Work Text:
There were worse things he could have done.
Actually, as a whole, this was tame for Soap. He could have blown something up, he could have gotten somebody killed. So really, tampering with evidence wasn’t that bad a crime in the grand scheme of things. Would Price be pissed about it? Yes. Would Ghost be pissed about it? Absolutely. Would Gaz be pissed? Probably not, honestly.
Soap chewed on the back of his pen, chair precariously balanced on the back two legs, eyeing the empty notepad on the desk in front of him.
The mission parameters had been strict, collect any and all files they found and get them back to base. It hadn’t been any of his business. Soap should’ve just let it be, but he couldn’t help it.
When Soap had seen those files, spotted the name scrawled across them, he couldn’t help it. There was no one there to stop him from opening the manilla folder and seeing the pictures inside, and the moment he did he knew he couldn’t bring these back. Sure, the files were going back to their own people. But after Shepherd and Graves… It didn’t matter who got a hold of these. No one deserved to see those files. No one had the right to see them.
He bit down a little too hard on the pen and heard a hard crunch of plastic. Soap cringed and the chair made an uncomfortably loud sound as he sat forwards, spitting the broken plastic bits of the pen into his hand. Well.
Soap dumped the pieces into a nearby trash can, running a frustrated hand through his mohawk. He had a letter to write. The pen was still in good enough working condition at least. It was mostly the clip that had broken, and the barrel was only a little bit fucked.
He stared blankly at the top of his page. How was he supposed to start this?
Dear Ghost? No, definitely not. It felt tacky to start a letter to his superior with dear . But just Ghost didn’t feel right for what this was either.
Soap had to chew on his lip in order to resist the urge to stick his pen back in his mouth. Simon was absolutely not the right move either. Soap ran a hand over his face and groaned, bouncing his leg hard enough to send tremors through the desk.
Soap bit the bullet and started with the single word at the top left of the page.
Ghost,
Soap stopped again.
What was he supposed to say about this? Hey, I found this and it belongs to you. Sorry I committed a crime getting these for you, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat? Or maybe he should say, if Price finds out what I did I’m probably off the force! Hope you’re cool with this!
There was no easy way to go about this. The files… the moment Soap saw the name Simon Riley he knew what he had to do. He was lucky that at the time he had been alone. Ghost and the others had been suppressing fire and giving him time to find the files. Soap didn’t want to know how it would have gone if Ghost or one of the others had gotten to the files before him.
The shit they had on Ghost…
Fucking Hell. He didn’t know how they got any of it. Pictures. Medical records. Stuff that no one should know about him, about his family. That stuff didn’t belong in anyone’s hands. Not even his.
So yeah, maybe Soap burned the files. Maybe he lied about what he found, and scrounged up whatever other intel was there to bring back.
Well. He burned most of the files. Soap hadn’t meant to tell Ghost what he had found, but the pictures sitting face down on his desk… they didn’t belong to him. And that’s why he’s here, having chewed through a pen and nearly bounced a hole into the floor. Soap wasn’t about to just corner the man and present him with a possibly sensitive topic. Not within range of his fist, at least.
Soap was better than that. Obviously his only choice was to write him a letter about it, leave it for him outside of his door. Let him process and have a moment with this, because it wasn’t Soaps place to intrude on this.
The only difficulty was that Soap actually had to write the damn thing. It would be way too fuckin’ weird to leave a blank envelope at Ghost’s door with pictures of his family. Pictures that Soap was pretty sure shouldn’t exist anymore, considering how heavily everything in his life was redacted.
Soap knew the basics. He’d been around Ghost enough to know that the shit before the military did a number on him. He also knew Ghost didn’t have any family to go back to, and that wasn’t because they were estranged. Maybe Soap should have let the pictures go too. It would have been a whole hell of a lot easier to have just destroyed them, but he hadn’t found it in himself to let those burn too.
He stared at the single word he had written so far. Fucking Hell. He just had to get this over with before he ended up overthinking it and not writing anything at all.
Ghost,
Don’t ask how I got these, but I think they belong to you.
- Soap
He had debated how to sign off for another five minutes. Was that too brief? He spent a lot of time thinking about something that ended up as a single line. Soap tossed the pen to the side and snatched an envelope, not letting himself dwell on it any further as he folded the shitty little letter up and put it inside with the pictures.
He felt guilty for looking at them again. They weren’t for Soap’s eyes. It was hard to ignore them though. One of them, a little family picture, full of semi familiar faces that he didn’t have names to go along with. He’d seen Ghost’s face before, had thought of it so much, sketched it in the margins of his notebooks so often, that he could recognize the set of his eyes in the older woman’s face and the shared rise of his cheeks, her hair color the same faded blonde as Ghost. To the side was a man, sharing Ghost’s jawline and eye color, with an arm around another woman. There was a child in her arms.
