Work Text:
There were a lot of things Ghost was good at. If Soap tried to make a list of them, he was sure it would fill several pages in his journal. And he was also sure that ‘ hiding under that damn skull mask ’ would be one of the first things he put down.
It wasn’t usually a problem. Ghost got more comfortable with him every day—opened up just a bit more every day. Slowly remembering how to be human again. How to be Simon again.
They were making progress, however slow, together.
At least that’s what he was forcing himself to remember.
Soap hadn’t noticed something was wrong. Not on his own, and possibly too late. He was caught in a conversation with Gaz across the mess hall table, their finished dinners abandoned on the surface between them. Their other teammates had dispersed slowly over the last hour, leaving the two of them alone.
Well, alone except for Ghost. He’d been sitting beside Soap silently the entire time, the familiar weight of his thigh pressed against him.
He didn’t know it then, but the reason Ghost had stayed, despite Soap giving no indication that he planned on leaving soon, was because he was fighting.
And he only figured that out because Ghost wanted him to.
He was halfway through his sentence when the abrupt weight of Ghost’s hand on his leg cut him clean off. Soap let his words hang unfinished as he turned to face his lieutenant.
Ghost only remained upright long enough to ensure that he had Soap’s attention.
The second after their eyes locked, Ghost dropped his head to the table, barely catching himself against his forearm before he could crack his skull open.
“Ghost!” Panicked, Soap reached over and put his arm around his shoulders, prepared to catch him if he slipped any further.
Finished hiding it—finished fighting it alone, Ghost’s chest started to heave as he fought to breathe evenly. His entire torso shuddered under Soap’s arm. He could feel his heart racing, despite the cloth and muscle separating his arm from it.
Ghost was having a panic attack. Soap knew it with as much certainty as he knew his own name.
It was only because Ghost had briefly mentioned it some weeks ago, surrounded by a twilight haze and cigarette smoke, that Soap knew he sometimes suffered from them. He’d prodded carefully, getting whatever information about it out of him that he could. Just in case. That, combined with the research he’d done the next day, made him feel decently equipped to help deal with the attack.
“Gaz,” he said to their teammate without turning. “Go get me an ice pack.”
Understanding the order, he clambered out of his seat and rushed towards the kitchen without a word.
Carefully, as to not startle Ghost in his disoriented state, Soap slid out of his seat and to his knees. Ghost, somehow realizing what he was trying to do, pushed his chair back from the table, making room.
It took a bit of maneuvering, but Soap got himself situated between Ghost’s legs.
His eyes were squeezed shut. He couldn't see how hell-bent Soap was on forcing him to focus on him and not the panic seizing his body.
Ghost was gripping the table on either side of Soap’s shoulders, his body heaving like he’d just gotten back from running laps in the yard. It was barely visible in the shitty lighting of the mess hall, but he was sweating, moisture forming on the bridge of his nose, the corner of his brow.
“Focus on me, Lt.,” he said as soothingly as he could manage, reaching for the zipper on Ghost’s sweatshirt.
Ghost’s eyes flew open then, the muscles in his shoulders twitching as he braced for another attack. One that wasn’t real, would never come; Soap would rather take a bullet from his own hand than hurt Ghost.
“Just me,” he assured, continuing to talk as calmly as he could. “Yer sweatin’ like a right pig, Ghost. Help a lad out?”
He tried, Soap would give him that. It took longer than it should’ve, removing the sweatshirt, but they got it off together and left it abandoned on the chair behind him.
Where the hell are you Gaz?
“Alright, not too bad.” He didn’t know if talking was helping at all—if anything he was doing was helping—but Ghost was watching him now, brown eyes wide. Watching him like he was the only thing holding him to the earth, the only thing grounding him. Which he supposed he might be.
But his breathing wasn’t getting any better. That was Soap’s main concern, and the solution he’d come up with to fix it, Ghost was probably not going to like.
“Need ye to breathe with me, Lt.. In ‘n out, nice ‘n slow.”
Soap started to take very exaggerated, measured breaths. Ghost’s eyes dropped from his in favor of his chest, watching it expand as he breathed evenly.
With him distracted, Soap reached out and tugged the hem of his balaclava out of his shirt.
“Just me,” he repeated, again and again, barely speaking above a whisper.
Ghost latched onto Soap’s waist, locking his arms together behind his back, as if he was afraid Soap might vanish if he didn’t hold him firmly enough. Or, perhaps, he was afraid he would vanish if he didn’t have Soap there to care.
He was allowed to work the black fabric up over Ghost’s mouth, his nose.
Soap had seen Simon’s face before. The first time in Las Almas. The second time shortly after Chicago. The third and fourth times in the months after as he grew more comfortable being Simon again around Soap.
This didn’t really count as the fifth, he didn’t think. He wasn’t going to count it, anyway. Even if he had removed the mask to see more than just his mouth and nose, it didn’t count. This wasn’t Ghost’s choice, like the other times had been. He’d allowed it, but it wasn’t the same. And Soap hadn’t pulled it up because he wanted to see; he did it because he was trying to help—did it out of tactical necessity.
He settled the mask on the bridge of Ghost’s nose where it shouldn’t fall back down of its own accord and lowered his hands.
Satisfied that Soap was satisfied with his unobstructed airway, Ghost moved to hide in Soap’s shoulder, resting his forehead against his collarbone. Soap allowed it when he felt his breath beneath the collar of his t-shirt, confirming that he could breathe openly.
Then Ghost began to breathe as he was asked; in and out, nice and slow. Following where Soap led.
