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It took everything left in Ghost not to go running up the building, pushing past the personnel in the way, taking the flights of stairs three steps at a time to eat up the distance between him and Soap faster. It was taking more strength than he’d anticipated to remain on the Chicago street outside of the skyscraper that had turned into a bloody battlefield at Soap and Price’s hands. Laswell and her people were here now, milling around and dealing with the aftermath of the mission.
The road was blocked off, the Chicago police hanging around at the fringes watching the city and the military presence that’d appeared. The vehicles Laswell’s people had showed up in were parked in the street, empty as the occupants had set to work sweeping the building, searching for anyone who might have survived and for any intel or equipment. Later, they would work on clearing the bodies, the gore Soap had left in his wake.
Ghost had slung his sniper rifle across his back before he’d come down from his overwatch position, but he was suddenly wishing it was still in his hands. He needed something to hold on to, something to ease the nerves that had him clenching and unclenching his fists like he was preparing his joints before for a sparring match.
Where the fuck was Johnny?
It shouldn’t be taking him this long to make his way to the street. Ghost had been as high up as Soap had been and he was already here. But the fact that he’d ran like his life depended on it was likely at fault for that.
Going into the building was unadvisable, Ghost knew that. He would get in the way, cause more trouble for Laswell’s personnel. But fuck, he needed to find Johnny. Needed to see him, alive, standing, within arms reach, on solid ground. Until he saw Soap again, all he could see was the image of Hassan holding Soap, weak and battered, in front of the shattered window over fifty stories above the ground with nothing to save him but the hope and trust in Ghost.
Ghost’s heart hadn’t stopped racing since those moments, and he was confident it wouldn’t settle until he found Johnny.
Ghost was getting quite a few side-looks from the Americans tending to the aftermath, but Ghost paid them no mind. He paced back and forth on the street, moving through the space between two army vehicles, scanning the open stretch of the first floor for the sight of a familiar mohawk.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, there he was.
Johnny.
Ghost gravitated towards him, his internal compass relocating its true north.
Soap stepped out of a hallway that must have lead to the stairwell, a heavy limp slowing him down to a crawl. His tactical vest and holsters were all empty, his person void of all weapons and tools, nothing but useless straps and a scrap of armor now. His face, pinched in concentration, was splattered in blood, most of it Hassan’s but some of it was probably his own. He flashed smiles at the personnel he passed, accepting their praise, but the moment they looked away, the smile slipped off.
Ghost was less than three yards from Soap when he noticed him, his exhausted eyes drifting up to meet Ghost’s beyond his mask. The relief that dropped Soap’s shoulders was unmistakable, and worrisome because he seemed to be struggling to stand enough as it was.
Ghost’s own relief could have brought him to his knees, because here Johnny was, alive, standing even if it was unstably, within arms reach, and on solid ground. Here, with Ghost where he was safest.
Without a word, Ghost slotted himself up against Soap’s left side, catching him around his waist and bearing some of his weight, giving him something to lean on. And Soap did, shifting his arm back to grip Ghost’s shoulder and settling into his support. Together, they walked out of the building in which Soap had almost died multiple times over with Ghost too far away to help but the once.
His next sign that Soap wasn’t okay was the fact that he wasn’t talking. The absence of his voice in Ghost’s ear was tangible, a heavy hollowness that made Ghost feel like he needed his ears to pop. The fourth sign was that Ghost was allowed to steer Soap towards one of the open vans with no resistance on his part, which impossibly worried Ghost further than he already was.
“What’s the damage?” he asked as he guided Soap down to sit at the edge of the van. Soap flinched and shuffled stiffly as he moved to obey Ghost’s silent command, trading the support of Ghost’s body for the cold stability of the van floor.
“I’m—”
“And don’t lie to me.”
Soap looked up at him. Now that it was just the two of them, as alone as they could be until Nikolai returned to take them back to base, Soap wasn’t hiding behind a mask of his own. He did nothing to hide the exhaustion weighing on him, the bone-deep tiredness that formed into bruises beneath his eyes, beneath all the blood on his skin. He did nothing to hide the way his hands were shaking, the way his breath kept catching in his throat.
“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”
Ghost could only nod, struck silent on the matter due to the vulnerability displayed all over Soap’s body.
“Your leg?” he asked instead of acknowledging the fear and anxiety lining the suddenly harsh edges of Soap and the worry and stress pressing against his own.
“Ah,” Soap said, sounding relieved that Ghost wasn’t going to push. He stretched his left leg out, wincing slightly as he rubbed his fingers into the muscles surrounding the joint. “‘S alright. Old injury just got strained. Should’ve worn ma brace.”
Ghost slid to his knees in front of Soap, ignoring the look of surprise that graced Soap’s face, and dug into his vest for the roll of elastic bandage. He reached for Soap’s knee once he had the bandage in hand, but he hesitated before touching him, lifting his eyes in search of permission. Soap sighed softly through his nose and leaned against the open door of the van and Ghost understood that he was allowed to help.
