuck off,” Soap spat.
“Hey, that’s my line.” He wore a ridiculously soft expression, not that the other man could see. “Come on. Don’t make me quote you.”
There was silence until Soap answered, albeit reluctantly, “I told you it wasn’t healthy to push yourself.”
“That’s right,” Ghost nodded, thumbing at the fabric of Soap’s shirt. “So why is this any different?”
Soap opened his mouth, closed it again. Because that was you, not me , he wanted to object, but he resolved to shoot Ghost a glare and return to his work. “Anyway, I ran the data. These coordinates point to a warehouse-”
“Johnny,” Ghost warned.
“-along the Belarusian-Ukrainian border, and if Laswell can get us a bit more recon, we could figure out what Makarov is-”
“Johnny.” The pressure in the dining room was building.
“-planning, so it’s really important that I finish this as soon as-”
“Johnny, it’s alright to take a break.”
“People are counting on us!” Soap didn’t intend to shout, but that’s what happened. He immediately quieted to an irritated whisper, remembering that the others were still asleep. “Counting on me ! I can’t just lay around doing fuck all for weeks while you three have a go at saving the world! Where’s the damn map of Belarus?” Finding the secondary maps too far away to point to, he shifted his weight to his left leg without thinking.
Ghost watched Soap’s foot come down in slow motion. The shorter man flinched when it made contact with the floor, hissing curses as he stumbled over with both elbows on the wooden tabletop.
Within seconds, Ghost had an arm around Soap’s waist, hefting the majority of his partner’s weight with relative ease. “I’ve gotcha.” And in that moment, it was the easiest decision in the world to pull off his balaclava with his free hand and press a feather-light kiss to Soap’s forehead.
Of everything that had occurred in the last three days, feeling Simon’s lips on his skin was what finally broke Sergeant Mactavish.
The sound that escaped him was frighteningly close to a whimper. He turned his face into the crook of Simon’s neck, allowing his body to sag into its safety net. Soap knew he was about to start crying, that he needed to get it together, you’re gonna scare him . Ghost had seen him bleeding from a bullet wound– Soap hadn’t cried then. But he was well past the point of exhaustion and injured in an unfamiliar place, his ankle screaming at him for his previous misstep, and it had all become too much, too quickly.
When the first sob crawled up his throat, Ghost hummed sympathetically. “There we go, Johnny,” he whispered, bundling Soap in a steadying hug. “Let it out, I’m right here.” It wasn’t his first time witnessing the Scotsman cry, but it never got any easier.
“Hurts, Si,” Soap choked out.
“ Shh , I know. You’re fucking knackered, sweetheart.” The taller man rubbed his back in a soothing motion. Ghost was being so tender, such a far departure from his usual demeanor, and it made Soap cry even harder. Simon held him until his sobs died down to quiet hiccups.
“We’re gonna have to move you. Couch or bed?”
“Couch.” Sniffling, Soap wiped away tears with his fist. “And you don’t have to help me. I can walk on my own.”
Ghost was lifting him off the ground bridal-style before he could move an inch. “Absolutely not.”
Soap made a weak attempt at swatting him away. “Put me down.”
“No can do, Mactavish.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea with the state you’re in.”
God, Soap could not stand this man. The love of his life (the title he’d never spoken out loud but was true regardless). The bane of his existence (the title he spoke out loud almost every day, but wasn't true in the slightest). “What, you’re just gonna carry me around ‘til I’m healed?”
“Affirmative,” Ghost agreed, marching them to the living room. “Not gonna let you make this worse, even if you already did.” He set Soap down, readjusting the cushions for support. “Speaking of making things worse, how the hell did you get out here earlier?”
“Hopped.” When Ghost quirked an eyebrow, Soap just raised his own, as if to say ‘ Impressive, right? ’
The lieutenant chuckled. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.” Gesturing to the foot he’d elevated on a pillow, he tested the waters. “Can I have a look?”
Soap grunted a ‘ yes’ , taking a deep breath in preparation. He watched as Simon carefully removed the white athletic sock, murmuring a hushed apology after the sergeant uttered a string of rather colorful expletives when his foot was jostled. “Bloody hell, Johnny,” the taller man scrubbed a hand over his brow. “I’m no medic, but you definitely made it worse, I can tell you that much.”
What had previously been a moderately-sized bruise around Soap’s ankle now ran along his heel, the entire area swollen and purple. “Gee, thanks, doc, I hadn’t noticed,” Soap joked, but his jaw was clenched. “Am a pure nick, aren’t I?”
“Speak fucking English,” Ghost complained, even though he understood the Scotsman just fine. “And besides, s’just one foot. Your pretty face and boyband hairdo are still intact.”
“You love my hair.”
“Maybe.” The Brit stood, sauntering into the compact kitchen. “Don’t love the shade of those bruises, though.”
