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Six hours.
For six fucking hours Soap had waited under a scorching desert sun, sweat soaking through the thick cloth of his combat gear. Waited until the pale moon rose, and the air turned cold enough to dry his damp skin and leave him shivering.
Six hours, and still Soap’s earpiece was silent. No amount of the Sergeant’s restless fiddling had made it come to life and tell him what he wanted to hear:
Clear to engage.
Hell, Soap would take anything at this point. Even a crackle of radio static.
Restless he had begun to wander the outskirts of their squad’s makeshift camp, farther and farther into the open desert. Sand quickly found its way into his shoes, his sleeves, every pocket of his combat vest. The thin cloth tied over his nose and mouth flapped in the breeze. Somehow grains of sand still found their way between his teeth. The rifle slung across his back bumped his shoulder as he walked. He stopped to glance behind as he went, making certain he could still see the glow of the camp’s fire brightening the dark sky.
At the top of a rise Soap took a seat on a cluster of wind-carved rock. He cast his eyes out over the dunes to a handful of distant, derelict buildings. Hazy with sand, the air shimmered and rippled until the distant outpost appeared more like a mirage. Soap knew it was real. It was why they were here. The most isolated point along a weapon supply route that carved its way from coast to coast through South America.
It was a simple mission, really. Arrive in time for the next shipment to pass through. Wait for recon to give the signal that the convoy had dropped off the weapons package and left. Move in and seize the goods before the buyers arrive to collect. Intelligence said there shouldn’t be more than five men stationed there between shipments. Even if he were alone, Soap would take those odds with a smile. But he was not alone.
Ghost was on this mission too. That took this from a cakewalk to a goddamn snooze.
Soap could not tear his eyes from those distant structures. They were so close, and he was so tired of waiting. The rifle seemed to itch at his back. If the recon team took any longer, vultures would start to circle.
Soap finally tore his gaze away and heaved a defeated sigh. He stood and began to march the way he had come.
It had been two days journey just to reach this deep into the desert. Two blistering days of hiking, backs bent from their heavy packs. They weren’t supposed to make camp here longer than a day. They didn’t have the supplies for it, or the patience.
Soap knew he had reached camp when he heard familiar voices joined in song.
Te suelto el pelo, oh,
Te quito la camisa, ah,
Tu pantalón, oh…
A tune he did not know in a language he did not speak. But he recognized the impassioned pitch of their voices, the laughter that bubbled up between words. He had been on enough international assignments by now to know that three things united soldiers beyond borders: booze, cards, and songs of loose women.
Two figures were seated around the camp’s fire. The first man Soap recognized by the weather-worn creases of his face and his long traveling robes. He was their guide through the desert, born and raised on its outskirts. Soap didn’t know the man’s name, and the man never offered it. He did not ask why they were traveling, and he did not seem to care. The local government had sent them to him for guidance through the hostile landscape. From his clever looks, Soap would guess this was not the first time he had escorted international operators.
Their song concluded with a strained note. The guide shook his head with a chuckle and turned his attention back to stoking the fire. The second man at the fire gave a cheer and raised a bottle to his lips. Grey was his call sign. He was local forces, assigned to aid them by sharing his “native expertise.” Soap knew that made him their babysitter. Most countries didn’t take kindly to an international task force operating within their borders without some degree of supervision.
Grey’s eyes lifted from the fire and spotted Soap across the distance. He waved, the bottle still clutched to his lips.
At least he was observant. So far, the only “native expertise” Grey had shown was in singing dirty tunes.
Soap waved back with a frown. His eyes scanned the camp, little more than two tents and scattered stacks of supplies.
Where the hell was Ghost?
The Lieutenant was the one who had dragged Soap on this mission. Sure Soap had agreed to it at the time, but Ghost had definitely withheld some key facts. Like the fact that they would spend days hiking through the desert. Or that they would be supervised by a very, very talkative local agent.
That they would be sharing a tent.
In fact, the only thing he had known was that Soap was the only person Ghost had asked on this mission. Soap had not hesitated in his reply. He did not think to ask questions. The high had lasted him the whole flight over. It was only just starting to wear off with the aching in his feet.
