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Call it mission success, if you don’t count the several incorrect pieces of intel and countless empty caskets to be buried. Suicide bombers always made for trouble, especially if they’re unaccounted for. This would be a story to tell the grandkids for sure.
The heli ride home was somber, tense, you could take one of Ghost’s blood-stained blades to the air and cut chunks out of it. Soap isn’t there, he’s on a train back to Edinburgh, and underwater with the sharks, and still on the field, pinned down by five men with far more ammo than him. His fingers twitch over the straps and buckles of his kit, his knee bounces up and down and up and down and up and down and he’s wired to explode before they land.
Post-mission adrenaline crashes were common among them: the brave, the few, sluggish blinking and jittery movements a part of their lives as much as breathing or beating the sand out of the punching bags.
Soap though, Soap only knew mania, the ants under his skin, squirming, crawling no matter how much or how hard he scratched. He only knew racing thoughts, all bouncing and echoing in his head, only knew absentminded blabbering, brain disconnected from his body like some shabby imitation of his life from God’s point of view.
The first time Ghost tells him to shut it he’s mumbling. Rearranging his blades in order of sharpest to dullest and sliding them into his favorite holsters accordingly. Quietly, he debated with himself under his breath. Ghost’s knife from Las Almas stays on his hip, always in the same place, never where it’s not supposed to be. He feels for it, just in case, movements jerky, asking the air if maybe it’d gotten lost. Nope, right on his hip, right where it’s supposed to be, never where it isn’t.
“Soap.” Ghost calls, eyes bloodshot and drooping.
There’s blood crusted on his gear, a few pints at least. Soap wishes it was his. He wants all the other soldiers to smell him on Ghost, wants them to know that he was staining Ghost’s good trousers with all that he is and all that he will never be again. Ghost isn’t his to claim. He could be. He isn’t .
“Ghost.” He settles on, afraid to let his thoughts flow from his lips and sour the sweetness of Simon coating his teeth.
His mom thought he had a problem. She says he never talked about it, not even as a wee thing with road rash on his knees and gum in his pigtails. She says he cried and screamed for no reason, utterly inconsolable. But how do you talk about something you don’t understand? How do you verbalize the incomprehensible?
What would he say? Sometimes I feel so many things at once that it all cancels out. Sometimes I feel like there’s a tsunami in my chest, and the waves pull back, and pull back, and pull back, but they never crash. Sometimes I think about how nice it would be to make myself a sacrifice, not to any deity or demon, but to those I love. Sometimes I think it would be best to put the gun in the hands of those I care about and turn away.
Okay, so maybe he’d taken a god awful amount of time to think about it. Verbalize it. Just in case. But he couldn’t tell anyone else, no, they’d send him upstate to whatever loony bin’s the cheapest. They’d haul him off without ceremony, plant him right back on the chipped, white steps of his childhood home. He did not belong there just like he does not belong here.
Sensitive, that’s all he was. A crybaby, like his Da used to say before he shipped off to God knows where and married What’s Her Face. It wasn’t his fault, he just didn’t understand. He didn’t understand why he’d thrash and sob if he could feel the seam of his pajama pants, he didn’t understand why the fire alarm at school made his chest heave, he didn’t understand why the kids in passing looked at him like he was different. He wasn’t.
The guidance counselor had tried to talk to him about an evaluation. He fled from the room.
Turbulence brings him back to the present, back to his hands rubbing harshly on his jean-clad thighs. Was he rocking? Jesus, he needed to get a hold of himself. There’s warmth on his knee, the press of bone — no, just gloves — to stop his fervent shakes. He follows that arm, up the wrist, up the shoulder, until he reaches those mismatched eyes, blue breaking up the chocolate pools like bits of diamond in his pupils. Gorgeous. Heartbreaking.
