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The mission had gone well so far.
They had taken out the head of the operation, Victor Zakhaev, and stopped his attempt of launching a nuke.
Their group had allowed themselves a moment of calm, a moment to feel the satisfaction of such victories burn through their veins, before reality called them back. Reality in the form of Soap requesting back up.
Soap had been the only member of the recently founded 141 to not participate in this part of the mission. Price had thought it better that he led the marines lent to them by General Shepard against the ground force of the Ultranationalists led by Zakhaev.
It was a good plan on Price's part, Ghost would have done the same in his shoes. While they hadn't spent much time on the field together since they became part of the 141, Ghost knew Soap was capable of handling such a situation. Soap had proven as much when they went after Makarov back when they were S.A.S. under Major MacMillan. No matter how many times Ghost had called out that he would handle a target, Soap killed them before Ghost had the chance to properly aim his sniper.
Ghost had never felt that useless on the field before.
But none of that changed the fact that they should have been faster to regroup with Soap. Either to kill the remaining Ultranationalists in the area, or to get them safely to exfil.
Not even Ghost, who had moved ahead after a few minutes, had been there on time.
Ghost was on the other side of the building, just a corner away from where he should be, when a large explosion sounded from somewhere on the other side. It was accompanied by screams, dirt and a few droplets of blood being sprayed even past where Ghost was standing. A second of quiet before the gunfire picked up again, almost drowning the whimpers and whines of the wounded.
He carefully peeked around the corner. His eyes slid across the battlefield. Over the dead marines and Ultranationalists alike. No sign of Soap, which hopefully meant the guy was still kicking. He narrowed his eyes, tried to make out the forms of the soldiers through clouds of dust, dirt and smoke. He took note of the marines dragging their wounded into cover, while those still able to fight covered them. And-
There.
Soap was one of the men providing cover. Though, unlike the others, he only wielded a handgun. Not even in a proper stance, as his left hand was nowhere near his gun. Instead, it covered his mouth. Pressed over it like one did to suppress their own noises. Only... it wasn't his own noises he tried to suppress.
Blood.
So much blood.
It flowed down his neck and left arm alike. Dyed his uniform and the dirt beneath him in a dark red.
Ghost watched as he ducked down as soon as he ran out of ammo. He handed his pistol to the man lying on the ground next to him. The guy was obviously unable to move anything apart from his arms. Probably why he dutifully reloaded Soap's gun for him. It was a welcome distraction from injuries that might spell out the end of his military career. Meanwhile, Soap expertly removed the pin from one grenade and threw it behind the cover the Ultranationalists were using. Panicked Russian screams were silenced by an explosion.
Fucking hell.
Ghost used his position to take out some tangos, the marines would have a harder time getting from their position, before he carefully made his way over to Soap. He reached the Sergeant just as he had emptied another clip of rounds into the enemy. Barely bothered with the "blue, blue" as he crouched down next to Soap.
"Show me," he ordered.
Soap looked relieved to see him, yet was reluctant to do as told. He removed his hand from his mouth slowly and carefully, as if afraid that his whole face would fall apart if he weren't.
And judging by the mess that was his mouth, Ghost couldn't blame him.
Something sharp had hit him. Something had dug into his skin and split his lips almost perfectly vertical in half. Without the skin and muscles holding it together, his mouth looked like the leftovers of a peeled banana. His gums and teeth were clearly visible. It allowed Ghost to see that whatever it was had cut into his gums as well, and clipped the corner of one of his teeth.
"Fuck," Ghost hissed as he removed some gauze and bandages from his tacvest. Soap's own medkit had been plundered to help stabilize the man next to him. Ghost looked at a man laying on Soap's other side, but he was obviously dead. A piece of rusted metal had dug itself right through his skull and into his brain.
As he applied the bandages as best as he could, leaving a slit so Soap could spit out blood if he needed to, he couldn't help but notice that there were big, rusted metal pieces everywhere. Most of them inside dead or wounded marines. It seemed as if that explosion had been a bigger, more deadly version of a scrap grenade.
Ghost paused in his movements as Soap leaned over to the side. He didn't so much as spit blood out. He just let it drip out of his mouth and onto the already bloodstained dirt below. As if the act of spitting it out was too much for his body to handle right now.
"Keep your blood in you, you will need every drop," he couldn't help but quip.
Soap sent him an unimpressed look, but let Ghost continue his work. He would pull through this on sheer stubbornness alone.
Ghost just hoped that Price wouldn't blame himself too hard for dropping the ball as hard as he had.
Ghost didn't really spend any time thinking about his appearance.
Not since before Roba.
Not the same after Roba.
Roba had been so careful to never leave any physical scars. Not a single mark of imperfection that could be traced back to him. Not a single scar that would make a lapdog stand out of the crowd. No one would expect the handsome English guy on holiday to be an assassin sent from a rival cartel.
No, the only scars Roba left were the mental ones.
And afterwards, he had been so sick of seeing himself in the mirror, of how unchanged he looked despite everything. For a while, he had stopped giving a shit if someone got too close. If a knife slit over the skin of his cheeks, if a fist broke his nose, if flames danced across his muscles as he fled from a burning building.