Another picture, one that made Soap feel even more guilty to look at. It was probably because this one was older, it felt more intimate. It showed a young, scar free face in a fresh military uniform. Probably the only evidence that Ghost had ever been the FNG at some point. He could imagine his mother behind the camera, proud to take a photo of her newly enlisted son. There weren’t any hard lines around his eyes, no perpetual scowl etched into his face. It was Ghost before… well, before he was Ghost.
There were a few other pictures, and Soap could feel the shame crawling up his throat for looking at them again. Instead he tucked them into the envelope and sealed it, effectively stopping himself from staring for longer than he should have. Seeing Ghost before, drawing parallels to what his face had been like when he last saw it in Las Almas… he could spend all evening thinking about it.
Soap pushed up from his chair, and tucked the envelope in his pocket for safe keeping. Just a little drop off and he could forget about it. It was past dinner, nearing curfew for the night, so Ghost was likely back in his room by now. As long as Soap was quick, he could get in and out without having an awkward encounter. Ghost would have the pictures and letter, and Soap could stop thinking about how he destroyed evidence.
He did it for Ghost, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Soap slipped out of his room and down the hall, the walk to Ghost’s door feeling a lot shorter than it should have been. By the time he stopped in front of the door, he was starting to regret having written his name on the bottom of the letter.
How was Ghost going to react? It wasn’t like him to leave loose ends. He’d probably hunt Soap down and demand where he got these. He wouldn’t though… would he? Wishful thinking told him that Ghost wouldn’t say anything about it.
Other steps down the hall forced Soap’s hand. No backing out. He just had to get it over with.
Quickly as possible he knelt and slid the envelope underneath the door, before straightening and knocking.
As soon as Soap was done knocking he made his escape. No fucking way he was going to hang around for when Ghost found it. Before whoever was coming down the hall turned the corner, Soap was gone.
Once back in the safety of his room, Soap released a long breath and double checked his locks before collapsing back into his shitty desk chair.
Enough time passed that Soap was convinced he was in the clear. It had been what? Two hours since he dropped the letter off to Ghost’s room? If the man was going to come kill him for it, he would have done it earlier.
Soap had spent his time sketching and watching his door anxiously, trading his broken pen for a pencil to chew on between doodles. Now that he was in the clear he was finally able to tuck his stuff away into a spare drawer and change into some sweats and a comfortable shirt, humming to keep himself distracted as he went about his nightly routine.
Soap organized all his self care products, brushed his teeth and hair, washed his face and double moisturized. As soon as he closed his toner, he heard a knock at his door.
Oh fuck.
Maybe it was a fluke. Wrong room. Someone had the wrong room for a late night booty call or something. Yeah. That was it. Soap slid his facial care routine items into his teal basket, opening the mirror cupboard and putting it all up. He froze when the knock came back, more insistent.
Maybe whoever it was was very lost.
Soap cleared his throat, and calmly went to his door. Soap put on a little smile, resisting the urge to pretend he was dead to the world, and opened his door.
Ghost was standing with his fist raised outside of his door.
“Oh, hey Ghost, what brings you he-”
Soap was cut off when Ghost shoved him further into his room, invading into his space and slamming the door closed behind him. Before he knew it, Soap was trapped between Ghost and a wall, chuckling nervously.
Ghost’s hand slammed down on the wall by his head, hard enough to make Soap flinch.
“Where,” Ghost growled. “did you get these?”
Ghost’s other hand went to his pocket, and Soap didn’t have to look down to know what he was referring to as he shoved a hand into his chest. Soap chewed his lip, finding it hard to meet Ghost’s eyes. Yeah, he had hoped maybe Ghost wouldn’t say anything about it. Maybe have a reaction that wasn’t being angry.
“It's… look, Lt., you really don’t have to worry about it. I swear there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Like Hell there isn’t. Where, Sergeant?”
This time Soap mustered up the courage to look Ghost in the eyes as he opened his mouth to reply, but what he saw there stopped him in his tracks.
Soap was wrong. It wasn’t anger. Ghost’s eyes were rimmed with red, black war paint smeared horribly. Fuck. He was upset. He was scared. Now that Soap was really paying attention he could see how his chest was heaving, the slight tremor over his shoulders.
“Where?” Ghost demanded again when Soap’s words failed him.
“The… last op.” Soap finally managed, flicking his eyes down to where Ghost’s mouth would’ve been underneath the mask. He didn’t think he could hold his eyes any longer. “Found some files, with these in them. Destroyed them and took these in case…”
He didn’t have to finish that sentence. He could see it in Ghost’s face.
Ghost’s fist dropped from the wall and he retreated a step and looked towards the door. Any anger Soap might have seen earlier was entirely drained from his posture. He just looked tired, standing there with the pictures in his hand.