Soap reached the fire, and Grey threw his arms wide in greeting. The guide did not look up from where he was shuffling the kindling.
“Que milagro! We thought you went and dried up in the sand,” Grey said with a teasing grin.
Soap opened his mouth to question Ghost’s disappearance.
All at once there was a buzz in his earpiece. Soap eagerly sealed his fingers against his ear, focusing on the noise. Grey and the guide looked to him, expectant.
A tinny voice came through the other end, struggling to be heard.
This is White November … shipment’s been delayed… stand down… resume at 0500…
“Fucking…” Soap muttered, then bit his tongue. He pressed the button on the side of his radio, opening the channel long enough to manage a very polite:
“Copy.”
“Nothing?” Grey pressed the moment his hand left the radio.
Soap shook his head.
“Worse. They’re calling us off for the night.”
Grey muttered several swears that Soap recognized.
“Really hoped we wouldn’t be sleeping out here,” Grey sighed.
“You an’ me both,” Soap agreed.
The guide shook his head slowly but did not pause in his work. He said something in Spanish to Grey, who nodded sagely.
“What’d he say?” Soap asked.
“He said we should all crack open a bottle,” Grey said, and lifted his own to his lips once more.
Somehow Soap didn’t believe that. He scanned their surroundings once more, remembering what was missing.
“Where’s L.t.?”
Grey pointed to the tent Soap and Ghost were sharing.
“He’s been in there since they went up,” he said, with a knowing look to the guide. “English can’t take the heat, can they?”
The two locals laughed under their breath. Soap waved off their jest and moved toward the tent.
“Tell him to come out and play!” Grey called out after him. “Bring a bottle! The night is young!”
He began to hum another tune. Somehow Soap doubted Ghost would be keen to join in on the chorus. No wonder he was hiding out in the tent.
Soap stooped, hand hovering at the zipper of the tent flap to listen for any sounds within. He almost felt he should knock, although there was no good way of doing it.
Besides, it was his tent too. Their tent. Soap could not afford to think about that for too long.
He cleared his throat and spoke.
“Ghost? Ye there?”
Silence. Maybe he was asleep. He had seemed worn ever since they set foot in the country, even more sullen than usual if Soap dare say so. There was a distance to him that Soap had not seen since their first introductions.
Soap’s first impression of Ghost had been about the same as everyone’s; sullen, secretive, and a stubborn pain in the ass. The man was a black box, and the less the other soldiers knew about him the more they pretended, until Ghost had become shrouded in outrageous, blood-soaked rumors. They swirled so thickly about him they formed a barrier no one attempted to breach.
It wasn’t until joining the 141 that Soap began to see hints of whatever was on the other side. Ghost had graduated from an enigma to the low voice in Soap’s earpiece, guiding him through those first few missions. A voice that occasionally gave way to endearingly awful jokes and the kind of teasing banter the British took delight in. Somewhere along the way, Ghost’s jabs at the expense of Scots had started to feel less like an insult and more like comradery.
Soap reached for the tent zipper at last and discovered that it was already half open. Slowly he pulled back the flap and ducked his head inside.
The tent was empty. Sand had blown in through the gap and formed a shallow pile by the entrance. The space was divided down the middle, Ghost’s pack on one side and Soap’s on the other.
Soap leaned back out and looked around. He noticed now the faint trail of footsteps disappearing away from camp. Perhaps Ghost had grown impatient too. Or perhaps he just wanted to be beyond earshot of the others’ songs.
Soap shrugged it off and stepped back inside the tent, letting his eyes slowly adjust to the dimness. He stripped the sand cloth from his face for the first time in hours, rubbing the irritated skin beneath. He didn’t know how Ghost could stand it. His fingers found purchase on the flask of whiskey he had stashed away in his pack. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to join Grey by the fire and hope a bit of warmth and a stiff drink would soothe the ache of his legs.
Soap had just turned to leave when he allowed his eyes to linger a moment on Ghost’s side of the tent. It was practically bare besides a sleeping bag. Soap had known other soldiers to sleep beside photos of their loved ones, or some trite possession they touted as their good luck charm. Ghost’s sleeping arrangements showed no trace of sentimentality. There was little more than his sleeping bag and his rifle resting against the tent’s back wall.
