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Soap was terrible at keeping his mouth shut. It’d gotten him in hot water many times before, saying the wrong thing to the wrong guy, or saying the right thing in too many words. It was a guttural urge to explain himself, let people in on what he was thinking, work through his thoughts out loud.
Maybe it was a remnant from a childhood spent in the confessional booth of his local church. Every Sunday morning he’d be sent to accompany Mrs. Clark from down the street as she went to early service. His Ma always told him to confess while he was there, said he should at least try for once a week.
He’d stare at the lattice, the artificial light peeking through gaps, illuminating motes of dust as they swirled lazily in the stagnant air. Someone would usually be playing the shitty old piano, clunking out some nursery rhyme key by key, restarting every time they made a mistake. The notes would reverberate in his head, off-key, but familiar. Clunk, cuh-clunk, clunk, Susie still can’t play hot-cross-buns.
He’d smell the old cologne of the priest through the wall next to him, heavy, choking. He wondered if all the priests used the same brand. It was always musty, and never quite covered the smell of mothballs from the old people that shuffled through before him. Mrs. Clark always gave him a hug after service, and he could smell them on her clothes.
He’d asked his Ma once why old people always smelled weird, and she’d just boxed his ears and told him not to ask rude questions. It was only years later, after helping Mrs. Clark dig through the late Mr. Clark’s closet, that he’d found the source of the smell. That, and several magazines that 14-year-old John knew well enough to smuggle out of the house before Mrs. Clark saw them.
Sitting in the dark booth, he’d wondered if Mr. Clark ever confessed about the magazines. He was dead now, so he must have. Either that, or he chose to go to Hell over them, which seemed like a pretty extreme decision. Seemed extreme to send someone to Hell over liking to look at men, too, but who was he to argue with God?
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” he’d start. He’d spill his guts, air his sins, and leave cleansed. It was an odd sort of relief to know that no matter what you were going to say, the person on the other side was there to hear it.
Nowadays, he didn’t much believe in religion. He’d seen men staggering around the battlefield, holding their own guts in while fumbling for their guns. He’d seen children, mothers, lovers struck down and left to rot in basements. Hell, he’d killed enough people to not keep track. If God existed, Soap refused to worship Him, refused to respect something that would allow that much horror to remain in the world.
Also, as it turns out, you don’t get hairy palms if you touch yourself. His teen years were fucking wasted .
He didn’t believe in religion anymore, but there were days that he missed confession, missed having that space of total non-judgment to explain the worst things about himself and have them forgiven. And, maybe, missed having someone who was forced to listen to him with no complaint.
He needed to say things out loud to get them, make them real before he could process. Gaz knew that about him, and so had offered to let him talk through the swirling thoughts that kept him up. Thank God (or whoever was out there) for Gaz. No matter the time of night, if Soap knocked on his door, he’d let him in, let him purge the chaos of his head. He’d make him a coffee and let him spit up his thoughts like bile, sitting quietly with him till he was done.
It made something warm bloom in his chest every time, the quiet devotion of friendship sweeter than any altar wine.
His previous teams hadn’t been so forgiving with him. Not that Soap blamed them, no, he knew that he was a lot. They were pretty lenient with him on missions, anyway, letting him analyze aloud when faced with difficult problems. Other than mission related talk, though, they didn’t want to hear much from him.
Occasionally, he’d get smacked upside the head if he prattled on for too long, and Christ , was that ever mortifying. The laughter that would sound after featured frequently in the memories that would play as he tried to get some much-needed sleep. It was all in good humor, and they didn’t actually hit hard enough to cause real damage, but it stung to be treated like a fucking dog. Usually it stunned him into silence for a few minutes while he waited for the embarrassment to settle down.
He got pretty good at controlling his tongue around them, barely slipped up at all by the end of it. But then he’d switched into the 141, and his poor, simple brain couldn’t seem to understand that not being smacked didn’t mean that they wanted to hear him talk all the fucking time.
Price was good about telling him off gently, the jokes that rolled off his Captain’s tongue never quite having the same venom that had coated the words of his previous superiors. A solid hand on his shoulder, or a quick that’s enough, Soap , were enough for him to seal his lips with a flicked away key and a wink.
He was a good soldier, a good man, and would never endanger a mission by yammering on comms when others needed to hear. He wasn’t that selfish, and he had some self-control despite how the others like to tease him. That didn’t stop him from muting to mutter under his breath, though.
