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A lot of things can be said about one John "Soap" MacTavish.
Being well-adjusted is not one of them.
Tangling an emotionally and mentally abusive household with the opportunity to join the military the second he had the chance didn't bode well as it was.
To make it worse, he'd devoted those early days of the military to his training. He'd engrained in himself so deeply, that failure was not an option, that when he did finally fuck up something… let's just say it wasn't a good day. He didn't have a life outside of the military, had sunk everything that he was, into it.
So despite all his bubbly attitude and charm on base, the minute he was forced onto leave, the carefully constructed facade of "Soap" would crash down around his head.
"Soap?" Slowly he turned to look up at his Lieutenant, no, Simon .
"Yeah?" He croaks in reply.
"You gonna move so I can get in the damn flat?" Almost immediately, Soap scrambles out of his way, missing the look of concern flashed his way before Ghost slips in past him, letting him silently trail after.
The rest of the day passes in an almost fugue state, Soap simply letting himself be pulled along by the currents of Simon.
That's how he ends up on his side in the others bed, a warm body curled around him as the other sleeps soundly.
Yet here he is, wide awake.
This only happens when he goes on leave. When he's off base and out of the safety of the barracks. On a mission, every noise could be an enemy or a wild animal, every odd lump would be an IED, and the odd shadows that dance could be from trees or bodies.
And when he gets home?
He can't differentiate.
The rush of a car going by could be a technical, that creak from the fire escape could be someone climbing it, and that shadow that keeps waving by the window could be from a man watching their building, watching them .
Despite the silence of the night, everything is so loud.
He's just waiting for them to start firing.
Finally, he has enough of the silence that weighs several kilos, dragging himself out of the bed and trudging into Simon's small kitchen.
If he's going to be awake, he might as well be as aware as possible.
Settled at his kitchen table with an untouched cup of black coffee, he lets his mind wander in the pitch dark.
He used to think this was normal, that this was what everyone dealt with. And many do.
But Simon had shown him that not everyone does, that you can adjust, and know the difference between the innocence of home and the danger of the field.
He still hasn't wrapped his head fully around that one.
As if summoned by his thoughts, his head snaps up at the sound of footsteps creaking toward him.
"Johnny?" It's softly mumbled in the dark, and while there's a question in his tone, Simon doesn't ask him why he's awake, doesn't chide him. Instead, he just moves into his space, kneeling next to the chair Soap's occupying at the table.
"Sorry, if I woke you." He manages, throat tight, eyes turning back to the table.
"I believe I told you to wake me when this happens." He still sounds half asleep, but there's no annoyance. Just soft concern as gentle hands cradle his face and turn Soap back to look at him. "Talk to me, love. I'm right here."
It takes a minute for him to gather himself, thoughts thrumming and throat encircled with thorns too tight to get any past. And Simon doesn't push him, only strokes his thumb along his cheeks and waits.
"'S too loud." He finally manages, sounding near strangled, eyes squeezing shut against the burn as overstimulation drums against his brain like a kid tapping on a fish tank.
Scarred lips press against his forehead before Simon nods softly and stands up. For just a second, his hands leave Soap's face, and he steps away, stealing the now cold cup of coffee from his hands.
He leaves the cup in the sink before he comes back to his side and gently begins to urge him up and off the chair.
Not once does he turn on a light, remembering the visceral reaction Soap had the first time he'd done so. Instead, he guides him back through the dark halls and back to his room, pulling him down into the bed with soft hands. Big hands maneuver him slowly, pulling his head until it rested with an ear against his chest, and a hand covering the other.
All he could hear was the woosh of Simon's breath and the full thuds of his heart, drowning out every other noise plaguing and clawing at his mind.
"Go to sleep Johnny, I've got you." Lips press against his hair, and he feels the first strings of tension beginning to loosen.
Curled up in Simon's arms, swathed in his oversized clothes and buried in his warmth, he can feel like Johnny again.
And it's nice.