Now that was odd.
Soap’s own gun was still strapped across his back from his trip out into the desert. He could not imagine Ghost being careless enough to venture out without his, especially camped so close to their target. The longer Soap looked, the more he found to unsettle him. Ghost’s sleeping bag was crooked and spread wide, as if it had been tossed open. Soap nudged it straight again with the toe of his shoe, and his eyes caught on an odd, dark shape that the movement had revealed. He leaned closer to inspect it.
It was the body of a scorpion, flattened paper thin into the tent floor by what was sure to be Ghost’s boot.
Soap went still.
The guide had warned them of all sorts of creatures in the desert. Most had been accompanied with the word muerto. Soap wasn’t exactly a linguist, but in his line of work there were a few words in every language you heard more than the rest. Death was one of them.
Fuck.
Maybe everything was fine. Maybe Ghost had crushed it before anything had happened, and he had only gone out to get a little air.
Or perhaps he had been stung and decided to wander off into the desert to die.
Soap certainly knew which one of those possibilities sounded more like Ghost.
He shoved his flask back into his pack and snatched it off the ground as he rushed out of the tent and off down the fleeting trail of Ghost’s footsteps.
Ghost had wandered far, far enough that Soap lost sight of the fire’s glow behind him, far enough that even its trail of smoke grew faint in the sky. Soap paused a minute to orient himself. He doubted Ghost had taken the time to do the same. The footsteps he was following had begun to veer frequently, as if their creator was unsteady on his feet.
The further his pursuit took him the more Soap’s worry turned to anger. Either Ghost would be dead when Soap found him, or Soap would finish him off himself.
At last, he spotted a dark shape in the sand. He drew closer until the form resolved itself into a motionless figure, spread out on their back. The anger that had been building in his chest circled the drain, replaced with a flush of cold dread. It was Ghost all right. That nightmarish mask of his was staring up at the stars, white skull practically aglow in the moonlight.
“L.t.!”
Soap broke into a mad dash, boots fighting for friction in the loose sand. He dropped to a crouch at Ghost’s side, pack hitting the sand with a slap. He pressed his palm to Ghost’s chest without hesitation, and ached with relief when he felt the swell of breath.
He was alive, at least for now.
Ghost’s face rolled towards him, eyes opening with a snap. His pupils grew and shrank, fighting to pick Soap’s face apart from the white moon overhead.
“Jesus, L.t.!” Soap gasped, breathless from the sudden deluge of adrenaline in his veins. His heart was pounding harder than he cared to admit. “Thought ye were dead.”
The operator was silent. His eyes narrowed unhappily at the sight of Soap. He raised his head and propped himself up on his elbows with a groan, as if the simple action were a strain.
“Can’t a man go for a stroll in peace?”
Soap balked. If Ghost was trying to play it off, he was doing a terrible job. His voice was painfully thin.
“Eejit,” Soap snapped, striking Ghost in the shoulder with a loose fist. “Don’ play dumb. Wee bastard got you, didn’t he?”
“M’ fine,” Ghost said quickly, and turned his face towards the desert.
Soap knew that was as good as a yes. There wasn’t much to go on with the operator besides the tone of his voice and the flicker of his eyes behind the sockets of his mask. Soap had gotten damn good at reading Ghost’s voice, as good as reading any face. Too good to miss the makings of a lie.
“C’mon now, this is real serious. We ought ta have the guide take a look at -”
“Leave it be, Sergeant.”
Ghost’s voice was sharp enough to silence Soap. Pulling rank was a dirty trick, the kind of threat that would send other soldiers scurrying off with their tail between their legs. Soap had long since lost his fear of it, or of Ghost. He folded his arms unyielding over his chest.
“I’ll not let ye wander off like an old dug to die.”
Ghost’s eyes snapped to Soap’s, searching for any cracks in his resolve. The moonlight lit up his pale lashes. They stood out as bright as snow against the dark smears of his eye black.
