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"I'm not even that sick," Ghost grumbles, refusing to acknowledge that his voice does in fact sound like he's been chain smoking every day for the past 60 years.
"Sure, if you say so." Soap's eye roll is palpable from across the room as he brews a cup of lemon and ginger tea, the aroma drifting throughout the room. The beverage is delivered with a knowing smile as Ghost emerges from his obscene pile of blankets, shivering as his face is exposed to the air. A novelty minecraft mug that looks like diamond thaws his shaking hands, the warmth seeping into his bones as he huddles around the cup.
He isn't that sick, could totally go back to work at a moment's notice and do his job properly. But both Price and Soap insisted he take a week's leave after a solo stint in Siberia that left him half frozen and on the verge of hypothermia. It was just another Tuesday in the office for Ghost. He's been through worse and come out the other side. Although, he'd almost prefer being in the med wing than having to deal with God awful sniffles and a throat that felt like he's swallowing razor blades. He blows on the steaming tea a few times before taking a sip, wincing at the pain as he swallows but the citrus and ginger will help in the long run so he'll grit his teeth and bare it.
The bed dips as Soap settles down next to him. "Not too sweet for ya? I put some honey in it as well, but I wasn't sure if you liked your tea sweet."
Ghost just hums, taking another small sip. The honey is good, just the right amount of sweetness to compliment the spice and sour. He supposes the one good thing to come out of mandatory bed rest is having his own personal nurse. Soap was by far the best nurse he'd had, and he'd spent his fair share of time in hospitals. The Sergeant kept him well hydrated with water and medicinal teas, bringing him easy to eat meals from the mess hall (which most of the time was just questionable soup and mashed potato) with a little cup of jelly if he was lucky. Mostly, Ghost appreciated how, every 30 minutes like clockwork, Soap would take his heat pack and disappear down the hall for a few minutes, only to sprint back to his Lieutenant's room with a piping hot bag of wheat that Ghost curls around like his life depends on it - keeping the shivers at bay at least for a short while. And everytime he hears the rapid fire impact of military grade boots on linoleum, under the hard shell that was Ghost, Simon falls a little more in love.
Maybe it's the fever, or the medication, but Simon feels giddy over the budding warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with tea or heat packs, and everything to do with the little pleased smile that spreads across Soap's lips whenever Simon grumbles his thanks. The feeling is new, a small flame that Simon wants to huddle around and shelter from the harsh winds of his psyche. Embers that grow a little bigger, burn a little bit brighter, everytime Simon looks up to the Sun. He's only mortal, and like most mortal things he gravitates towards the celestial - and that’s what Soap is; a sun that glows so brilliant, so full of warmth that he's impossible to ignore. And Simon is foolhardy Icarus, who is awed and besotted and maybe a little bit scared, but most importantly, he's deliriously in love.
The half empty cup is placed on his bedside table, and Ghost shuffles around to face his Sergeant, pausing once he's settled to let the world stop spinning and forcefully will away the nausea. Soap's hand is a furnace as he flattens his fingers to expose the palm. A small questioning noise and head tilt from Soap brings Ghost's heart into his throat but he pushes on, determined. "Simon loves you," he says simply, the jingle of dog tags sounds like gunshots and death sentences to his ears as he yanks the metal from his neck. "He's loved you for months now." Ghost didn't realize the feeling was love, but saying it aloud felt right, felt natural. Felt like finally coming home after years of running. Simon's love brings nothing but pain and more skeletons to make their home in his closet. But Soap was different, he hoped.
The tags are delicately placed in his Sergeant's open palm, as fragile as his own heart. "Ghost loves you, too, but he can't say it. So he's giving Simon's heart to you for safekeeping until he's ready." Shaking fingers are prompted to curl around the tags, and Ghost dares to look up.
Baby blues, as bright and unruly as the ocean, are glassy with tears unshed, a thousand yard stare at the precious gift in his fist. There's a brief moment in the silence where Ghost forgets how to breathe, vision darkening at the edges leaving him to stare at his heart bared raw in Soap's hand. Anxiety claws its way up his throat, he doesn't love you back, he's going to leave, you ruined the only good thing you have. But then pale fingers close so gently around the metal, and the voices are silenced as his name settles around Soap's throat.
"I'll look after him, I promise." Soap's voice is thick with emotion that Ghost can't parse, has no time to decipher as a wave of exhaustion catches him by surprise. The world is swimming in the most nauseating way, and his eyes are too heavy to keep open. Deciding enough is enough, blankets are gathered around him again and he falls to the side, blessedly horizontal once more. The barely warm heat pack offers little comfort but he still curls around it nonetheless as sweat beads along his temples and shivers work their way from head to toe.
There's a chuckle from the outside world, and a poke to his head that gets a few choice words, barely intelligible though they were. "Give me the heat pack, ya goose, I'll go warm it up."
Eons pass as Ghost processes the request, and relinquishes his holy grail into the hands of the man he loves.
This time as Soap leaves, his dog tags jingle louder than normal.