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When Ghost’s eyes spring open, his room is still dark and sleep clings desperately to his lashes. An initial disorientation clouds his mind as he struggles to parse through the trainwreck of his mind, wondering what could have woken him up; a nightmare is his first reckoning but he can’t quite recall his dream enough to know for sure. He strains his senses for a potential cause from the waking world but, as he expects, nothing immediately jumps out at him- just the low buzzing of the base’s systems and his own breathing.
He spends a few minutes with his eyes closed, trying to force his breathing pattern back into something even and slow in the hopes that sleep will reclaim him, but he ultimately ends up overthinking it and stressing himself further into awakeness.
Groaning, exasperated and resigned in equal measures, Ghost rolls over in bed until he’s facing the side table. A sluggish glance at the digital clock tells him it’s only 2:18AM, but there’s no chance of him falling back asleep at this point. Not like this.
It’s a ritual he’s unfortunately used to. Nearly every night his body insists on waking him up once or twice, even three times if he’s exceptionally unlucky, for seemingly no reason. It happens often enough that it doesn’t even inspire irritation anymore- he only sighs and pushes himself to his feet in one smooth twist of his legs, grabbing his balaclava from the side table as he goes.
Walking through the barracks is a familiar experience even in the dead of night. Not a peep comes from any of the other doors lining the halls, all of which are dark. Nobody else is as unfortunate as he is, it seems, because in the entirety of the corridor Ghost doesn’t encounter a single instance of stirring, all the way through the officers quarters and the lower levels. Eventually he reaches a hallway that's all but burned into the back of his eyelids, he’s been here so often.
One of the doors, right in the middle of the stretch, has a soft glow beaming from underneath. It’s not quite bright enough to be the overhead light- a lamp, Ghost suspects. He lopes down the corridor and comes to a stop in front of that door in particular, hesitating for all of a second before knocking. Three quick taps, a brief pause, followed by one final bang.
There’s no immediate response, but after a handful of seconds a voice calls out from behind the wood. “It’s open!”
Far too loud for the time of night. Ghost winces, looking both ways down the hall as if someone were going to jump out and yell at him, only entering the room when he’s satisfied no such thing will happen. A lecture is already on the tip of his tongue about leaving doors unlocked, but it dies and slides back down his throat when he comes face to face with the occupant.
Lounged casually on the bed is Soap- it’s his room, after all. His head is propped up on his own hand while the other one holds up his phone, the screen dim enough to only leave a trace amount of light over the soft stubble on Soap’s chin. From what Ghost can see under the duvet, his shoulders are bare, as are his arms and the small flash of tummy that he catches a glimpse of when Soap shuffles. His mouth runs dry in seconds.
“Cannae sleep?” Soap asks with barely a glance at Ghost, who stares at him for a moment more. The small lamp at his bedside is dingy and dull, shining a soft yellow that makes Soap look angelic in the otherwise darkness, or maybe that’s Ghost sleep deprived brain spewing out half-assed drivel again.
Regardless, Ghost manages to spit an answer, hovering in the middle of Soap’s bedroom. “No.” Short and sweet and simple. Spoken with a sharper edge than necessary, sharper than he intends, but Soap doesn’t seem to mind.
He never does.
On the contrary, Soap laughs and it spills into the air like cool water on a hot summer’s day. Sparkling, entrancing, beautiful.
(Definitely sleep deprived, then.)
“Same here.” The sergeant admits with a rueful grin. He finally looks up at Ghost properly and said grin morphs into something milder. “Ya comin’ in?” Soap wiggles under the duvet until he’s pressed tight against the wall, and as soon as he’s comfortable he throws the sheets out in offering. Ghost can feel his cheeks heating up with the force of his flush- it’s oddly domestic, Soap inviting him to bed with his bare chest and sleep-soft smile -and spares a moment to be thankful for the mask covering his face and the henley he’d worn to bed.
Something warm and fuzzy settles in Ghost’s chest at the sight, like a blanket. A blue and white crossed, ridiculously fluffy blanket. He wordlessly drags his socked feet over to Soap’s bed and settles down next to the sergeant with a grunt. The familiar space welcomes the shape of his body like a greeting from an old friend, infinitely more comfortable than his own bed. It doesn’t matter that they’re both grown men squeezing onto a military standard mattress; Ghost is never as at peace anywhere else than he is by Soap’s side.
Those thoughts are bordering on being a bit too open and honest. He’s more in tune with his emotions these days, but it still sends a twinge of something uneasy through his system. “Have you even tried?” Ghost asks to distract himself, pointedly glancing at Soap’s phone- as dark as the screen is, Ghost knows TikTok’s interface when he sees it. The volume is turned down low enough that Ghost can’t hear the video looping over the screen. Something with a dog, it looks like.