Finally, Ghost heaved a heavy sigh.
“I won’t die.”
Soap snorted.
“The scorpion tell ye that?”
“I won’t die,” Ghost repeated louder. He was unnervingly calm. “Never did before.”
Soap might have laughed at how little sense the Lieutenant was making if it weren’t so worrying. Maybe Ghost was already fading away from the injury. Maybe Soap couldn’t believe anything he said.
“Been stung before?”
“Plenty.”
There was something unnerving in Ghost’s voice. His eyes had dimmed, as if the moonlight couldn’t quite reach whatever memories were lurking in the back of his vision. Soap hesitated. He didn’t want to believe him, but he had never doubted Ghost’s judgment before. Even if he was passing judgment on his own mortality.
“Fine,” Soap said, uncrossing his arms. “I cannae carry ye back, can I?”
Soap knew he would if he had to. He hadn’t ruled against it yet. Instead he set his pack down in the sand between them and began digging through its contents.
“I’ll just take care of ye myself,” Soap declared.
Out of the corner of his vision he saw Ghost’s fingers fist in the sand and hold tight for a moment. Then slowly they unfurled, defeated.
“Stubborn bastard,” Ghost muttered. The corner of Soap’s mouth twitched up into a smile.
“Well that’s rich coming from ye.”
Soap pulled the first aid kit out from his pack and began sorting through it.
“Where’d he get ye?”
Ghost was silent.
“Say something quick, or I’ll start guessing.”
Ghost looked puzzled at the threat, until Soap held out one finger like a weapon and jabbed it into the man’s forearm painfully hard. Lucky for Ghost, it wasn’t a lucky guess.
“Alright, alright,” Ghost said hastily before Soap could strike again. He moved to sit fully upright, wincing as if it were not easy.
Soap had been so frightened by Ghost’s deathlike stillness he only now noticed the operator was wearing his civvies. A thin, grey long sleeve with three buttons from the hollow of his throat to his breastbone, and a pair of soft, dark pants that tied at the waist.
Ghost reached to tap two fingers to the left side of his chest.
“Cheeky fucker crawled in my sleeping bag.”
“Show me,” Soap ordered, tearing an antiseptic wipe open. Ghost stared back. He blinked once, twice.
“Rather not.”
“Didn’t take you for the bashful type, L.t.”
Soap had hoped the teasing comment would bother Ghost enough for him to cease his resistance. For a moment it seemed that it had worked. Ghost scowled, and his fingers knotted in the hem of his shirt. Then they went still.
Ghost was always covered head to toe, in what Soap had always assumed was an impressive devotion to his anonymity. He never joined the other men in the showers after combat training, or took part in any of the bare-chested antics that took place when commanders weren’t on base: swimming, wrestling, racing. Even here in the desert heat Ghost had retained his normal combat uniform, right down to his skeletal gloves. Only after their guide began grumbling of heat stroke did Ghost make the slight allowance of pushing his sleeves to his elbows. It had revealed a particularly intricate sleeve tattoo that Soap had not been able to resist studying.
“Don’t ask.”
“What?” Soap said automatically, distracted by his thoughts.
“I said don’t ask,” Ghost muttered unhappily. Slowly his hands moved upwards, raising his shirt over his head. “Tryna undress a man while he’s sufferin’... you’re real twisted, you know that?”
Soap could not summon a witty reply. His mouth had gone dry. His eyes were on the cruel revelation that was Ghost’s chest. Scars stretched across the expanse of his skin, unrelenting.
Injuries were common in their line of work, but not this many. After all, it only took a bullet or two to put you out of work permanently.
This told a story. It wasn’t meant to kill. It was meant to agonize.
Soap realized he had been silent for too long. Ghost’s eyes were on him, watching his reaction intently. So he shook the horror from his face and focused his wandering gaze on the site of the sting just below Ghost’s ribcage. The skin around it was flushed an angry red.
Soap reached out towards the mark with the antiseptic. Ghost shifted ever so slightly but did not move to stop him. Soap let the side of his palm rest against Ghost’s skin, steadying his hand as he dabbed at the site. He could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the feverish heat of his skin.
