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If there was one thing that John ‘Soap’ MacTavish was used to, it was snide comments about him. He’d been in the military since he was sixteen, so he’d heard it all through the years. Comments about his talkative nature, his disregard for personal space, his stubborn nature, and more often recently, about his hairstyle.
Soap knew his mohawk was, to many people, a strange sight for a SAS member. It was certainly out of regulation, but seeing as Price had never once mentioned him cutting it down, Soap was content to let it grow longer, curling over his neck or plastered to his forehead while training. To him, it was as iconic as Ghosts mask, or Price's mustache. He just wouldn’t be Soap without it, so the snide remarks that other soldiers made, usually just loud enough for him to hear, while giving them plausible deniability, rolled right off the man. After all, he was a specialized member of the 141, a role that most of those soldiers could only dream of reaching. Who cared what some faceless, nameless person thought of him?
As it turned out, it was much harder to ignore those comments when they came from his friends.
“Ah’m just sayin’, ah think ah deserve some nice chest candy fer that demo! Wasnae anythin’ left o’the buildin!” Sitting back in his chair, Soap flashed a cheeky smile, pausing his dramatic declarations to take a sip of the whiskey he was nursing. It was always nice to have a night out with the lads, to get away from the stress and tension from long missions and close calls. Here in the dim light of the bar, in some nameless town just far enough from base for Ghost to feel slightly more at ease in just a medical mask, Soap could let himself relax. Could let himself take in his teammates, let the sticky warm affection curl around him as they drank and bickered and teased.
A muffled snort drew the scot from his musings, blue eyes turning just in time to catch the tail end of Gaz’s eye-roll. “Och, What’s so funny then?” He whined, pouting playfully at the other Sargeant, only to break and snicker a moment later at Gaz’s look of exasperation.
The other man glanced at Price and Ghost, a sly smile tugging at his lips before he turned back to Soap. “Nothing mate, just thinking that they’d never get through a ceremony if you showed up with that hair,” he teased, looking rather pleased at the snort it earned from Price. Emboldened, he pressed on, waving a hand lazily towards the mohawk which was a mess from Soap running his fingers through it all night. “I mean, you can’t expect them not to take one look at that thing and not laugh, right?”
Stunned by his friends' blunt words, Soap floundered for a moment, his cheeks heating up in embarrassment. “Och, hawd yer wheest! Yer just mad cause ye cannae pull it off yerself!” he crowed, his pout much more genuine this time as he took another pull of whiskey. The usual rich smoothness melted away, tasting bitter on his tongue and suddenly Soap found himself longing for the sweet flavor of an Irn Bru, something familiar and comforting.
“I think Gaz is onto something. Forget a write-up for being out of regulation, you’d be lucky if they didn’t hold ya down while they shave it off,” Price added jokingly, dark eyes sparking as he chuckled at the thought. Soap felt himself shrink in his chair, shoulders hitching uncomfortably as a frown tugged at his face. His hair wasn’t that bad, was it? He certainly wasn’t the only soldier out of regulation, hell Price faced the brass constantly and he still kept his mustache!
Shifting uncertainly, Soap glanced between the pair, a soft whine slipping from him as he pouted. “Isnae that bad! Right, L.t?” Emploring eyes turned to the quiet man next to him, only to be met with an arched brow that Soap just knew was partnered with a smug smile.
“Dunno Johnny, can’t say I haven’t considered doing the job for them myself,” he rumbled. Normally, that would be enough to send a shiver down Soap's spine, to have warmth licking at his stomach. But tonight, paired with those words, it just had Soap’s heart sinking, gut-churning with nausea as he thought the words over. Their opinion meant more to Soap than almost anyone’s, bar his mam’s. To find that this entire time they’d thought he looked ridiculous, enough to make fun of him, stung worse than any other comment. His glass was set down just a tad too quickly, with a bit too much force, if the furrow in Ghost's brow said anything. “Johnny? Are you-”
“Need tae use the toilet,” he said quickly, cutting Ghost off as he clambered out of his chair and pushed his way through the bar, not giving any of them a chance to respond. Soap did not go to the bathroom, despite the rolling of his stomach, but instead slipped outside of a side door and into the alleyway. The cool air washed over his flushed face, just cold enough to remind him that his jacket was still hung over the back of his chair inside. Unbothered by that, he let himself lean against the brick wall, scrubbing a hand over his face as he tried to calm the storm of emotions in his head, before pulling out a smoke.
Logically, he knew that his friends were just joking with him. How often had he teased Ghost about his mask? Or Gaz for his stupid hat? Hell, they’d even spent an hour once teasing Price about his mustache, about how they’d run screaming if he ever shaved it. He was being sensitive, a nasty habit of his that his dear old dad had never quite managed to beat out of him.
Deep breaths, John. Yer a soldier fer fucksake!
Eyes shut as he mentally berated himself, Soap paid no mind to the sound of the door opening and closing quietly, assuming it was some other poor bastard coming out to have a smoke.
“Nasty habit, Johnny.”
Choking on an inhale, Soap’s eyes flew open just in time for Ghost to pluck the cigarette from his mouth. Rather than drop it, Ghost tugged his mask down and took a slow drag, warm whiskey eyes never wavering as he stared at Soap, who had finally managed to cease his coughing. “Spooky bastard, need tae put a fuckin’ bell on you,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair before leaning back against the wall once more.