Soap chewed the inside of his cheek, needing to be doing at least something.
“Tell me about them?” He asked quietly.
Ghost went deathly still, and Soap was starting to think he had catastrophically fucked up as the seconds ticked by and Ghost didn’t move. Now would be the time for Ghost to break his neck. Sure, maybe giving him the pictures was toeing a dangerous line, a line he probably shouldn’t cross by asking about his family.
How could he not though? Soap had gone on endlessly about his own sisters and his mother. At this rate Ghost had probably heard the name of all of his cousins, once, twice, and thrice removed. All the while Soap didn’t even know if Ghost had a family dog as a kid.
Something must have happened in their dwindling silence, because Ghost’s shoulders dropped and he walked over and took a heavy seat on Soap’s bed.
It was a small victory, but it was something. Soap carefully made it over to his bed, sitting with a healthy few inches between them. Didn’t know if Ghost wanted him close like that right now. He knew the bigger man didn’t share the same tendency for touch that he did. Soap was trying to be very aware of the wall between them, he wanted to respect it as much as he could right now if it meant learning something about him like this.
Ghost turned the pictures over in his lap, thumb almost subconsciously grazing over the faces in the family photo Soap had seen earlier.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see them again.” Ghost’s voice was rough, and it made Soap frown. “Mum. Tommy. Beth. Joseph.”
With each name he gently pointed them out, hand shaking slightly, hesitating as he hovered over each one. Ghost took a shuddering breath, and Soap was actively fighting the urge to reach out and touch him, to offer him whatever physical comfort he could. God he wanted to.
“Joseph would’ve liked you.” Soap had to strain to hear it as it was almost underneath his breath. “They all would’ve liked you.”
Soap dared scoot closer, letting himself lean over. “Tell me more.”
Ghost took a breath, trying to steady himself. His thumb was still worrying the edge of the photo, as if he couldn’t put it away. Didn’t want to move on to the next picture. Soap rested his head on Ghost’s shoulder. Just wanted him to know he was there.
The little action seemed to encourage Ghost a little more, because Soap could feel the tension easing a little bit more underneath him.
“Tommy was a little shit head when we were kids. Used to scare me with his stupid Halloween mask. Gave our old man a laugh though.” Ghost shook his head a little, and some of the tension returned at the mention of his father. “Took him awhile but Beth really brought the good out of him. Her and Joseph. Mum spoiled the kid, once they had him.”
Soap shifted, brought a hand to Ghost’s back to rest there.
Ghost leaned into the touch, and Soap didn’t miss the way he shuddered and his eyes closed. Soap waited for him, letting him have time to work through whatever was going on in his mind. Didn’t want to force him into saying anything, didn’t want him to push himself too far. There had to have been a reason as to why Ghost had taken over two hours to confront him. Soap didn’t want to think of the time between now and then, what he might have started with those pictures that lead to him storming into his room with red rimmed eyes.
He could see the column of Ghost’s throat working underneath his mask. Soap couldn’t imagine what it felt like to be in his shoes, to be going through what he was. Fuck. Soap had so many pictures of his own family on his phone that he hardly thought about them. The thought never crossed his mind that there's a world where he didn’t have them, a presence that had been so constant in Soap’s life that he hardly had to think about it.
Instead of bouncing his leg to funnel out his worry for Ghost, he started rubbing little circles between his shoulders. It felt like Ghost had never relaxed a day in his damn life, the planes of his back hard as a rock underneath Soap’s fingertips. In response to the touch, Ghost’s head dropped and his shoulders sagged.
“I forgot.” Ghost whispered, such a low and fragile thing between them. Soap furrowed his brows, searching for an answer hidden in the side of his mask or his closed eyes.
“What did you forget?” Soap prompted with equal care. He didn’t stop his little motions, because he had a terrible feeling that if he did Ghost was going to fall apart.
It was silly. Thinking that Ghost needed to be held together. It wasn’t like Soap was applying pressure to a life threatening wound. There was no blood seeping between his fingers. Of the two of them, Ghost was always the one holding Soap together, in a much more literal sense than this. Rough hands holding him upright as they raced towards exfil, Ghost patching up his shoulder after Las Almas.
“Forgot their faces.”
For a moment Soap’s movements stilled. He felt a shake go through Ghost as he shifted forwards and shrunk impossibly further into himself, further into Soap, and Soap brought his hands up to either side of his face as Ghost started to tremble.
The warmth seeping through the mask and between Soap’s fingers wasn’t blood. It was something more real, something tangible in such a different way. The tears wetting the front of Ghost’s mask, the cracks that never had a chance to show through his rough exterior. And in this moment, he was breaking. And it was Soap holding him together.
“Fuck, Ghost.” Soap shifted sideways on his bed, tugging Ghost lightly, pulling him closer into himself.