When he had finished he sat back on his heels. Ghost looked at him expectantly.
“You don’t have a clue what you’re doing, do you?”
“Ah ken enough,” Soap bristled. “Treated my share of snake bites.”
“Snakes in Scotland? Thought that Patrick bloke drove em’ all out.”
Soap stared daggers.
“That’s Ireland, ya numpty.”
For a moment the corners of Ghost’s eyes crinkled beneath his mask. Soap swore the bastard was smiling.
It was true Soap knew what to do when it came to a snake bite: clean and elevate. The truth was there wasn’t much else for it. Certainly no nonsense you’d see in movies, like cutting it open and sucking the venom out. Not that Ghost would let him, even if it worked. He could only pray the same rules applied to scorpions.
He tried to gauge Ghost’s condition. Sweat was forming on his skin despite the chill night air. His breaths were short and sharp, as if it pained him to fill his chest any further.
“Talk to me, Ghost,” Soap warned in a low tone. “Give me something.”
Ghost breathed shakily.
“Shite… skin feels like fire.”
Soap rooted through his first aid kit and came up empty-handed.
“Ah dinnae have anything for - ”
“Gimme your hand.”
Soap looked up to find Ghost’s palm outstretched towards him, fingers beckoning.
“What? Why?”
“C’mon, give it here.”
Hesitantly Soap extended his hand toward Ghost’s. The operator seized his wrist. Soap jerked in alarm, but Ghost pulled him helplessly forward until his palm was pressed flat against the face of the sting.
“The hell…?” Soap said. He tried to pull back, but the operator gave a dissatisfied tut.
“Put it back.”
Soap hesitated, then slowly flattened his palm against Ghost’s side. Ghost groaned, unabashed, and Soap’s eyes widened as heat crept to his ears.
“Your hands are like fuckin’ ice.”
Ghost’s eyes closed, head rolling back towards the sky. He let out a breath of air, one that sounded like he had been holding it in much too long.
Ghost must have already lost his senses. Soap could not imagine the kind of pain he was in to allow this. This couldn’t be the same Ghost that glared when Soap dared to give him a friendly clap on the shoulder.
“Better?” Soap asked quietly.
“S’not so bad out here… nice and bright… better than a box…”
Soap shook his head slowly at the other’s ramblings.
“You’re talking mince, L.t.”
“Scots and yer made-up words…”
They sat in silence, punctuated only by Ghost’s unhappy breathing. Soap willed his fingers to lie still against Ghost’s skin, although his shoes fidgeted restlessly in the sand. It wasn’t lost on Soap that the longer they sat, the more labored Ghost’s breathing became. The fabric of Ghost’s black mask heaved up and down as air struggled through it. Soap waited until he could stand it no longer.
“Ghost...”
“Mm.”
His eyes were squeezed tightly shut behind the mask. He was getting worse at hiding his discomfort.
“Can ye breathe in that thing?”
“Mask stays on, Soap.”
“Ay, ah know that,” Soap said with a frustrated sigh. “Been watching ye sleep in that damn thing for days. Bet it’s real rank in there.”
Ghost looked at Soap out of the corner of his eye.
“Been watching me sleep? That right?”
Ghost’s words were punctuated with shallow breaths, but Soap could hear his arrogant smirk. Soap took his hand away from Ghost’s side and used it to flick a handful of sand in retaliation.
“Been listening to ye snore more like.”
“I don’t snore,” Ghost said, a touch defensive.
“Ye do snore, 'cause you cannae breathe in that fucking thing.”
“Tch.”
“Just the mouth, yeah?”
Soap could see Ghost’s thoughts churning. His fingers toyed with the edge of his balaclava where it rested at his throat. Soap could not name the last time he had seen such hesitation in Ghost’s expression.
“If yer so damn shy I’ll cover me eyes,” Soap jeered. It was a trap, and it worked. Ghost’s expression dropped quickly into the exasperated look reserved only for Soap. Soap would be lying if he said he did not take pride in it.
“Piss off,” Ghost grumbled. He yanked up on the cloth, tucking the fabric up under the skull’s jaw.
