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It started at the bar.
The task force had just successfully completed another long mission and Price had offered to buy a round in celebration. They hadn’t lost any of their own. No one had sustained any major injuries. It was a good night.
Soap was sat at the table he’d commandeered in the back of the establishment. Ghost was sitting across from him, tucked into the shadowy corner that was the reason Soap had chosen this table. Price and Gaz returned from the bar, carrying four drinks between their hands, and they settled into the two open chairs.
Soap accepted his Scotch and fell into easy conversation with Gaz and their captain. Ghost remained characteristically quiet, offering the occasional comment without taking his eyes off whatever he was transfixed on, which was usually the people around them and the exits. He was holding a bourbon, but he’d yet to take a drink.
And just when Soap was convinced Ghost was going to let his drink go to waste, he reached up and started to shift his mask out of the way.
Trying not to look too alarmed—just trying not to look —Soap searched the bar for Price and Gaz, who’d gotten up moments ago for refills. They weren’t paying attention, and when Soap scanned the room, he noticed that nobody was looking in their direction.
Without thinking, Soap glanced back at his lieutenant.
Just in time to watch his tongue slip out from behind his lips to catch a drip of bourbon that was sliding down the edge of his glass.
Just in time to catch a flash of metal, a glimpse of a tongue piercing.
Something in Soap’s brain short-circuited at the sight and heat started to crawl up his neck. Averting his gaze, he reached up and covered the back of his neck with his palm, scratching at the end of his mohawk. He hoped his arm would hide any color that was flushing into his skin.
Price and Gaz returned, easing the tension Soap had accidentally created. He accepted the new glass of Scotch, took a gulp of it, and fell back into the conversation like nothing had happened.
And if he avoided looking at Ghost for the rest of the night, then that was his business.
In the following days, Soap found himself increasingly distracted by the thought of the piercing his lieutenant was hiding behind his mask. It was ridiculous, his infatuation, and he knew it. The team was lucky they weren’t being deployed yet, because for the first time in his career, Soap wasn’t confident in his ability to remain focused in the field.
He tried to hide the distraction the best he could. When he was asked casually by Gaz what he was thinking about when he spaced out, he’d laughed and gave him some lie that wouldn’t have held water if Gaz looked at him any closer.
The hardest part was being around Ghost himself.
When he spoke, all Soap could think about was the piece of metal behind his teeth, wondering what it looked like when he talked. Could it be seen when he was speaking? Did it affect his accent at all? Was it uncomfortable? It had to constantly knock against the roof of his mouth. Did it not bother him? Or was it old enough that he’d gotten so used to it that he didn’t notice it anymore?
The questions Soap couldn’t ask were threatening to drown him.
So he did the one thing that always made him feel better when he felt boxed in his own head; he journaled.
All of the questions got written down. As they emptied out of his head and took up space somewhere else, it freed up room in his thoughts for more. Which wasn’t exactly the plan, but writing them down did make him feel better, so he accepted the partial loss.
But that only worked for so long.
As soon as his relatively innocent curiosity was exhausted, his blatant desire took the forefront.
He wanted to see the piercing again. Wanted to get a longer, closer look at it. Wanted to see the way Ghost’s tongue had been altered to make room for the metal. And, if he was honest, he wanted to know what it felt like. Against his lips, his mouth, his own tongue.
But since he couldn’t have any of that, he did the only rational thing he could think of to shake the feelings; he sketched.
It wasn’t as hard as it should have been, drawing with only a glimpse of memory to go off of. Over the last week, he felt like all he’d done was think about that moment. It should have worn the edges smooth from the frequent touch, but all it’d done was keep it sharp.
And as he filled the pages with the shape of Ghost’s tongue against the rim of a bourbon glass, he found the memory was starting to go fuzzy.
He cursed his brain for its sudden backwards-ness as he settled into a chair in front of the window in his room. He’d exhausted the lamp above his desk from the frequent use and had to rely on the meager sunlight until he found a new bulb.
Flipping open the worn cover of his journal, he located the alarmingly sizable chunk of pages that were dedicated to Ghost’s tongue piercing. He glanced over questions and musings, sketches that went from sharp to hazy the further along they went. He found a blank space, dipped his head, and put his pen to the paper.
He sat like that for a few hours, only aware of the time passing because of the slant of the sunlight. There was no reason to move from his place since he’d brought extra writing utensils to the window with him.
And there was no telling when he would’ve moved if a voice hadn’t startled him out of his focused state.
“Looks like I underestimated how much you’d like that.”
Soap jerked in surprise at the sudden company, twisting around in his chair to face his lieutenant. Because he was sitting, all he saw was chest until he looked up, meeting the glinting brown eyes surrounded by grease paint.