“Relax.” Ghost commands, hand squeezing the limb in his grip lightly, before turning away back to the music playing softly in his headphone. Soap noticed that he always kept one out, maybe it was a bad ear, or maybe it was for situational awareness. Maybe he just didn’t like the song that much. What? No, that’s stupid. It’s a fair question. Stop being a fucking moron. “We’re almost home.”
We. Soap liked that Ghost thought of the base as their home. Of course there were more than three hundred other men on base but when it really came down to it, it was home to him and it was home to Ghost. He wondered when Ghost went on leave if he felt relieved to be in an undisclosed flat smack dab in the heart of Herefordshire. Did he have pets? Plants? Did he get angry when a spoon ended up in the forks’ spot like Soap did?
Would Ghost invite him over if he told him he’d like to visit? Would he let Soap walk into his space? Worm his way into his personal life just as he wormed into his professional life? He wanted to. Did Ghost know how badly he wanted to invade his mind? Did Ghost know how badly he wanted him?
Of course not, he wouldn’t still be our friend if he knew what a twisted freak we are.
Before he can think about it, his knee starts up again, except this time it’s accentuated by rapid finger drumming. He’s got half a mind to start the soothing back and forth rocking that he only (consciously) let himself indulge in behind closed doors, but he’s probably drawing enough attention to himself with the noise. They were definitely staring at him. All of them. But we looked up and they weren’t. They’re staring, they’re judging us. That’s okay because there’s nothing wrong. We’re just like them.
The ants don’t crawl anymore, they bite. They sting, dig into his muscle and chew through his sinew. Tears bite his waterline and he blinks them back, embarrassed. There was no reason to be crying, he was fine. He’s dead tired but his echo chamber of a brain keeps running at a lightning fast pace, cracking loudly against the walls of his skull, and there’s sweat pooling on his lip. Soldiers didn’t cry over sweat.
Get a grip, MacTavish.
The little voice in his head sounds like Ghost, gruff and vaguely northern. It’s a comfort, to have him literally inside his mind, he’s the only person Soap will let rummage around up there. If anyone can handle the mess that Soap is, it’s Ghost. The man who’s seen everything, done everything, wouldn’t bat an eye at all his fucked up components of personality. Ghost would understand why the spoons need to be with the rest of the spoons and not with the forks. Ghost would understand.
The second time he warns him to reel it in it’s because he’s started up a conversation.
There are a few rules of the post-mission ride back. If you’re going to shed the heavier parts of your kit, store it properly like they show you in basic. If you see a fellow teammate sleeping, wake them five or so minutes out. Don’t talk to Ghost.
Everyone knows Ghost needs space after missions, especially ones that don’t go as he plans. He needs time to decompress, settle his nerves, think it over. Soap knows to leave him alone, let him comfort himself or punish himself the way he sees fit, or else everyone on base would be at the mercy of The Ghost. Soap knows to leave him be, he knows, but there’s a loose thread on the collar of his shirt that rubs the skin of his neck raw and he needs to get the ants out.
Hastily, he turns in his seat, facing the Lieutenant. Ghost’s head is tilted back, eyes closed and brows furrowed. His big arms are crossed over his chest, hands clenched in the fabric of his hoodie so tight he feared it’d rip. Would Ghost let him sew it up if it did? He’d stitch himself in the seams, he would, if only to be wholly encompassed by Ghost as he slipped the clothing over his head.
“What do you think they’ve cooked up in the mess? I’m fiendin’ for some mash, the good kind, not the runny ones they had last week, y’ken?”
Questions fly unheedingly from his lips, drawing the attention of anyone who wasn’t already glaring through his gear. Distantly, he can feel his brain start slipping away, reverting back into the darkness to let his consciousness take the brunt of the work. Who would make sure Ghost got back to his room okay if he checked out? Panicked, he pinches the skin of his wrist between his dull fingernails, begging himself to stay there, stay awake, stay present.
He wasn’t such a talkative kid. Apparently, his mother thought him mute before he got up the courage to speak. Sometimes, if the day is particularly bad and he wants to do nothing but wallow, he questions if the team would like him better if he was still that silent kid. They would, he knows, but talking is how he got close to Ghost, and he’d forever be grateful for that.