First there was the line of his throat, the jut of his adam’s apple bobbing nervously. Then the sharp ridge of his jaw, clean shaven. There were scars here too. Thin, evenly spaced ones along the left side of his jawbone. One that ran through the top of his lip, carving a ridge that lifted at the sensitive skin.
Ghost spoke. Soap could see at last the mouth that formed those words, the nervous flick of his tongue over dry, cracked lips.
“Go on. Have a laugh.”
Ghost was watching him intently. If he expected disgust or disappointment, he would not get it from Soap.
“Don’ see nothin’ to laugh at,” the Sergeant said firmly.
Who did this to you?
Soap wanted to ask it just as much as he knew he could not. It was the only rule with Ghost. Soap had resolved a long time ago never to break it.
Ghost’s lips parted, taking in eager breaths. The moonlight shone on his teeth, on his tongue. His bare chest heaved, sweat gleaming off his skin.
Soap needed to look elsewhere before his thoughts ran away with him. He shifted his attention to his sack, digging until his fingers grazed the flask of whiskey stowed away.
He set his attention to drinking, washing down the words he knew he could not speak.
“Give us a sip.”
Ghost outstretched his hand. Soap raised a brow.
“Fan a’ whiskey?”
“Only good thing you Scots ever made.”
Soap shook his head but obliged, handing it over. Ghost tipped the flask back into his mouth. His hand was trembling, and a trickle spilled clumsily down the side of his cheek. He swiped it away with the back of his fist and held the flask back out towards Soap.
Soap took it and turned it over in his hands, grappling with his curiosity. An agitated thought was forming with the sloshing of the liquid inside.
Perhaps this was his best chance to get Ghost to speak. Even if it was cruel to draw it from him in his weakest moment.
“Know the problem with ye?” Soap said carefully. Ghost’s eyes widened then darted down, lashes concealing his expression. He gave a startled huff.
“Hah… I know several.”
Soap shook his head, unamused.
“Problem is no one knows a damn thing about ye, besides that thing on yer head. So of course they’re gunna ask. What else is there to say to ye?”
Soap had never ventured into such familiar territory with Ghost, but he could not stop the words from tumbling forth now that he had started to speak to them.
“The hell you on about, Soap.”
“Ahm saying maybe if I knew one damn thing about ye, us two would have something to talk about besides yer ugly mug.”
“We talk plenty,” Ghost countered.
“Yer awful fuckin’ jokes on comms don’t count.”
“An’ why not?”
Ghost’s eyes had narrowed in displeasure. His voice was quickly growing guarded. Soap’s resolve began to falter.
“Gah… ah dinnae ken…” Soap mumbled, and brought the flask to his lips.
Ghost rubbed at the back of his neck, agitated.
“Trust me, Soap. The less you know about old Lieutenant Ghost the better.”
“Ah don’t wannae know about Ghost,” Soap frowned. “Ah wannae know about Simon.”
Ghost flinched. The muscles in his jaw jumped as his teeth clenched. Soap felt suddenly that he had made a mistake.
“Hum,” Ghost said, his voice like ice. “Now there’s a clever thought. You wanna know my favorite color?”
Soap scowled, knowing when he was being made fun of.
“Forget it. Was only tryna help.”
“Help with what, exactly?” Ghost demanded. Soap could not help but rise to his anger.
“Help you,” he snapped. “You arse.”
“Didn’t ask for your help.”
“Friends don’t have to ask!”
Shit, now he had done it. Gone and said the one word he had no right to say.
“Ah ken you haven’t been right since we got here. And yer favorite color’s black. It’s a fuckin’ easy guess.”
Ghost’s jaw worked. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then across the top of his mask as if combing through his hair.
“Fuck,” Ghost growled, and surged to his feet.
“Ghost?” Soap called out as the Lieutenant took several, stumbling steps out towards the desert. “Ghost!”
Ghost’s legs wobbled unsteadily. He planted his heels and clasped his hands behind his head, swaying in place.
Soap scrambled to his own feet, following after. Maybe he had gone too far. Ghost was hurt after all. He wasn’t in his right mind.