“Didn’t know.” Ghost tried to keep his voice level as he spoke in an attempt to keep the extent of his emotions away where they wouldn’t disturb either of them. He wouldn’t have talked at all under usual circumstances, but there was something about the way Soap was shaking and his silence that wasn’t sitting right with Ghost and he was hoping to lure Soap out of his head with his words. “About your bad knee. Tell me.”
“Tell ya what?” Soap watched as Ghost began to wind the bandage around his knee, over his jeans. Ghost hoped it would stabilize Soap’s knee enough to ease some of the pain.
“About your knee.” Ghost refrained from fondly calling him an unpleasant name, afraid of his sergeant’s fragile state and worried one wrong move would break whatever control Soap had left. “What kinda injury? What happened?”
Even with the dried blood splattered across his skin, Ghost could still see the blush that crept up Soap’s neck and into his cheeks. “Ya won’t like it.”
Ghost didn’t know what he meant by that, but he was too distracted by the presence of Soap’s leg under his palms, the heat of his body that he could feel even through the layers of fabric, to dissect the comment. “Tell me anyway. Let me decide.”
Soap opened his mouth, hopefully to tell Ghost the story, but they were interrupted by an actual medic showing up beside them, her hands gripped around a medical kit.
“I’ve got it,” Ghost said before she could say anything. He ignored the way his body tensed up, defensive and protective, and held out his hand that wasn’t holding the end of the bandage to her, asking for the kit silently.
She frowned, clearly concerned about passing her job off to someone else even if that person was him. She looked at Soap, causing another muscle spasm to break out across Ghost’s back like his body was preparing to react.
But this wasn’t about him, so he lowered his hand and turned his face to Johnny, searching for an answer.
It was because Ghost was on such high alert, was so used to Soap’s body language after so many weeks in his company, that Ghost noticed the way Soap was digging his fingertips into the seams of his vest, his ribs. Ghost hadn’t noticed when Soap had crossed his arms, but it must’ve been when the medic had shown up, because Ghost had checked on him moments before that and he’d been relaxed. Or something akin to it, because he was still shaking.
“Not hurt badly,” Soap said finally. “Lt. can handle it, can’t ya?”
I will handle whatever you allow me to.
Soap calling Ghost Lieutenant seemed to remind the medic of his rank and she nodded, deferring to him, and set the bag down beside his leg before she cleared off. Ghost eased the tension in his back and returned to wrapping Soap’s knee like nothing had happened, when in reality there was a part of him basking under Soap’s preference for him.
Once Soap’s knee was braced, he offered Ghost his hands. His palms were battered and bloody, filled with cuts and scratches and pieces of glass. Ghost reined in his sigh and started to dig through the medical kit for the tools he’d need to take care of Soap’s hands. He slid the gauze, tweezers, alcohol, bandages, and a shallow metal dish across the van floor before he picked himself up and sat down next to Soap, a leg bent so he could face him. He located his flashlight in his vest and attached it to the side of his headset and settled in, pulling one of Soap’s hands towards him.
As Ghost worked, gently pulling chunks of glass out of Soap’s palm, Soap told him the story about his knee.
“Was only a few years back. Didn’t happen in the field, on a mission, or anything. I was, eh, screwin’ ‘round as ya would say. With explosives.” Ghost wasn’t surprised in the slightest to hear that; he hadn’t spent more than a few months with Soap, but one didn’t have to know him for longer than a couple of minutes before his love for demolitions became apparent. “I’m good at it, ya know. Good at knowin’ what’s gonna happen, but I, eh, made a miscalculation, that time. Was packin’ a bigger punch than I thought, so I had ta…get outta there. I was too close, ya know, the blast radius bigger than I thought. Hurt myself retreatin’, fell on ma leg wrong, fucked up ma knee. It’s alright most the time, but it gets strained every now an’ again.”
“Like when you’ve got to climb down fifty flights of stairs.”
“Aye.” Soap smiled lightly, reservedly, as he glanced at Ghost, brushing his eyes affectionately over Ghost’s mask like it was his skin. Ghost thought Soap was glad that he hadn’t scolded him or called him stupid or reckless.
Ghost ducked his head, pulled Soap’s palm closer to his face. “Could’ve called for me. Would’ve carried you down.”
Soap laughed, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly and easing the tension in Ghost that he’d been holding onto, wary of Soap’s fragile state. “That so? Give me a piggyback ride down the stairwell? Ya sure you coulda carried me, Lt.? Not a light lad, I tell ya that. Might’ve sent us both tumblin’ down fifty flights of stairs if ya tried.”
Ghost was comforted by the appearance of Soap’s ramblings, short as it was and even at his own expense.
And Soap was starting to shake less, his breaths setting into a calmer rhythm. He was figuring out how to be okay right now, because he had to be, had to be of sound mind and steady when Price and Laswell came looking for a debrief.
But later…later he could go back to being not alright, and Ghost hoped he’d be allowed to be there, like he was now, to make sure Soap had someone there when he broke apart. Someone who he was comfortable being not okay around, someone he trusted to look at him no differently because of his vulnerability.
And, from what Ghost was gathering, he qualified.