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“Yer driving’s fuckin’ atrocious.”
Soap held down a fresh wave of nausea as the larger man took another dangerous turn on the road, way too fast and wreckless to be considered a legal move in the country of Egypt - or anywhere else on the planet, for that matter.
“S’long as I get us there in one piece, doesn’t matter.”
He’d heard that one before. It was back in Las Almas, in that old pickup driving down the cobbled streets of the city, barely dodging the bodies on the sides (and sometimes in the middle) of the road as they drove to Alejandro’s safehouse. It induced anxiety just thinking about that night, gripping on to the bullet wound on his upper arm as his sweat-soaked clothes stuck to his skin from the rain, but the rain didn’t wash away the tangy smell of his own blood dripping down to his elbow.
At the time it seemed like Ghost got his driver's licence out of a cereal box, the way he was swerving and speeding and narrowly missing the corners of the colourful buildings and storefronts when he made turns, and Soap had complained as much. But the man gave him that same gruff response - ”The car’s moving, and it’s moving away from the enemy, n’ that’s all that’s important.”
He shook the memories off with a shudder.
Huffing, he tightened his grip on the handle above the window by his seat with white fingers. “I’d rather get ‘ere with my breakfast still in my stomach.”
Gaz snorted from beside him. “You had a coffee and a cigarette for breakfast, I watched you.”
He shoved the shorter man with his elbow, earning one back that dug directly into his ribs, which didn't help his nausea situation at all. He groaned, holding his stomach like he was cradling a baby.
“I’ll have to agree,” Price grumbled from the passenger seat directly in front of him, “coffee tastes better going down than it does coming back up. Be a little more careful, soldier.”
“No promises.”
They were all a little tired, a little grumpy. They had made their way over in an American military supplies run - this big airship that usually flew over locations without landing to drop supplies to their soldiers. Things like food, ammo, uniforms in big crates. The trip had been loud, uncomfortable, and in the absolute dead of night which meant they were running on no sleep when the four of them strapped themselves into parachutes and jumped out of the cargo hold.
The short burst of adrenaline it gave him soon wore off when he was surrounded by Americans at the army base that was so kindly letting them stay for a few weeks while they completed their mission. Americans pissed him off, and he had even less patience for them when he hadn’t slept.
The coffee tasted like shit, and he burned through his cigarette too quickly.
The road they were on was wide and long, with stretches of nothing but sand and rubble on either side and occasionally broken up by a town they had to navigate through to get to the next wide and long road. He could see the headlights of oncoming vehicles in the distance, usually either the beat-up sedans of locals or other military vehicles like theirs, covered in a layer of dust which was concerning as it didn’t look like they had windscreen wipers.
Ghost seemed to have a death wish anyways, swerving around corners at breakneck speed and honking the horn aggressively at anyone who dared to cross his path. Soap felt like he was on a rollercoaster ride from hell, and he couldn't wait for it to be over.
"Perhaps it's time we invested in a driver's education course for our dear friend Ghost here," their Captain said dryly.
Soap prayed for a quick and painless death.
He leaned over to Gaz, not faring much better by the looks of it, hanging on tightly to the seatbelt strap across his chest. “Should have taken you up on that hashbrown MRE, my tummy’s complainin’.”
Gaz laughed shakily. “If you’d taken me up on it, it would be all over the back of Price’s seat by now.”
He had a point.
Soap waved off the bottle of water that Price offered to him as the car lurched to a stop, indicating that they’d finally arrived at their destination. Almost wanting to kiss the ground when they piled out, almost, but the prospect of getting sand in his mouth didn’t make it worth it.
Looking around, he wasn’t exactly sure what he’d expected. They were on the side of the road now, the occasional car passing by, kicking up dust clouds that made his eyes water. He should have worn his mask. There were a few old buildings that were more rubble than anything, a few natural rocks and inclines but the rest was mostly flat, and the occasional sad-looking plant dotted around the place that were more sticks than greenery. It was the first location on a long list of others where they were awaiting an intel meeting with their contacts.
Soap managed to keep it together for all of ten seconds before he felt a little shaky on his feet.
Legs probably just half-asleep from not standin’ in a while, he tried to reason himself, shaking them out to try and get the blood pumping. But when the tingling was paired with sudden dizziness, he knew something was wrong.