That habit got him in a bit of hot water during what was meant to be an easy mission, providing overwatch with Ghost up in a high tower near the edge of the city. It was simple to mute his comms when he needed to work something out, but being so close to someone else posed a problem. If he spoke, Ghost was sure to hear him. And if Ghost could hear him, he’d be distracting a superior officer during a mission; distracting Ghost . Needless to say, Soap was trying his best to keep quiet, biting his tongue and pinching the soft skin of his wrist as a reminder.
It worked, at least, until his focus was needed elsewhere. Namely, the shot he had to take to save Gaz’s ass.
It was a tricky one, sniping at an enemy he couldn’t see until a two second window, after which he would have missed the shot. He almost did, truth be told, but he got the fucker, downing him with a less than stellar shot that had him wincing after the fact. Bastard went down, though, and that’s all that mattered.
He hummed under his breath, thinking of how he could probably have done better if he’d been set up a few feet to the left. Would the angle have been better? Probably, but he wouldn’t have been able to see past the edge of the next building over. He considered moving, but decided against it after a moment of deliberation. A few minutes later, Ghost turned to him.
“Sergeant,” he said, low in his chest.
Soap whipped his head back around, not expecting to be addressed, and found himself staring directly into Ghost’s eyes.
He swallowed, roughly, “Lt.?”
Ghost held eye-contact with him for a few excruciatingly long seconds, then grunted, turning away. “Keep it quiet, yeah?”
Oh, fuck .
“Yessir,” he mumbled back, face hot with embarrassment. He hadn’t realized he’d been muttering, but clearly it was loud enough to distract Ghost. The one thing he was trying to avoid. They were friends—at least, Soap considered them so—but he was still Ghost , the man more dedicated to a by-the-book mission than anyone he’d ever met.
He could feel an awkward tension settling between them. Desperate not to let his slip up make it weird, he scrambled to make a joke.
“‘M like a wind-up toy, jus’ keep chattering on until someone breaks the key,” he muttered, low enough that Ghost could ignore it if he wanted.
Not his best work, but it accomplished what it was meant to.
Ghost huffed out a rare laugh, and a soft “ Quiet , Soap,” and it felt a million times kinder than a slap.
The rest of the mission was a cinch, with no more close calls on overwatch and Soap managing to keep a handle on his tongue. The two packed up easily, trudging to exfil with only a few quips passed between them. It was a comfortable sort of quiet, something that Soap so rarely felt, and it took all of him not to ask Ghost if that meant they were cool.
They reached the helo in good time, Price and Gaz already strapped in and chatting with Nik. Soap unloaded his gear, organizing Ghost’s along with it.
Just before boarding, Ghost clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“You did good out there, Johnny,” he said, squeezing gently. There was something in his tone, something that Soap could almost have interpreted as fondness had he not known who he was speaking with. Ghost let his hand linger for just a moment before heading into the chopper, leaving Soap to stare after him like an idiot.
God, the praise shouldn’t have had such an effect on him, but his body never liked listening to his rationality, filling his chest with warmth and sending heat to his cheeks. Something about a superior officer recognizing his hard work even though he’d fucked up, and the fact that that superior officer was Ghost , had him feeling like he was back in basic being complimented on how fast he ran his drills.
Soap took a breath to regulate himself, cracking his neck harshly to shut down the sappy shit before following his Lieutenant.
--
“I swear t’God, she had her fuckin’ knees past her head,” Soap wheezed, several scotches into the evening. They were out at a bar, and his body was humming with energy; the air was warm, his shoulders were bumping against those of his friends, and his tongue had been plied loose with several drinks.
Ghost snorted and mumbled something into his glass. He didn’t usually drink much with them, limiting himself to one or two bourbons before slinking back to his room, but tonight he’d stayed out later than Soap was expecting.
It was nice, being able to decompress with his Lieutenant when they weren’t in active combat, or sitting awkwardly in a crusty safe-house. Ghost had been more talkative that night too, maybe because of the alcohol, but Soap had an inkling the man just cared more for them than he was willing to admit.
“What was that, Ghost?” Gaz asked in response to Ghost’s barely audible comment. Gaz was wearing a shit-eating grin, and Soap would have been willing to let the muttered words go, but seeing the flush that crept below Ghost’s mask he was immediately intrigued.
Ghost shrugged, feigning nonchalance. He glanced alongside at Gaz before putting his drink back down and staring back at his hand, “Said, s’not like it’s that hard.”
What.
Gaz choked on his drink, sputtering in surprise, “Whoa, Lt., way to flex.”