The pair stood in silence for a moment, each waiting for the other to break it, before finally Ghost shifted. “You said you were going to the bathroom. Been gone for a bit, had Gaz and the captain worried.” Had me worried. It went unsaid, but the furrow in Ghost’s brow was enough for Soap to hear it anyway, forcing him to drop his gaze.
“Aye, ah’m feelin’ a bit peely-wally,” he grunted, arms crossing defensively. It wasn’t quite a lie, but he knew Ghost would pick up on the half-truth.
Sure enough, the larger man shuffled forward, nudging Soap. “English, MacTavish.” The familiar chastise, edges now softened with something that strayed dangerously close to fond, had Soap relaxing slightly. He allowed himself to lean into the warm, solid line of Ghost's arm, grumbling slightly.
“English he says, speakin’ perfect fuckin’ English….Ah said, ah’m not feelin' well sir,” he snarked, though the lack of heat behind his words meant they didn’t quite as close to insubordinate as he’d been aiming for. The silence was back again, stretching around the pair and muffling the world around them in a strange twist. It was as if they had entered a bubble, a little place where they could exist as Johnny and Simon, outside of the world's loud demands.
A warm hand curled around the back of Soap's neck, shifting him until he was standing directly in front of Ghost. Those large, calloused fingers dragged through the base of his mohawk, tugging through the hair gently until Soap went boneless against Ghost’s chest. “We upset you.” It wasn’t a question, didn’t demand an answer. It was a statement, softened with both understanding and guilt. It was the latter that had Soap straightening, attempting to pull away.
He didn’t get far.
Soap was by no means a small man. Hell, he was taller than both Price and Gaz! But Ghost’s hand on his nape was firm and grounding, and Soap didn’t really want to pull away. So he let himself be stilled, even as he shook his head. “Och, no big deal. Ah’m just bein’ sensitive,” he mumbled half-heartedly, suddenly finding great interest in Ghost's shoes, ugly old things as they were. Gentle fingers wrapped around his chin, nudging and guiding him until he relented and lifted his gaze.
Those sad, sun-warm brown eyes held him still, studying him with an intensity that made Soap feel like his chest had been flayed open and put on display. “No excuse, we should have seen how upset it made you,” he hummed softly, thumb stroking back and forth across Soap's chin, tracing the scar there with a gentleness that had his throat tightening.
“Ye were right though, ya ken? Dunnae why I havenae shaved it off, look fuckin ridiculous,” he admitted quietly, voice cracking as he closed his eyes, missing the devastation that flickered across Ghost’s face at his words. What he did not miss, however, was the way the man's fingers tightened on his chin, or the brush of softwarmdry lips against his temple.
It was gone just as quickly as it had come, but it left a trail of electricity across his skin, and distantly Soap wondered if it would scar. If it would leave a physical mark, reminding not only himself but the world, that Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley had kissed him.
“Don’t you dare, Johnny. You know how much I’d miss it? Can’t take it away from me before I even get the chance to touch,” he rumbled, sliding his hand up from Soap's neck until it was buried in the thick strands of the mohawk, carding through it gently. It was gentle and soothing and oh-so affectionate. If Soap was a cat, he knew he’d be absolutely purring at the touch given so easily.
Soap had always been a very tactile person, bumping shoulders with Gaz or giving pats on the back to Price. But for Ghost to offer up this sort of affection, so freely? Soap felt like he was in heaven. “Coulda done this anytime, L.t. Never say no tae you, ya ken?” A quiet admittance, straying ever closer to the line they had been dancing next to for months. It put him on the edge, hand outstretched in an offer for Ghost. Never demanding, never expecting. Just the quiet knowledge that if Ghost took the step, Soap would be right there beside him.
Warm brown eyes met soft blue, the tight rope between them stretched taut for a moment as Ghost debated the offer. The hand in Soap's hair tightened ever so slightly, never enough to hurt, forcing Soap to tip his head ever so slightly. “I know, Johnny.”
The tight rope snapped.
Warm lips pressed against Soaps.
The tightness in his chest dissolved, replaced by the bonfire warmth of Ghost's affections, drowning out the insecurities that had been warring in his head.
The kiss was simple and sweet, and Soap was struck with the thought that even Irn Bru couldn’t compare to Simon Riley kissing him. His hands came up to fist Ghost’s hoodie, tugging the large man closer until their forms were pressed together from thigh to nose, wonderfully warm and comforting in a way that neither had experienced in years. When they finally broke apart, never going far just allowing themselves the barest amount of room to breathe, Soap's face split into a cheeky grin.
“So ye do like me then,” he teased, unable to resist running gentle fingers across Ghost's face, skating over the scars to run them down a strong nose before tracing across a proud jawline.
Ghost’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, those beloved crow feet appearing as he leaned his forehead against Soaps, laughing softly. “Yeah, Johnny. I like you, just been a bit of an idiot about it,” he murmured, closing his eyes as he allowed the scot to explore.
Soap's smile warmed, turning ever so soft as he stretched up to press gentle kisses to Ghost’s eyelids, humming softly. “Aye, right bonnie bampot ye are, Simon.”
And maybe Soap's insecurities would never fully fade, but that was okay. Because they would go back inside together, hand-in-hand. And Gaz would try to tease him again, only to be cut off by a very protective Ghost. Later on, both Gaz and Price would find quiet moments to pull Soap aside to apologize, and Soap would forgive them because they were his family. Every night, he’d slip into his lieutenants room, and fall asleep with a warm hand carding affectionately through his mohawk, and Soap would know love as intimately as he knew himself.