A shrug almost bashes into Ghost’s chin. Soap helps himself to his tired, limp body, throwing a leg over his own and cushioning his head on Ghost’s bicep. “Not tired enough ta try.” He says straight to Ghost’s face, as if his eye bags aren’t a million times worse than they were yesterday. Ghost wonders how long he’s been doomscrolling for, and he also wonders how they’ve both gotten away without being medicated after all this time.
“Right.” Is what he says instead, plucking the phone from Soap and ignoring his indignant squawking. “Well, I am, so that’s gotta go.” He drops it at Soap’s bedside, fumbling with the charger as much as he can with a grumpy Scotsman sprawled all over his chest. The should-be-simple act of putting a phone on charge is made significantly harder when faced with Soap’s stubborn clinging, but he finds that he doesn’t mind as much as he would if it were anyone else using him as a glorified pillow, and he does eventually get the phone plugged in with a triumphant huff.
Soap grumbles and growls all the way through Ghost’s shifting, a pout on his lips. Neither of them mention the way his eyes start drooping the second he’s not holding the bloody phone- Soap will do the absolute most in an attempt to keep himself awake at night. Understandable, considering their careers and the nightmares it produces, but Ghost wishes he’d take care of himself more. “This is ma room, by th’way. Just a wee reminder.”
Ghost scoffs, because Soap is ridiculous and because he can. “Shut your face and your mouth, MacTavish.” He’s trying to be serious, but must fail judging by Soap’s muffled snort against his shoulder. His heart flutters anyway at the sensation, the blowing of breath on his skin like a gentle breeze. “Can I put the light out?”
He feels obligated to ask; yes because it’s Soap’s room and therefore his decision, but also because Ghost knows being in the dark can be… uncomfortable, for Soap. It’s not something that Ghost judges- everyone has their vices, even him -but it does make life complicated on occasion. They’ve never talked about it explicitly, just like how they’ve never talked about Ghost’s adverse reaction to tight spaces, but it’s one of those unspoken things that they’re both aware of and refuse to confront. Right here and now though, in the safety of Soap’s room, pressed so close together that he thinks they could probably fuse into one being, he figures it might be okay.
There’s no reply for a long moment and Ghost almost starts to worry, thinking he’s overstepped and that Soap will be offended or something, but then a warm sigh is brushing over his jaw and Soap is curling up tighter on top of Ghost, like a cat luxuriating in a sun-warmed spot. “If ye take off yer mask.” He challenges at last. Ghost can't really see his face from this angle, especially not with Soap’s face squished into his shoulder, but he can almost feel the shit-eating grin through his sleeves.
It seems like a fair trade, as much as Ghost wants to playfully deny him. He’s tired, and he wants to sleep, and Soap’s weight along his body is really doing something for him. Pressure therapy, or whatever. He admits defeat with a vague grunt and fumbles for the edge of his balaclava, pulling it up and over his head. It gets tossed carelessly to the side in favour of reaching for the bedside lamp, flicking the switch and plunging the room into darkness.
Pride bubbles up in Ghost’s chest when Soap doesn’t tense.
“Bonnie boy.” Soap breathes reverently soft into his ear, brings up the warmth of his hand to cup Ghost’s cheek. His thumb brushes under Ghost’s eye- it’s amazing to think that Soap potentially doesn’t understand the amount of trust Ghost has in him when his only response to the contact is a smitten sigh and not a knife to his neck.
“Go to sleep, Johnny.” Ghost rasps in return, pulling Soap closer until the weight of him perfectly covers Ghost from head to toe. The heaviness in his eyes makes a swift comeback, and he doesn’t resist the urge to close them, especially not when Soap’s fingers start twirling through the curls of Ghost’s hair, sticking up strangely thanks to the mask. It’s as effective as any prescription anyone could offer him- exhaustion slams into Ghost like a double decker, and before he knows it his consciousness is fading and he’s drifting away.
As he goes, he swears he can feel the phantom brush of lips over his skin.
Eventually Soap’s fingers will still, and he’ll join Ghost in slumber. Eventually the night will pass in blurs of darkness and the sun will peak over the horizon, signifying the start of a new day. Eventually Ghost will wake up to the sound of Soap’s alarm and realise that he’s late for the meeting he was supposed to have with Price.
For now, Ghost falls back asleep, and Soap’s comforting presence follows him all the way back down into his dreams.