Topics of conversation switch briskly in his dissociative state, going from the weather to Ghost’s reliability on the field to how confusingly the armory is organized and how he’d do it better. Marines whisper about him from across the plane, accusatory jabs of their thumbs and sneers harsh enough to bury a lesser man or a man more aware.
The curve of Ghost’s jaw is defined through the heavy duty balaclava, and Soap can faintly make out the curve of his lips from where they’re pressed against the fabric. He’d bet his last dollar that Ghost is a good kisser, a man that skilled with his hands had to be good at bedroom stuff. Did kissing count as bedroom stuff? Maybe, he decides, sometimes more than others. Reasonable.
Those eyes snap open, filled with barely constrained fury, and he audibly takes a deep breath.
Fuck, Soap winces, he’d gone and pissed him off.
It wasn’t his fault, he didn’t mean it, but the ants begged for Ghost’s attention, vied for his touch to lead them back to their colony. Everyone on board knows Ghost needs his time after missions, Soap knows Ghost needs his time after missions, God damn him for intruding.
His once unendingly flapping lips seal themselves shut, bracing for the reprimand. He always did this, why did he always do this? There he goes again, weirdo Johnny ruining something good by being too much of a bother, too much of an annoyance, too much of himself. He’d gotten too comfortable too quick, put too much of himself into the team, forgot to put his walls up when the cracks started leaking.
Now Ghost hated him. Ghost, who told him bad jokes when he was bleeding out, Ghost who bummed cigarettes off of him when they both couldn’t sleep, Ghost who was nothing but kind to him even when the black cloud of general unwellness threatened to suffocate him.
Ghost who he was sure he loved.
Gone, because of his big fucking mouth. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s an idiot.
They’re landing now, how long had he been in his head? While he tries to grapple the oncoming panic attack rattling his lungs, some nameless soldier to Soap’s right decides to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.
The man leans forward, eyes heavy but full of mirth, and a sleazy smirk bisecting his face. Soap can’t entirely see his features, but he knows him to be the ugly one based on the smell of his fuckass cologne. Seriously, did the guy fucking bathe in Drakkar Noir? It was making his head spin.
“Cheers,” Ugly says, eyes locked on the mask that was Soap’s. “Thought ‘e’d never shut ‘is trap.”
Then, like the cherry on top, icing on the shit cake, his hand claps down on Soap’s thigh, stilling the frantic movements, a playful gesture but one that cracked the fragile shell that Soap had been trying to hide himself in.
The palm burns through his jeans, bringing spiders in its wake. Not Ghost, Not Ghost, Not Ghost, his brain screams, alarm bells shrill in his ears as he tries to shake the hand off. He couldn’t touch his hand, couldn’t shove it away, they were bare, and Soap’s were bare, and skin to skin would be the death of him. A pitiful noise escapes his lips as he tries to jerk his leg away, scrabbling at the seat with heaving breaths.
Relief comes in the form of a Manc accent.
“Get your fucking hands off of him.” Ghost barks, using his Leader Tone instead of the soft voice he’d directed at Soap when they were in the quiet.
Immediately, the grip is gone, the spot cooling in the exposed air of the aircraft. He wastes no time in remedying the itch, roughly rubbing the denim into his leg, smashing the spiders before they could bite. Tears fall from his eyes onto the fabric, darkening the blue, and he feels their wheels hit the ground.
Ghost is out of his seat in a millisecond, kneeling in front of his hunched person, unbuckling the harness keeping him strapped to his seat, and guiding him to the floor. “Everyone out, now! Grab your shit or don’t.” He bellows.
It only takes a minute or two for the rest of the team to clear away, but it feels like eternity. There are sharp pangs in his ribs, chest struggling to catch a breath, head swimming. Everything felt wrong, the grime between his fingers, loose strands of his hair that brush his brow line, each sensation made him flinch.