Ghost adjusted easily with his touch, letting himself be pulled sideways into Soap’s chest. Soap cradled Ghost’s head to his chest, resting his chin on the top of his head and wrapping his arms around too-broad, too-tense shoulders.
Ghost didn’t make a sound. He was shaking as he pressed his face into Soap’s chest. Soap let him - pulled him as close as he could, resulting in Ghost almost half laying on him. He put a hand on the back of Ghost’s head, almost half wishing he had hair he could run his fingers through. He decided to continue rubbing soothing circles in Ghost’s back, the tension slowly dispersing as his full weight started pressing further into him.
It wasn’t long until the front of his shirt felt damp, and Soap felt his chest tighten. He wished desperately to run his fingers through tangled dirty blond hair, the faint remembrance of Ghost’s visage haunting his mind like a pleasant dream.
For once in Soap’s life he didn’t know what to say. Anything that came to mind felt wrong, didn’t feel like it had the right weight to it. There was nothing Soap could offer to him other than this physical comfort, the reminder that right now he wasn’t alone. He didn’t need to be alone, because Soap wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe just being there for him was enough, maybe that’s what Ghost needed.
So Soap stayed and held him. He hummed softly, making soothing sounds to go along with the gentle movements of his hands, rubbing circles in his back. When Soap’s soothing motions reached the base of Ghost’s neck, Ghost nearly collapsed into his arms. His weight pressed into Soap, and Soap strained his core to keep them as upright as possible - knowing it was futile to do so.
The softest of sobs was muffled in Soap’s shirt, tension draining out from underneath his fingertips as he pressed and massaged the sensitive skin through thin cloth. Tentatively, Soap dipped a finger underneath the hem of his mask, testing the waters. Ghost didn’t move, but he did take a shuddering breath, stilling as he held it and waited. If he wanted, Ghost could pull away. He always had the power to stop Soap. All it would take is his shoulders tensing, the slightest movement and Soap would drop everything and never touch him again if that’s what Ghost wanted from him.
God, if Ghost wanted anything from him Soap would provide it. He knew the lengths he would go to for Ghost weren’t healthy, he knew sooner rather than later it would land him in a shallow grave. But he really didn’t care. And that was the problem with it.
If Ghost wanted Soap out of his life, didn’t want anymore touching, didn’t want to look at him - fine. Soap would make himself scarce despite how much it would hurt. But if Ghost wanted this? He wanted Soap to touch him, to be there for him? Soap would never leave.
And Ghost did want him to stay right now.
And he let Soap’s hand slip underneath his mask, calloused fingers going up the nape of his neck and meeting soft hair. Soap didn’t go further, he didn’t try to lift the mask any further, just let his fingers rub gentle circles at the base of his skull in the slightly curled hairs.
Soap wasn’t sure how long it took, but eventually they had shifted to lay on his bed, Ghost half on top of him with his face in the crook of his neck. Soap still had one hand tucked inside his mask, and the other rested on the small of his back.
The sniffles and crying had stopped a while ago, and Soap had fully expected Ghost to have left by now. Each moment felt like it was borrowed time, he didn’t know when he would slip through his fingers again and pretend this didn’t happen. Still, as time passed, Ghost didn’t move.
He would have thought the man had died if he didn’t feel every single breath against his neck. If Soap focused hard enough - which he did - he could feel the outline of his nose and lips against his neck. His mouth was slightly ajar, and Soap was fairly certain it was because the mask was wet - and he was also likely stuffy after the bout of crying. Soap didn’t mind at all.
If he wasn’t afraid he’d fuck it up somehow, he would try to memorize how Ghost looked splayed out on top of him. God, how he wanted to mark down every detail of him to memory, wished he could sculpt something in his likeness. Nothing would even come close to comparing to him, but even creating something with just a fraction of Ghost in it would be worth it all. But no, Soap couldn’t move.
He was worried that if he shifted his head even slightly he would disturb where he was currently nuzzled into his neck. As if a single movement might remind Ghost that he was cuddled into Soap right now, and then he would be out the door in a flash. So as much as Soap wanted to soak in the view, he was stuck staring at his stupid textured ceiling.
Soap wanted to curse at something for the pure torture that was having Ghost in his arms for once and not being able to soak it in because he was too scared to disturb him. This was a careful thing they had right now. At least he had his warmth, that was one thing that couldn’t be taken away from him. He was sure that even if Ghost left now his body would always remember him, like the place he laid was stained into him.
Soap settled on closing his eyes and again letting himself indulge in listening to the soft, even sounds of Ghost’s breathing, the feeling of warm air caressing his neck, the heavy weight settled across half of his body. Heavenly. It was heavenly.
Soap wasn’t even aware he was drifting until he was already gone.