He wasn't able to communicate it to the others though, because he was already falling.
~*~
The world came back to him in pieces. First it was a ringing in his ears, louder in one than the other, annoying him enough to make him peel an eye open to find the source of it. But soon after his eyes were open the ringing went away, and the next sensation that came to him was the uncomfortable feeling of dust blowing into his eyes. He blinked, turning his head away from the compact sand to stare directly upwards as he lay on his back.
“Mmh?” He mumbled groggily, vision coming back slowly but still swimming with black dots as he rubbed his forehead with a gloved hand. “what- what happened?”
“You tell me, you’re the one who just hit the floor.”
He wasn’t sure who was speaking. In fact, he could barely discern his own gravelly voice amongst the others.
“I did?” he blinked up at the empty sky above him, squinting a little because of the sun. He felt a bit breathless, which didn’t make sense, since he’d been sitting in a car for almost an hour as supposed to have been running around.
“Soldier,” he felt a large hand come down onto his shoulder, and even if he hadn’t recognised the voice, he’d’ve known that hand belonged to Price. “You passed out for a moment there. Do you know where you are? Who you’re with?”
He took a deep breath in, wincing as sand or dust or something hit the back of his throat, making him cough weakly. He hated deserts. Why couldn’t he ever be stationed somewhere nice ‘n cold like wee old Scotland?
“M’in bloody Egypt, pyramids and pharaohs n’ all that shit. And sadly I’m stuck here with you three jobby arseholes.”
“Yeah,” Gaz laughed from where he was standing a few feet away, “he’s fine.”
The frown that painted Price’s features said otherwise. He spoke over his shoulder, “He’s probably got heat stroke, we need to do a quick temp check before we keep moving. Just for peace of mind.”
“Heat stroke?” Soap mumbled, watching out of the corner of his eye as Gaz rummaged through their modest first-aid kit that they’d snagged from the military base.
He’d heard of it, of course, but it had never really happened to him. Something he always thought his body could handle, heat. If he could handle gunfire, hostage situations, abseiling down the side of a skyscraper - he should be able to handle the elements, of all things. It was embarrassing that he’d survived actual warfare and come out unscathed but a car ride with Ghost had taken him out.
“Once your body’s core temperature gets above a certain level, your brain starts to fry, to put it simple,” the older man said carefully. “Water helps to regulate that, and I know you haven’t been drinkin’ it all morning.”
“Don’t we have a thermometer?” Gaz huffed, still fishing through the bag.
Too much was going on for him to process. The sun beating down on him, the mash of voices, the ringing in his ears that seemed to have returned - he just wanted to dig himself a little hole in the sand to crawl into and die.
“Silver bullet.”
It was Ghost who had spoken this time, who was quietly watching the scene from the sidelines, deep and somewhat soothing voice vibrating through the chaos inside his mind. He’d almost forgotten about him if he was being honest.
“Aye?”
“Never been in the Marines, Captain?” Amusement tinted his voice as he unfolded his arms and took the kit from Gaz, producing a small cardboard box after a moment of digging. “Silver bullet, best thermometer you can get for this kinda thing.”
Soap tried to sit up, but he was guided back onto the floor by the large palm that was still resting on his shoulder. He huffed in annoyance, gesturing with his hands, “Well unwrap it and give it ‘ere then, so we can get up and goin’.”
Ghost crouched beside his head, something metallic-sounding rattling around in the cardboard box that was in his grip. “You’re gonna need some assistance inserting it so you don’t hurt yourself.”
“Intertin’ it? Just stick it in my mouth, right? Sure I can handle that on my own,” he complained.
“Negative, Sergeant. It goes up your arse.”
He baulked. “Yer fuckin’ joking.”
~*~
“Hell’s fucking bells, Captain, go easy on me won’t you? Bedside manner’s horrendous-”
“Quit squirming, and breathe like I told you to.”
He tried, but the sting in his rear made his breath catch uncomfortably in the back of his throat. The damned metal rod wasn’t small either, not like your usual glass mercury syringe - maybe the same length and thickness of cigar, but cold and hard, heavy. Lying on his stomach with his hips raised a little, the angle wasn’t ideal, only practical in giving him a little dignity.