“Keep the heid, Simon, it’s not that bad.” As his exhaustion set in, Soap could feel his Scots slipping out at a higher frequency, fish from a tattered net. It took every ounce of willpower in him not to whine when he questioned, “Where are you going?”
He heard the sound of the freezer opening. “To get you ice.”
His partner returned a minute later with a balled-up towel, placing it on Soap’s ankle for him. “Better?”
The shorter man exhaled in relief as cold seeped into his bruises, lessening the pain to a dull throb. “Much.” The cushions dipped beside him as Ghost rearranged his freakishly long limbs to lie down. It wasn’t a huge couch, and their bodies were a bit cramped, but army beds typically were. It brought them a strange sense of comfort.
Once Simon was settled, curled around Soap’s form in a protective embrace, the latter confessed, “You were right.”
“Hm?”
“You were right, Simon. I-”
“I’m sorry,” Ghost interrupted, “Did you just say I was right ?”
Soap rolled his eyes. “Steamin’ Jesus.”
The lieutenant was grinning. “Could we get that on record? John Mactavish just admitted I was right.”
“‘Course, because I’m famously the most stubborn person in this relationship,” Soap smirked, “Or is that somebody else?”
“Shut up,” Ghost protested, pouting. “Come on then, what was I right about?”
“Ah dinnae ken, my boyfriend just told me to shut up.” He laughed when Simon blushed, continuing, “I was gonna say you were right when you said I was a hypocrite.”
Instead of teasing him further like Soap expected him to, Ghost only nodded, encouraging him to keep going. “I couldn’t handle it. Being sidelined like that, feelin’ useless. And I know that I’m always trying to get you to slow down, but I guess when it’s my turn, I’m not very good at it.” He paused, fidgeting with his fingers. “It was a stupid thing to greet about.”
“Don’t you dare,” Ghost cuts him off. “I lo- I think it’s nice.”
“Me crying?”
“No, not that. I mean, yes. But not like that. It’s just-” HIs partner huffed in frustration. “Keep feelin’, Johnny. Even if it’s hard. ‘Cause those stupid things, they aren’t stupid. And neither are you. You’re never useless.” Ghost’s head fell back against the armrest. “There, I said it.”
A beat passed, and Soap stared at Simon Riley in reverence. He reached up, callused palm cupping a stubbled cheek. “You’re a big softie, you know that?”
Ghost smiled, shy and honest. “Well, only for you.” Burying his face in Soap’s messy hair, he said simply, “Johnny.” It was small, smaller than he often allowed his voice to be. But Soap understood.
“Love you too, Si. I love you too.”
-
The safe house was less of a house and more of a glorified bunker, tucked beneath one of Zlotoryja’s historic buildings. ‘ A fun little staycation ,’ Laswell had called it in a bout of sarcasm. Nevertheless, Gaz was getting a tad funned out .
He wagered he would enjoy this lovely town a lot more if the goddamn flat was bigger. Not that he wasn’t used to sharing tight living spaces with his comrades, but this place had been in the CIA’s hands for a long time, and it seemed to have been built to house precisely one soldier less than the 141 contained.
Thank god Soap had fucked his ankle, otherwise, he’d be busy fucking something else. Gaz would never wish harm upon a teammate, but walls were thin, and his good earplugs were back at home base.
After his alarm went off, Gaz tried his best to follow his usual morning routine. Bathroom, wash face, make coffee. He was used to being the first one up most days, so he nearly dropped his mug when, entering the living room, he clocked two pairs of feet at the end of the couch.
It was too early for this. They better not have hooked up out here . Gaz rounded the corner, fully intending to wake them both up. Then he noticed.
Ghost- The Ghost - was lying face-up with his mask off.
The 141 had seen Simon Riley’s face increasingly frequently in the past few months. They were constantly traveling together, working together, and Gaz liked to think that Ghost was actually beginning to trust them. He’d pull up his mask to brush his teeth, shave, and sometimes- though very rarely- eat.
Of course, that was all thanks to Soap.
Soap, who gingerly pried open the cracks in Ghost’s walls, the cracks he’d noticed on their very first mission together. Gaz would be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed.
But Ghost rarely took the mask completely off. This was the first time Gaz had ever seen him sleeping, and he looks…he almost looks peaceful.
As if he could sense him, Ghost (ever the light-sleeper) stirred right then. “Mornin’, Garrick,” he mumbled, words slurring.
“Uh, morning.” Gaz found himself at a loss. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Ghost waved him off, blinking blearily as his eyes adjusted. “Just don’t wake up this one.” He pointed the hand that wasn’t pinned down by Soap at the man in question. “Needs his beauty rest.”
“Message received, Lieutenant,” Gaz gave an exaggerated salute, “I’ll let the captain know.” His comrade offered a lopsided salute in return.
Taking his coffee to the dining room, Gaz spread the maps out again. Someone had skewed them since last night, and judging by what he’d just seen, he figured he’d let the lovebirds slide just this once.