No, he had simply taken in his scarred body, now even worse off than his mind, and put a mask over it.
It was nothing but another weapon for him to wield against his enemies.
But that wasn't necessary the case for other people.
Especially a pretty boy like Soap.
Now, Ghost knew all too well that Soap was more than just a pretty face, but Ghost had also been in the military long enough to recognize behaviour patterns around guys like Soap. Horny men with little to no cunt to go around meant that they tended to flock towards the pretty boys, grovelling for a chance to get their dick wet. Even if said pretty boy didn't give them any hints of being interested, and the only time they saw him naked was while they were in the community showers with another dozen men.
It filled the pretty boys with a certain kind of power that helped grow an ego that will either make or break them.
And given the crude stitches that held Soap's mouth closed, the ugly scarring that would result of the whole thing... most would break.
Ghost knew he was staring too much as Soap ate his porridge. But he couldn't look away as Soap lead the spoon past his swollen lips that would never really close again, past his teeth to his tongue. He made no effort to let the tasteless mush linger in his mouth. Merely licked it off the spoon and swallowed it right away.
Soap let the spoon clatter onto the plate as he focused his attention on Ghost. "Something the matter, Lt?" His speech was slightly slurred, but after spending most of his life listening to barely audible radio chatter, Ghost understood him clearly.
Ghost grunted in annoyance. "You spent too much time around the marines."
Lt was something they came up with, after all. A way to refer to who would lead them on the next mission without going against all the red tape surrounding things Ghost touched. He wasn't a Lieutenant for them, he was the Lt.
The corners of Soap's lips lifted up into a smile before he quickly relaxed those muscles again. "You didn't answer my question."
"Just came to check on you," he stated simply. It was the truth, after all.
"Even Price didn't stick around as long as you do." Soap tilted his head in a way that emphasized the unmarked skin of his neck. As if he were challenging someone- no, Ghost, to lean over and sink his teeth into him. A little trick to make those already panting for him even more desperate to impress him. A trick that Ghost was forced to admit worked on him as well.
"Or could it be...," he trailed off. He placed his plate on the bedside table and assumed a pose that clearly screamed: "draw me like one of your French girls". "Am I that pretty you don't want to look away?"
Yet, despite the confidence he said those words with didn't reach his eyes. All too aware of his disfigured mouth, of how it would be his most prominent feature from here on out. It wouldn't matter how many great things he did, all that people would recognize him would be by his face.
At that moment, Ghost decided to do something he hadn't in years. Something he never thought he would do willingly again.
He casually lifted one hand, and pulled his balaclava off. Almost as if baring his scars, his face, wasn't as big of a deal as it was. He ran a hand through his hair to puff it up a little.
"I don't know, am I?" He asked back.
There was no way to describe the look on Soap's face than pure awe. His eyes flicked over Ghost's face, often returning to parts he had already looked at as if to commit it all to memory.
"Yes," Soap said finally. "I could look at you for hours."
And fuck if that didn't awaken something in Ghost he had believed to be long dead. A carnal hunger he hadn't felt since before Roba heated his veins.
He forced in back. Kept it under control.
"As could I."
Soap smiled, wide enough to slightly pull at his stitches. "You already did."
"Under better circumstances, then."
His free hand moved to his vest. He pulled out something he always kept on his person - just in case. He threw the little roll of fabric at Soap as he stood. He put on his balaclava again, lost himself in its familiar embrace to push away things he shouldn't do, things he shouldn't say.
"Get better soon," he all but ordered.
The last thing he heard before he left the room was a "yes, Sir".
It was weeks later when they would meet again.
Soap looked... good.
His posture was basically perfect, none of that doubt and vulnerability Ghost had seen for those precious seconds still lingered. Instead, Soap's blue eyes sparkled with mirth over the top of the face mask Ghost had given him. It had been one he made from an old balaclava. The skeletal print was somewhat faded, but still clearly visible. It perfectly hid what was beneath.
Ghost also couldn't help but take note of the fact that those who used to linger around Soap, who sought his attention and affections, made sure to turn away from them both. As if they no longer had the right to so much as look at Soap. As if Soap's mask was a sign of Ghost's claim over him. As if only Ghost had a right to Soap now.
That thing within him reminded him of its existence.
Soap came to a stop right in front of him, barely a breath between them. "Welcome back, Lt," he whispers, voice clearer than it had been back then.
Ghost said nothing, did nothing, too busy resisting the urge to pull Soap closer. He let Soap hook a finger underneath the teeth of his mask. Let him pull the mask away from his face just enough to steal a quick kiss. Ghost could feel the unevenness of his lips through the two layers of fabric.
He wanted to know what they felt like when both their masks were off. He wanted to know how they looked now. He wanted to know how they tasted.
But Soap pulled away too quickly, and they were in the middle of a corridor.
Soap straightened the way Ghost's mask sat on his face. The look in his eyes telling Ghost that Soap knew exactly what he was doing to Ghost.
And that Ghost wouldn't have to wait long for a much more in depth continuation.