Truth be told, he was no stranger to having things down in that area, so it shouldn’t have been as bad as it was. Maybe it was the nerves, or the three pairs of eyes on him, or the fact that he already didn’t feel well and his body didn’t appreciate the extra stress. Whatever it was, he would have been more warm to the situation if it had been happening back in the comfort of his own bedroom, wrapped up in his cotton sheets with someone handsome lying next to him. Not that Price wasn’t handsome - just not exactly his type.
He felt it prodding deeper into him, helped only slightly by the slide of the shitty lube which came in a small paper packet with the stupid rod. The harshness of the metal felt wrong against his insides, considering anything else he’d had up there previously had been relatively soft. Like fingers, and… other human appendages.
Once it was fully seated inside him, he allowed himself to take one deep breath, forehead hitting the compacted sand beneath him with a soft thud. He tried to come up with something witty to say, but was drawing a blank this time.
“Alright, hold tight,” Price said, patting his back as he got to his feet. “Should only take a minute or two.”
Soap nodded, trying to ignore the discomfort as he lay there beside the road, feeling more vulnerable and exposed than he had in a long time with his cargo pants pulled down to his upper thighs and practically mooning everyone that drove past on the highway. He had his arms braced against the ground by his chest, not really knowing what to do with them. He closed his eyes and focused on taking slow, deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. No need to have a hissy fit over something so stupid, considering they were potentially only hours away from a much bigger problem, being their extraction mission. If he wasn’t in good shape, he was a liability.
Price cleared his throat. “Does anyone here know fahrenheit?”
It was a stupid question for three Brits and a Scot. Gaz dug through the medical kit, mumbling something about a user manual - Soap didn’t really hear him with his ears burning red from embarrassment at the whole situation.
“Take yer time, won’t you? I’m having a gae ol’ time here.”
“That’s one way to put it,” a deep chuckle came from his side.
“Away n’ bile yer heid, Ghost, fore I gie ye a skelpit lug.”
“English.”
“Here-” Gaz produced a crumpled-up piece of paper that must have come with it, he heard the rustling from behind him “-what temperature does it say? I’ll do the conversion.”
With the shorter male leaning in towards him now, and Price taking a knee to directly look down there to get a reading, Soap felt like he was going to explode. He felt the device inside him shift a little as the older man angled it up, making him gasp out a noise that he didn’t know he was even capable of making.
He brought a gloved hand up to his face and clamped his teeth down on it to stop any other noises from coming out, and ignored the stifled laughter from Ghost beside him.
The taller man must have taken pity on him though, as he sensed a figure kneeling beside his head and he felt a hand run through his hair, where his mohawk was overgrown and stuck with sweat onto the back of his neck.
“Nearly done, Johnny.”
He nodded in response, eyes squeezed shut and still biting his glove, hoping it was a good enough response for the taller male.
He liked it when Ghost called him Johnny. And he knew, deep down, that the man liked it when he called him Simon, too. Or the more affectionate Si, which only came out occasionally, and was like a special little secret shared between the two of them when it was said. A piece of normality, maybe, a break from the code names and the ranks and the masks.
“Ninety-nine point six. That’s a fever, sorry Soap,” Gaz said meekly.
Price gave him a clap on the back. “But heat stroke’s one-hundred-four, so you should be good to keep going. Just drink your water, lad, and you’ll be fine.”
He sighed in relief, not because of the diagnosis, but because the cursed silver bullet was sliding out of him finally - giving some relief to his poor soft insides. It felt weird, and gross, but not as bad as it had felt going in. His teeth unclenched from his glove.
“Not even gonna gimme some aftercare, you ol’ brute? Massage and a cuddle?”
The older man snorted, “Don’t push your luck. Get up, we need to keep moving.”
Soap groaned as he slowly sat up enough to shimmy his pants back over his hips, feeling sore and uncomfortable all over. He couldn’t wait to get out of the scorching sun and take a long, cold shower.
As he got to his feet, he felt a little lightheaded, and he stumbled for a moment before steadying himself. It wasn't the first time he'd had to soldier on despite feeling like crap, but it never got any easier. But he felt blood rushing his head too quickly, making him feel like he’d fall flat on his face again - until he felt a hand under his upper arm that helped support some of his weight as he righted himself.