It wasn’t easy, that much Soap could discern from the way Ghost was shaking. But being determined was on that mental list Soap had of things Ghost was good at, so he kept at it, no matter how hard it might have been.
Soap looped his arms around Ghost’s shoulders, holding him back.
“Yer gonna hate me for this, Lt., but I promise it’ll be good for ye.”
Until Gaz returned from wherever the hell he’d gone to retrieve the ice pack he’d requested, Soap had the next best thing: his own hands, widely known to be as cold as the Arctic at any given moment.
Slipping his fingers beneath the back of the mask, Soap pressed a palm to Ghost’s neck, sifting through soft, sweaty hair to press his fingertips against his pulse point. The other hand he stuck down the back of his shirt, putting his cold skin in the warm space between his shoulder blades.
Ghost’s spine went momentarily stiff, his breathing stopping all together.
“Just me,” Soap reminded him, just in case.
But he didn’t need to.
Ghost went a little boneless, sagging into Soap hard enough that he had to lock his own spine to keep them both upright.
Ghost knew it was him, despite whatever disorientation he was dealing with internally. Knew it was him solely because his body was now getting used to relaxing when he was with Soap. Knew it was him by touch alone.
As he waited for Gaz to return, Soap scratched at the small patch of Ghost’s hair that he could reach and silently hoped that maybe Gaz wouldn’t come back. Hoped that maybe they could just stay like this for a while, comfortably wrapped in each other’s embrace.
But Gaz did return, almost promptly after Soap had wished he wouldn’t.
“We’ve got no ice packs in the kitchen. Had to go all the way to the fuckin’ infirmary for one.”
Soap lifted his head from where he’d had it rested against the side of Ghost’s as Gaz’s footsteps approached.
Gaz didn’t bat an eye at the sight of the two of them, despite the way they were wrapped up in each other. There was no disgust, no embarrassment, no surprise. The only thing he was was concerned, holding out the ice pack to Soap as he glanced down at their lieutenant.
“He alright?”
“Will be.”
And it was true. He was already settling, his breathing tricked by Soap to return to something that resembled calm.
He took his hand off Ghost’s back to accept the ice pack. “Thank ye.”
Gaz nodded and took a step back, looking caught between staying and leaving. Staying, because he was worried. Leaving, because they looked intimate enough that lingering felt like intruding.
Soap left him to the internal debate. “Ghost, yer gonna have ta get up.”
All he got in reply was a grumble of protest. But that was progress; he hadn’t made any verbal noises this entire time.
“Yer gonna like me even less when I tell ye what I’mma do.”
“Keep that fuckin’ ice away from me.”
Soap grinned widely, encouraged by the sign of normalcy his voice brought on. “Aw, show some gratitude, Lt.. Gaz went halfway across base to get this fuckin’ ice for ye.”
“Don’t want it.”
“Wasn’t askin’ if ye did.”
Ghost grumbled again and tightened his arms around Soap, making it very clear that he did not want to move.
“Be a good lad and sit up or I’ll shove it down yer back.”
“…You wouldn’t.”
He wouldn’t, not like this when Ghost was vulnerable, but Ghost didn’t need to know that.
Soap’s fingers were still in the ends of Ghost’s hair. He stretched them towards the collar of his shirt, prying it open the smallest fraction.
Ghost’s body stiffened. “I’m fine. Don’t need it.”
That was probably true. He seemed to be breathing normally now, likely distracted enough by Soap’s bantering that he wasn’t forcing it to be level anymore.
“Oh, c’mon. It’ll help. I read that ice can help during anxiety and panic attacks. That there’s this nerve in yer sternum that ye can ice to help.”
“…Read it where?”
Soap fell silent. He hadn’t told Ghost that he’d looked into panic attacks after he’d confessed his struggle with them all those weeks ago.
His silence finally got Ghost to lift his head from Soap’s shoulder.
In an attempt to not meet his eyes, Soap looked for Gaz and found him gone.
“Soap.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he twisted his torso to put the unwanted ice pack on the table behind him.
Ghost’s eyes were burning holes in the side of his face, warming his skin to a bright red.
“ Johnny .”
“What?” he sighed, unable to deny him when he called him that.
“Look at me.”
He didn’t want to, but he did. Incapable of ignoring Ghost. Too used to taking orders from him.
Ghost’s small, soft smile was on full display with his mask pulled up. It was little more than a tilt at the corners of his lips, but it was enough that two dimples had sprung to life on his scar-flecked cheeks.
This was the first time Soap had seen him smile.
It struck him completely dumb, speechless.
After all the years behind the mask, Ghost was sharing his smile again.
And he was sharing it with Soap .
It made him blush even harder, the implication.
“Fuck off,” he said weakly under his breath, rising to his feet.
He didn’t get very far, as he was still between Ghost’s legs. Ghost pressed his thighs towards each other, effectively trapping Soap between them, and his fingers grabbed at his belt loops.
“You read about them.” A statement, not a question.
“Yeah, well. Had to make sure you’d be taken care of, didn’t I? Can’t trust ye to do it yerself.”
“So you do like me,” Ghost said in a terrible mimicry of Soap’s accent—of Soap’s words from months ago.
Soap shoved at Ghost’s shoulder, feigning annoyance even as he finished the old conversation. “I like you alive.”
But then he caved, grabbing Ghost around the neck and pulling him to his chest.
For the moment, Soap was taller, since Ghost was still sitting down, and he enjoyed it while it lasted. He enjoyed the faint rumble of Ghost’s suppressed laughter against his chest.
And most of all, Soap enjoyed the shape of Simon’s smile against his t-shirt, for as long as he was allowed.