Soap gave his best attempt at an unaffected laugh, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. Something about the way Ghost had said it made his stomach curl oddly.
“Not my fault you’re all stiff as hell,” Ghost mumbled, his indifferent facade crumbling as his shoulders crept up in embarrassment.
Gaz just cackled, leaning back in his seat and tugging his cap down to hide his eyes.
Ghost had probably meant his comment in reference to bending his partners, but Soap’s gutter of a mind immediately had him imagining Ghost as the one being folded. To be fair, the statement had a good bit of ambiguity to it, so Soap couldn’t really be blamed if he let himself follow that trail of thought.
He was having a bit of difficulty picturing it, to be honest, his beast of a Lieutenant bent into such a compromising position. There was a certain level of hilarity to it, even, such a big man and such a vulnerable act. He wondered if Ghost would take off the mask like that, if he’d let himself be seen. The red that inched below the edge of the mask would probably spread across his face too, across the rest of him. A bolt of heat flashed through his gut at the thought.
Hold on. The fuck was that, MacTavish?
“Been holdin’ back on me, sir?” Soap teased, half to see how red Ghost would get, half in an attempt to not analyze the thoughts running through his head.
Ghost jerked his head up to stare directly at Soap, “What?”
Oh, that was probably a mistake .
“Sparring,” he clarified, “Didn’t realize you were that flexible sir, maybe I’ll try and bend you a bit further next time.” And because he’s a fucking idiot, he winked to accentuate his statement.
Ghost’s shoulders quickly became a taut line, his grip on the table tightening enough for his gloves to squeak.
Shite, that was really a mistake .
“I’d be gentle,” he continued, despite the screaming in his head telling him to just shut the fuck up before he permanently damaged his relationship with his Lieutenant. “Unless you like it rough?”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuck. He could practically feel any good will he’d built with Ghost withering and dying at his every word.
For a solid 5 seconds he suffocated in the most charged silence he’d ever felt, then Ghost released his death grip on the counter and pushed his seat back with a jarring screeching sound.
“Careful, Soap,” he said flatly, before getting up and tucking a few bills under his half-empty bourbon. His voice was emotionless, completely devoid of the teasing tone that had developed over the months of them working together. Soap could feel it like a physical loss, like a chunk of his ribs had been carved out.
Ghost turned, nodded to Gaz, then started making his way to the half-hidden exit he’d clearly had practice leaving through.
Soap’s traitorous mouth just opened and closed silently as Ghost slipped away, pushing coldly through groups of unfamiliar people.
Goddammit, John, you really did it now.
Before he could apologize, or if he’s being realistic, dig himself deeper, Ghost had disappeared outside.
He was left with a slack jaw, an embarrassing flush up his neck, and a slightly sick feeling curdling in his stomach.
“Ooh,” Gaz cringed next to him, “That didn’t go well.”
The rest of their evening was spent in uncharacteristic silence, though it was barely an hour before Soap was muttering an excuse and slipping out the same door Ghost had left through.
--
He was frozen, standing in front of Ghost’s door, a flush from the scotch still high on his cheeks. Maybe it was a bad idea to talk to him now, but he couldn’t let it lay. He’d be up all night thinking it over, and probably keep Gaz up with all his chatter. Lord knows the poor man had spent too many nights with him in the past few weeks, it was the least Soap could do to try and solve his problems first.
He hesitated as he raised his hand to knock. Maybe Ghost would be angry that he was bothering him again so soon. Maybe he just wanted to ignore it. Maybe he should leave now before Ghost noticed him standing outside his door like a weirdo.
The door swung open before he got the chance to either knock or run away. Ghost stood before him, a bored look in his eyes. He’d changed into sweats, keeping the balaclava but discarding the hard outer shell. His shirt was rumpled, like he’d just thrown it on before opening the door. Maybe he had, Soap mused, it was pretty late and it would make sense that he’d try to sleep after the mission. He didn’t look surprised to see Soap, though, like he’d already known he was out there.
“What do you want, Johnny?” he asked, the gravel in his voice deeper than usual.
“Uh,” Soap replied, intelligently. He hadn’t prepared what to say, had just been consumed with the need to talk to the other man. Any semblance of eloquence died, his tongue sticking awkwardly in his mouth.
Somehow, the look on Ghost’s face got even more unimpressed. He raised an arm like he was going to close the door, and it sent a spike of panic through Soap’s chest. He came here to fix things goddammit, not make them worse. Without thinking, he stuck a foot out, blocking the door from moving.