It was Ghost, looking down at him with what almost looked like concern.
“You okay Johnny?”
There was that name again, his name. The use of it twice in such a short span of time must have meant something, but his head hurt too much to be thinking about it for very long.
“Yeah, ‘m fine.”
His face creased with a frown. “Change of plans,” the man said assertively, alerting the other two. “We’ll take it easy for a bit. We need to cool him down and get some fluids in him.”
Soap groaned. “Fine, s’long as the fluids aren’t going up my arse,” he gestured to the thermometer that Gaz was carefully wrapping up in its packaging, hoping to never see it again.
The taller man supported him as he wobbled on unsteady feet, leading him towards the shade of some nearby rocks, where they sat him down as carefully as he could. Gaz used the stupid thermometer pamphlet in an attempt to fan cool air onto him, which was doing shit all, in his opinion.
“Just great,” Soap muttered, “lying here like a bloody pharaoh. Can a man get some wine? A fruit planner?”
“Just be grateful we caught it in time,” Price chastised with a furrowed brow as he looked over their field map, never in the mood for his jokes. “Heat stroke can be deadly.”
Soap sighed, not feeling like an argument. “I know.”
He took a swig of water from his canteen, feeling the cool liquid soothe his parched throat. The sun was starting to peek over the rocks that he was sitting on, he could feel it seeping into the dark material of his undershirt and baking his pale skin. He really wasn’t built for the Middle-East.
Soap glanced over at his teammates, who all looked just as exhausted as he felt. Although he was starting to feel better, at least a little better than he’d fared before, with the dizziness and nausea easing up.
He took another mouthful of water and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The others were packing up their gear, and Price was saying something about their next location. Sooner than he would have liked, it was time to move out - ‘securing the perimeter’ or something. There didn’t look like much to secure, but it had to be done.
They gathered themselves and started moving again, their footsteps crunching on the gravel as they made their way along the deserted road to another nearby pile of rubble and concrete. As they started walking, Ghost fell into step beside him, a lazy smirk on his face despite being obscured by his mask. He could just tell.
“Not the first time I’ve seen you in that position.”
Soap groaned, refusing to make eye contact. “Can we please not talk about this anymore?”
“Sure thing, Johnny. But if it's aftercare you need, I’m here for you.”
He stopped for a moment, making the other stop with him, and he jabbed a finger into Ghost’s chest. “This is your bloody fault. Quit drivin’ like a maniac, will ye?”
Soap knew the risks of the job - he had been in the military long enough to understand that sometimes, you had to do things that made you uncomfortable or even downright miserable. But that didn't make it any easier to endure.
Ghost smacked his hand away and rubbed where he’d poked his chest, but he could tell that the man was smiling as he started strutting away from him again. It was a side of him that he didn’t let show often, that Soap didn’t see often. He jogged to catch up.
“I was being serious, wanker.” His voice was a tone softer than usual, no grit to the insult as he gently said, “Tell me what I can do.”
What could he do, though? Sure, he was feeling a little physically uncomfortable, and was stinging with embarrassment. The lube in his underwear felt gross and sticky as it dried. Other than that though he’d definitely seen worse in terms of injury and hardship, so he wasn’t sure why Ghost was being so sensitive with him all of a sudden. Maybe he was working on his empathy skills.
“You can forget it happened,” Soap huffed, but he knew the answer wouldn’t satiate the younger man. “If we get back in one piece, I’ll let ye take care of me.”
“And how can I take care of you?” Simon parroted suggestively at his side.
Soap gave him a side-eye, not answering as he trudged over a mound of rubble. “M’ not flirtin’ with you until ye deserve it, Si.”
The man gave him a gravelly laugh, stretching his arms out as they walked together a few paces behind the other two. He kicked a rock in front of him, watching as it rolled over to the road which had gotten quieter as the afternoon ebbed on, mirages that looked like shimmering pools of water appearing above the baked asphalt.
He felt a long way from home. But at the same time, taking a deep breath in and feeling dust settle in his lungs and petrol singe his nostrils, a thin layer of grime over his whole body…
Somehow, it also felt like he was right where he was supposed to be.