As if it couldn’t get any worse, now he’s full body sobbing in front of his superior. Straight to the nut house with him, then, it seemed. His nails dragged jagged, red lines up his biceps, frantic attempts to peel the skin from his bone if only to feel centered again. His knees dig painfully into the floor, body curled in on itself as if he were going through some bastardized mutation. But he was no Gregor Samsa, and he had not the time to roll over and die.
Gloved hands on his cheeks, grounding, sacred. They unfurl him from his pained ball, guide him up, up, up, and bestow him the warmest amber flooded with worry. The mask is raised to rest on Ghost’s nose, his lips moving slowly, exaggeratedly enunciating his words.
Breathe, he mouths, breathe. You’re okay, breathe.
Soap tries, hiccuping and heaving, eyes never leaving the wobbling frame of the man, leaning into the hands on his face. Ghost’s touch felt rejuvenating, like he could be saved, like he wasn’t as different as he knew he was. Sense slowly returns to his mind, Ghost’s knees are pressed to his, his thumbs swiped leisurely over his cheekbones, catching stray tears, he’s pulled the loose thread from Soap’s shirt.
Once there’s sufficient air in his lungs, once he feels less like a balloon on the very edge of being popped by the pressure of all that’s inside of him, he flings himself into Ghost’s arms, smothers himself in the crook of his neck and squeezes his shoulders in his arms. Hands grasp him with just as much severity, one tightly wrapped around his back, the other cupping the base of his skull and pushing him further into Ghost’s body.
“I’m sorry.” Soap wails, shifting to sit fully in Ghost’s lap, fully wrapped around him. “I dinnae mean to upset you. I din- I’m sorry.”
“You’re okay, Johnny.” Ghost mumbles, swaying them, “Nothin’ to be sorry for.”
“There is! If I wasnae such a- a fucking-“
A soft slap to his back, “Stop all that. You got overwhelmed, is all, you’re fine. I’m not mad at you.”
And oh does he cry. He cries and cries and cries, cries for who he is, for that little boy who only wanted to be told it wasn’t his fault he didn’t get it, for that kid who ran to the army instead of facing the fact that he may be a little different.
Ghost doesn’t utter a single complaint, just sits there on the dusty floor and rocks them side to side, whispering reassurances into Soap’s shoulder. Finally, blissfully, his head goes quiet, a soft static replacing the whirlwind that once raged in his skull. He sinks impossibly further into Ghost, dead on his feet, clinging to him like a petulant child. The hand once cradling his head moves to slide up and down his back, soothing.
He knew Ghost would understand. Ghost cleaned and sharpened his knives from biggest to smallest, Ghost only used unscented detergent to wash his clothes, Ghost locked himself in his room after being with a big crowd. Of course Ghost understands, he’s different too.
If Ghost is different in the same way that Soap is different, then didn’t that make them the same?
Wondrous, to be one with The Ghost, with the man under the façade. He sees Ghost, as Ghost sees him, they are as interchangeable as they are tethered to one another. Agony, to be known so wholly.
Soap takes a shuddering breath, nuzzles into the embrace and runs his fingers over the notches of Ghost’s spine. “So this is-“ He starts, cuts himself off in embarrassment. “You’re, uh-“
“Yeah.” Simon nods, “That okay?”
“‘Course.”
“Okay. Are you..?”
“Um..”
He’s so sick of hiding. He’s sick of restraining his joy out of fear of disturbing others, he’s sick of cutting off his excited ramblings because he gets a nasty look, he’s sick of pretending the silence doesn’t make him itch. He wants to be himself, noisy and hyperactive and not sure when it’s his turn to talk during meetings.
“Yeah.” He says, feeling lighter than he had his entire life. “I am. ‘S that okay?”
“Be kind of a hypocrite if I said no, wouldn’t I?”
And he laughs, unheeded, different. “Yeah, guess you would be.”