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Soap isn't certain when this ritual began. All he knows is that Ghost seems to enjoy it, and Soap’s not complaining.
When they get back to base after a mission, regardless of where they are, who they've killed or how tired they are, Soap finds Ghost’s hand on his shoulder. There's a gentle tug, a suggestion. Soap never needed to be told twice. He’ll trail after his lieutenant, follow him to a secluded corner, and sit facing towards a wall and away from Ghost.
Grooming is deeply personal, sacred. Wings are fragile and easily broken. It’s hard to let just anyone touch them to rake their fingers through the ever-important and breakable flight feathers. But Soap has never felt any trepidation with Ghost, with Simon, only a warm sense of calmness. He knows that his lieutenant, as strong and imposing as he is, cares for his team with a fierceness that comforts John.
Simon's hands will find their way to his back, to the place where the blue-grey feathers of his wings meet the warmth of his back. Sometimes Simon will lean his forehead against the back of Soap’s head as his clever fingers run through the matted feathers.
In those times, John can feel Ghost’s curls tickle the shaved hair around the mohawk. Ghost will turn, press his cheek into Soap’s hair, and Soap will feel the distinct feathers above Simon's ears that once marked his wings as belonging to a long-eared owl. Soap finds them endearing—something strangely innocent in such a violent man.
Ghost grooms John’s feathers carefully, reverently. He breaks the wax coating on the new feathers when they’re ready, fluffs the soft, downy feathers around his shoulder blades. He brushes away any blood that has collected on the grey outer feathers and rearranges the brown feathers that lie on the inside of Soap’s wings when they become skewed.
Ghost is always quiet during their grooming sessions. Soap respects that, offering quiet suggestions and small talk only where they’re needed. Simon treats Soap’s wings like they’re holy objects. John’s proud of his wings, of their strength and versatility, but even he doesn't afford them as much respect as Ghost does in each thoughtful motion through them.
Soap figures it has to do with Ghost’s absent pair. He's seen traces of them on the few occasions when Ghost was injured enough to allow John to care for the few small feathers that remained beneath his shoulders. He’s never asked outright, too wary of Ghost’s skittish nature regarding his history. He knows they must have been large to carry Ghost and quiet to lend to his natural lean toward overwatch. He imagines that Ghost must have been a sight to behold.
Soap’s most treasured possession is the small feather that Ghost had offered him one time after he was shot. His lieutenant had come to visit him in medical, scolded him for his recklessness, then cracked a bad joke about flightless birds. The bullet had grazed the tip of his left wing, leaving Soap disgruntled about being grounded for the next few weeks.
Then, from his position beside the cot, which was acting as John’s hospital bed, Ghost had reached into his pocket and produced the small pattern feather. Soap had felt his head tip sideways, curious.
“From your flightless bird. To keep you safe while you’re grounded.”
Ghost’s voice had been gruff, his shoulders tense and defensive, like he expected rejection or ridicule. Soap had leaned forward to brush his fingers over the soft feather before taking it and tucking it into his journal on the bedside table. Simon’s shoulders dropped, and he exhaled with something akin to relief.
Later, when Soap had been cleared for groundwork but not flight, he tucked the feather into a pocket on his tac vest. He wasn't always aware it was there. But it was a source of comfort in boring operations or high-stress situations. He always had a piece of Ghost with him. As long as he carried that piece with him, he was indestructible. Ghost was immortal, an animal born of almost destructive determination and stubbornness. As long as Soap had that feather, Ghost’s inability to die and stay dead would rub off on him.
The routine changes one day.
Soap isn’t certain what it is about this day that bolsters him enough to stick his foot in their carefully orchestrated bonding sessions. Maybe it's the disastrous mission they've recently returned from or the bullet-shaped graze on his lieutenant's right forearm. Maybe it's the increasing sense of "something" John feels growing between them.
Whatever the reason, Soap finds his hand gently peeling Ghost’s fingers away from his arm when the other man attempts to pull him into a secluded room. Ghost comes to a halt and looks at John. There's a line of tension across his shoulders that's acutely visible to Soap from where he stands in front of Ghost.
“Your arms’ in no way to be grooming someone's wings.”
Something defensive flashes in Ghost’s eyes. His right arm strays to cover his left, perhaps betraying the lingering sensation of pain.
“‘S alright. I can manage.”
Soap feels himself quirk an eyebrow and smile. Instead of answering, he removes the hand covering Ghost’s wound and presses down lightly; the sudden intake of breath is answer enough.
“C’mon. We can do something else.”
John’s sure the "something else" he had in mind is not what Ghost was thinking. He drags his lieutenant back to his room, the other man dogging his heels the whole way. When Ghost sees what door they’re at, he gives Soap a strange look.
“Not that, you pervert. Open the door.”
Ghost sighs in exasperation but opens the door regardless. Soap slips past him and sits on the single cot that Ghost has claimed as his own. He pats the space beside him, smiling at Ghost.
Or maybe it's Simon now. The balaclava he was wearing has been discarded on a side table at the entrance. The little tufts of feathers at Simon's ears are pricked upward, betraying his confusion at the situation. John just smiles and pats the bed again. Simon decides to sit after a moment, but not before beginning to voice his thoughts.
John shushes him before he can start. When the other man is sitting, John carefully manoeuvres them to be lying against the wall. He dislodges the wing closest to Simon and wraps it around his superior's shoulder. Simon’s head falls to John’s shoulder. They've both been awake longer than they care to count, and without the mask, the exhaustion is tangible on Ghost’s face.
Soap feels Simon nuzzle into his shoulder somewhat. His hand moves to the lieutenant's head like it has a mind of its own and begins to card through the small feathers and dirty blond curls there. Simon's breath levels out after a few minutes. Pre-dawn light filters through the half-closed blinds on the window, casting the room in an orange-red glow. From where he looks down at Simon's face, finally relaxed in sleep, Soap thinks he’s beautiful.
Soap’s last thought before he follows his companion into restfulness is that he really hopes Price doesn't find them. He doesn't know how strict his captain is about fraternisation rules between officers and their subordinates, but he's positive the way Simon is curled into him betrays more than brotherly affection between comrades.