“Steamin’ Jesus, Lt.. Yer gonna give me a heart attack.”
Ghost hummed noncommittally, half shrugging with his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. Soap was studied as he caught his breath, only to lose it again when Ghost crouched down beside him.
“May I?” he asked, removing a hand from his pocket to gesture at the open journal in Soap’s lap.
Soap couldn’t deny him anything. So even though his heart was beating at such a ridiculous pace that he was sure Ghost could hear it, he eased his journal out from under his arms and offered it to Ghost.
He held Soap’s gaze for a long moment, fingers touching the edge of the pages, before he accepted the journal and dipped his eyes to the sketches.
Soap fidgeted in his seat as Ghost tilted his head slightly, studying the ink mock-ups of his own mouth. Despite the heat that was starting to flare up in his cheeks, he reached over and pulled some of the pages over, revealing the sharper sketches at the beginning of the section.
Ghost hummed softly in what sounded like appreciation, sliding his gloved thumb into the crease of the journal to hold his place. Soap could do nothing but watch as his embarrassing drawings were studied with his lieutenant’s keen eye.
Some tense minutes later, Ghost casually noted, “They’re getting vague.”
Soap tried not to feel too defensive; Ghost wasn’t stating anything he didn’t know. He scratched at the back of his neck and said, “Yeah, well. Only saw it for a second over a week ago.”
Ghost closed the journal with an amount of care Soap had never seen him exhibit before.
“Guess you need to study your subject a little closer.”
Moving slowly, as if to savor it, Ghost took Soap’s hand off his leg where he’d abandoned it after turning the pages for Ghost. Soap’s entire body tightened as Ghost held the back of his hand in his palm while he rucked up the mask, gathering it over his nose.
Soap wasn’t sure he was breathing anymore. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. And he knew Ghost could see it, and that made it so much worse.
But Ghost seemed to like it, smiling faintly as his eyes traced the shape of his flushed cheekbones. Soap’s next breath came even shorter than the last when he noticed Ghost had dimples. Two of them, imprinted into the soft, scar-riddled skin of his cheeks.
He didn’t get to appreciate the sight of them for long, because Ghost was drawing Soap’s palm to his face, his mouth.
“Eyes on me, Johnny.”
As he spoke, Soap caught a glimpse of metal behind his teeth.
One question answered, Soap thought, feeling a hundred miles away from his body. Which didn’t make sense, because he also felt like he’d never been more rooted into it than he was right now.
Somehow, Ghost’s faint smile didn’t budge as he slipped his tongue out of his mouth, dropping his jaw the slightest bit to show off that damned tongue piercing that’d been plaguing Soap since he saw it at the bar.
The metal glinted in the low sunlight coming in through the window. It was a deep purple, so dark it was nearly black.
Just when Soap thought it couldn’t get any harder to breathe—just when he thought his heart couldn’t beat any faster—Ghost, while maintaining one-sided eye contact, pressed the flat of his tongue to the middle of Soap’s palm.
Soap’s breath hitched in his throat, stalling, and every crevice of his body flared with heat, leaving him to wonder briefly if he was dying. Ghost’s smile shifted into a smirk, clearly enjoying his reaction.
Ghost slowly dragged his tongue up the center of Soap’s hand and up to his wrist, his metal piercing smooth against his skin. He braced his other hand under Soap’s elbow, holding him exactly where he wanted him.
Soap was sure he was going to combust. He was sure Ghost had somehow rewired his brain and nervous system into an explosive and had lit the fuse, the whole time knowing full well what he was doing.
After reaching the inside of his elbow, Ghost stopped, pulling his mouth away from Soap’s skin. Soap wished he wouldn’t, wished he’d stay. Wished his thoughts weren’t so desperate.
Ghost gently rested Soap’s arm against his thigh where it’d been before Ghost had taken it. He rose from his crouch, pulling his mask back over his face.
The mask did nothing to hide the pride in Ghost’s eyes as he studied how easily he’d flustered Soap.
He handed Soap his journal back, who’d forgotten he’d taken it.
“Best work while it’s fresh.”
With a weak arm and unsteady fingers, Soap took the journal with the hand that wasn’t warm and wet with Ghost’s saliva. Wasn’t marked with the phantom feel of him and that damn piercing.
Once Soap had a firm enough hold on the journal, Ghost turned on his heel and left Soap’s room, without another word and seemingly unruffled.
And it was only after the sound of his footsteps faded that Soap gasped, breathing in fully for what felt like the first time since Ghost had entered his room.
It took him too long to recover, but once he did, he did as he was told; worked while it was fresh.