“Johnny,” Ghost growled, a warning.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’ll leave you alone in a moment, just—” Soap mumbled, shuffling awkwardly, twisting his fingers like they’d be able to coach him on what to say. Now that he was there, in front of his Lieutenant's room, any thought of what to say had abandoned him. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck.
Ghost sighed, taking pity on him before he sprained a knuckle with all his wringing. “Why are you outside my door in the middle of the night, Soap?” he asked, in the same flat tone that would certainly feature in John’s nightmares.
“To apologize?”
Ghost stayed silent, looking at him with something complicated in his eyes.
The fact that he hadn’t been knifed yet encouraged Soap to continue, “Tonight. I was just sayin’ shit, like always.” Always. Always saying too much, talking too loud, not knowing when to stop. Ghost already was so accommodating of his intricacies, it was the least he could do to respect the man’s boundaries, but he’d fucked that up too.
Soap could feel himself shrinking under his Lieutenant's stare, and pulled his shoulders back in an attempt at courage as he continued. “Jus’ got a big mouth, sir, dinnae mean to make ye uncomfortable.”
Ghost paused, shifting his eyes from Soap to something vaguely behind him. The silence felt deafening, and Soap could feel the sweat from earlier trickling down the column of his spine. The longer they stood the faster his thoughts spun. If Ghost didn’t forgive him he didn’t know what he’d do. Beg, probably, with the way his inhibitions seemed practically nonexistent at this point. He wasn’t above getting on his knees and pleading, as humiliating as it would be, he really didn’t want to have to transfer. God, not again. The humiliation would kill him, John MacTavish, kicked out of the 141 for talking about getting freaky with his Lieutenant .
He was pulled from his rapidly spiraling thoughts by Ghost mumbling something unintelligible. That fucking mask was gonna be the death of him, muffling Ghost’s already quiet speech. He wished he could just reach over and pull it up, but that was pretty much a death sentence. Though maybe a quick death was preferable to spending the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, waiting for one of Ghost’s knives to separate his head from his body for practically sexually harassing him.
At his lack of a response, Ghost looked at him for less than a second before training his gaze back over his shoulder. Soap could see the moment Ghost registered that he hadn’t been heard, eyes narrowing in frustration as he set his jaw. “You didn’t,” he repeated more clearly, after a moment of clear internal struggle.
What?
That wasn’t the response Soap had been expecting. He felt his train of thought grind to a halt, still belching steam but not making any progress forward. He didn’t… what? His half-drunk mind was flipping back desperately in the conversation, but barely making any progress past the thought of transferring.
At the look of obvious confusion on his face, Ghost sighed again, dropping his chin to his chest.
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he ground out, looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere than here.
“Oh.” Oh?
“Yeah.”
“So—”
“So, nothing to apologize for, Johnny,” Ghost continued, still staring over Soap’s shoulder.
Soap shut his mouth with a click, “‘Kay.” He waited for Ghost to look at him, but he seemed resolute in his choice to stare anywhere but the man in front of him.
He felt his heart sinking. He’d apologized, and Ghost didn’t seem like he was angry about his… commentary, but there was still something off about the way he was speaking. Soap was aware enough not to presume to know Ghost, not in any significant way, but they’d been working together for a while now, and he was pretty fucking sure that Ghost didn’t usually act so flighty.
At Soap’s silence, Ghost nodded, “Okay. Goodnight then.” He went to close the door, but Soap’s foot was still in the way. He would have liked to blame it on the alcohol, but he’d never been good at stopping the thoughts that ached to escape him.
“Why’d ye run then, sir?” he asked, because he’s an idiot with a death wish and loose fucking lips. Maybe that knife would be coming sooner rather than later.
Ghost stared him down, some of the tension from earlier creeping back into his frame. “What?”
“You ran. Like someone spat in yer bourbon. If I believe ye that I didn’t make ye uncomfortable, then why’d ye hightail it outtae there?”
Ghost shifted his stance, crossing his arms over his stomach defensively. “Just can’t let anything be, can you, Sergeant?”
Sergeant . Not Soap, not Johnny, not even fucking MacTavish . And, clearly intentionally, not an answer to his question. He felt a flash of irritation, mirroring his Lieutenant’s stance and tilting his head.
Before Soap could say anything else, Ghost was groaning and pulling him bodily into the room, closing the door behind them and turning to face him.
“You’re not gay,” Ghost said, close enough to touch but still avoiding eye-contact like his life depended on it.