“Just… forget it, yeah? Let’s go back to camp, sleep it off…”
Ghost turned to face him. His pupils were blown wide. His arm reached out, fingers clasping the back of Soap’s neck and pulling him in closer. Soap’s throat filled with the fear that they were about to fight.
“That all you want, then?” Ghost asked. “You wanna know one damn thing about me?”
“Y-yeah…” Soap muttered, unnerved. “Guess it is.”
Ghost’s golden eyes bored into him.
“An’ what I say… stays between us, yeah Johnny?”
Soap’s eyes widened at the sudden appearance of his Christian name.
“…O’ course.”
The corner of Ghost’s mouth twitched into a pained smile. Soap could not take his eyes from it. There had been many a mission all on his lonesome, with only Ghost in his ear. Days without seeing another friendly, where the only thing that got him by was the Brit's awful banter and the wanderings of Soap’s bored imagination picturing how Ghost looked as he teased. From now on Soap would have this, the memory of a crooked smile to go with the voice in his ear.
Ghost took a shuddering breath and stepped into the space between them. The hand at the back of Soap’s neck drew him closer. He did not understand until he felt the graze of Ghost’s lips on his own, felt the spill of hot breath bittered with whiskey.
Soap was frozen. Ghost was out of his mind.
Surely it was the venom. That was the only thing that could explain why Ghost’s mouth was moving eagerly against his own, why his fingers were slipping upwards into the strands of hair at the base of Soap’s skull.
Surely.
Ghost pulled away, hand dropping. Soap could taste his absence.
“Finally shut you up,” Ghost said. He could not look Soap in the eye.
Sad. He looked sad.
Soap could see it clearly now. This was not the venom. This was real, and Ghost had so thoroughly assured himself of Soap’s disgust that he had used it to drive him away.
“Told you, didn’t I. You’re better off not - ngh!”
Soap kissed him back so forcefully that the words died in Ghost’s throat. Their teeth clacked clumsily together. Soap did not care. His hands seized at Ghost’s shoulders, his chest, the line of his neck. He could feel his heartbeat, could feel the scar that carved through Ghost’s lip. He could feel him.
The more eager Soap became, the more Ghost responded in kind. His teeth caught at Soap’s bottom lip, and Soap could feel his grin.
“Atta boy, Johnny,” he murmured against Soap’s mouth. The sound sank straight to the pit of Soap’s stomach.
“Christ,” Soap breathed, voice cracking.
Soap did not know how long they remained bound together, hands roving hungrily over each other’s skin. Ghost’s movements began to slow. Each kiss grew farther apart, the space between them padded with Ghost’s pained gasps.
Soap pulled back. His eyes traveled from Ghost’s unfocused gaze to his trembling hands. A pounding heart made for pounding blood, and pounding blood only circulated venom faster.
“Hey, easy…” Soap soothed, holding him back. “Yer lookin’ something awful…”
“...hah… feelin’ it too...”
Ghost’s head drooped to rest against Soap’s shoulder.
“Ye need to rest, stubborn oaf,” Soap sighed. “Let’s go back.”
Ghost shook his head back and forth. Soap heard the shuffle of fabric as the balaclava dropped back over his face. When he spoke his voice had returned to the muffled tones Soap was so accustomed to.
“I was just… startin’ to ‘ave fun…”
Soap laughed, breathless, still disbelieving.
“It can wait.”
Ghost raised his head from Soap’s shoulder at last.
“M’ not much one for talk, Soap.”
It didn’t matter that Ghost’s expression was hidden behind the skull once more. Soap could hear the words for what they were; an apology, and an admission of guilt.
“Ah know. And ah dinnae care. Ah like ye well enough, even when yer acting like a broody hen.”
Ghost chuckled blackly. His breathing was growing steady once more. Soap scooped his pack up off the ground and slung it over his bag. He turned his eyes towards camp. It was a long walk back.
It seemed everything would be alright.
He turned back to Ghost with an easy smile.
“Still it’s a damn shame,” he said.
“What?”
“Well… we have so much to talk about now.”
There was that familiar glare, reserved only for Soap. It only made his smile grow wider.
“Cheeky bastard.”