“Uh… no?” Soap’s brain was buffering, both from being pulled into his superior’s room and the scotch still making its way through him. It wasn’t a question but he still felt the need to clarify, “I mean, yeah, not really, but I don’t—I guess I don’t really care.” Nice going, MacTavish, flirt with your CO and then come out to him in the most awkward and unclear way possible.
“Mocking me, then?” Ghost leaned back, hand twitching where it hung by his side.
The fuck? Soap felt like his head was spinning with the rapid fire questions. The air between them felt thick, like he was breathing fog, his tongue half-numb with it.
Ghost was moving again, crossing his arms and pulling himself up into a more intimidating figure. Realizing he hadn't said anything in response to Ghost’s accusations, Soap unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “No! No, I was just—”
Actually, that was a good question, what the bloody hell had he been doing? Several things came to mind, but he had enough brains still with him to know that it would do more harm than good to tell his superior officer that he’d been testing him.
“I dunno, just jokin’,” he finished, weakly.
“Hmn,” was all Ghost responded with, still in a staring contest with the dust bunnies in the corner.
Soap felt something cold creeping up his spine, “Was that why you ran? ‘Cause ye thought I was gay?”
Ghost just blinked at him incredulously. “No. Why would I–” he looked conflicted for a moment, like he was going to continue, but decided against it. “No.”
“Fair enough,” Soap mumbled, though it wasn’t really , 'cause how would he know if Ghost was homophobic or not? He took a deep breath, rubbing his hands over his face to try and force some clarity into his poor, overworked brain. There was something he was missing. “So, I didn’t make ye uncomfortable, an’ y’aren't homophobic, so what…?”
There was another awkward pause, Ghost shuffling in an uncharacteristically nervous way. His lack of eye-contact was starting to read less as anger and more as discomfort. Soap wished he could reassure him somehow but Ghost clearly didn’t need more of his clumsy attempts at friendship.
Ghost opened his mouth and closed it several times, the movement barely visible from under the mask, but Soap was watching intently, curious as to what could possibly make his Lieutenant nervous. The man was practically a stone wall during every debrief, no matter the content. It was something that he both admired and feared.
“I was just… surprised,” Ghost replied eventually, the flush visible between the collar of his shirt and his mask indicating a healthy level of embarrassment too.
Soap took a moment to process before it hit him. Holy shit. Was Ghost fucking shy?
“What, not used to bein’ flirted with, Ghostie?” he asked. Ghost didn’t respond, but a twitch by his eye confirmed it. Soap felt the tension in his chest unravel, unspooling into something warmer and lower in his gut. A strange feeling fell over him at the knowledge that he’d managed to rattle the scariest man he knew with just a few words. “Not gonnae lie, ‘m surprised someone hasn’t done it before me.”
“What, flirted with their superior officer?” Ghost asked, raising an eyebrow incredulously. He’d shifted further out of reach, fiddling with a stray thread from the bottom of his shirt. It was kind of cute, in a hulking-monster-of-a-man way.
“Och, c’mon, you’re plenty handsome, surely someone—”
“Most people don’t have a hard-on for danger, Johnny,” Ghost cut him off, scoffing as he turned away. The muscles in his back shifted under his shirt as he gestured towards the door. “If that’s all you came here for, you’re free to leave now.”
Soap had half a mind to push his luck and see how far he could take the flirting, but the tension still apparent in Ghost’s frame convinced him otherwise.
He bit his tongue in an effort not to ruin the small amount of progress he’d made that evening, and gave Ghost a grin. “Sure, sir.”
It was another monumental amount of effort to force himself to walk towards the door. He glanced around almost mournfully, knowing this was certainly the first and only time he’d be allowed in.
Ghost scoffed at his display, grabbing his shoulder and pushing him towards the door. “Out, Sergeant, some of us want to get some sleep.”
“Awright, I’m goin’, no need to get handsy,” he snickered, stumbling out the door. He gave Ghost a two-finger salute as he walked backwards, seeing the other man roll his eyes.
Just as he turned to start walking back to his room, Ghost called out, “Johnny?”
Soap spun so quickly on his heel that it would have been embarrassing had he not already been high on the dopamine of a successful social interaction. “Yeah, Lt?”
Ghost seemed to contemplate his words for a moment before speaking. “Not a word. To anyone, yeah?"
There was a threat in there, but Soap could see something a little vulnerable under it all. Ghost was finally looking at him, too, and it had something in Soap softening.
“Cross my heart, Si.”