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When Price first brought up the temporary loan with Soap, he had promised him it would only be for two weeks. Nothing more. Two weeks with a team that had special requested him for his ability in demolitions and cleaning house.
If Price had known that the loan would go longer than two weeks, Soap likes to think that the Captain would never have agreed. Especially now that Soap’s time with the other team was pushing six weeks.
Soap’s a professional, though. As the days continued past his allotted time with the team, he didn’t bother to mention it. He’s thorough—always has been—and would see the job through to its end. He would stay with this other team until his assignment there was finished.
It didn’t mean he had to like it.
Maybe the warmth and security of the 141 had made him soft. Sure, the specialized nature of the task force often meant they were on missions that were anything but warm and cozy, and least of all, safe. However, Soap always knew he could rely on his teammates to watch his six no matter what. It was never a question of trust with them.
This group, though? Shite, they were barely tolerant of one another, and only looked out for one another if it was to their own direct advantage. For Soap, an outsider? That was almost as good as a death warrant.
His specialized skills and lack of connection to the team made him the popular choice for handling the especially dangerous aspects of the mission. He learned early on that he couldn’t rely on anyone there to cover his six. He’s lucky all he came away with from that lesson was a nasty but non-fatal gash to his side—courtesy of a combatant in a room Soap hadn’t realized he had been left to clear by himself.
He had wrapped his wound himself with the discomfiting realization that he was essentially on his own for the duration of this mission. No Price, no Gaz. No Ghost.
When Price had shared with the team that Soap had been requested and approved for a temporary loan to an outsider team, Soap hadn’t been shocked when Ghost immediately began grilling Price for details. As Price filled the team in on the need-to-know for Soap’s mission, Soap had watched Ghost’s eyes go stormy and unforgiving.
Soap had known Ghost wouldn’t like letting Soap out of his sight. Their bond in Las Almas combined with the tentative new something between them meant Ghost could more often than not be found standing right next to Soap, and vice versa. Gaz had laughed at the two, teasing them for their codependence with one another, and Price hadn’t done much more than shake his head and sigh.
It hadn’t started as a relationship. From the outside, it probably looked like barely anything more than blowing off steam. They had fucked a couple of times, the first few with Ghost sprinting from Soap’s room before the sweat had even cooled. Eventually, though, Ghost started to linger. Then, he spent the night.
Now, Soap knew what it felt like to wake up slowly in the tight embrace of Ghost’s warm arms, and whatever existed between the two of them was fully tangible, if still unnamed.
Price had ended up having to pull rank on Ghost at their meeting, after Ghost had all but gotten into Price’s face over Soap’s temporary repositioning.
Soap had spent that night in Ghost’s room, tucked between Ghost’s hulking body and the wall of his bedroom.
“You need to apologize to Price.” Soap had gently chastised, looking up into Ghost’s soft brown eyes. “Y’ken he has no good excuse to deny the request. It wouldn’t look right if he did.”
“Price’ll be fine.” Ghost grumbled back, nuzzling his face into the soft tufts of Soap’s hair. “I don’t like it. I don’t like you out there without me watchin’ your six.”
Soap had heard what Ghost hadn’t said: I don’t trust anyone else with you.
A soft smile had curled onto Soap’s face at the silent admission and he hid it in the soft of Ghost’s chest. “So you do like me, Lt.” Soap mumbled, words muffled against fabric.
Ghost huffed out a quiet laugh. “I like you alive, Johnny.” At that, Ghost had pulled Soap’s face away from his chest and pressed their lips together.
Soap had been on the precipice of sleep when he felt lips brush against his forehead and heard a whispered, “I like you with me.”
Soap had found himself gripping tightly to the memory spent in Ghost’s room, curled around one another, as he took hit after hit for this mission he didn’t care about and a team that would happily see him dead if it meant they’d live one minute more.
The whole mission was shit. He collected bruises and cuts like he had collected kisses from Ghost before leaving. He was favoring his right side where a bullet to his tactical vest had resulted in a nasty mark, bruising if not fully cracking his ribs. While not able to inhale fully, Soap counted himself lucky that there was nothing loose floating around waiting to pierce his lung.
Or that he’s not bagged and tagged.
Soap knew his luck was running out. It was luck, at least some of it; his skill set helped immensely where his training had taught him how to keep going in extreme, life-threatening circumstances, but six weeks was a long time to ask his body to maintain fight or flight with no reprieve. With the 141, Soap could at least trust that he could bunk down safely and let the adrenaline ebb for a few hours. He didn’t have that with this team.
Pure fucking pish, was what it was.
He had grown a little too used to the iron taste of blood in his mouth by the time he was relieved from the group. He had delivered his end of the bargain in the form of detonated bombs and dispatched hostiles and got fuck-all in return. Now, all he could think about was running back home.
He’s not sure when home became the comfort of the 141. Somewhere along the way, home became three people instead of a place.
Soap didn’t know what it meant to have a home, really. He entered the army illegally at 16—well-nurtured lads didn’t tend to do that. Training under Price had been the first time Soap had felt the need to prove himself, really the first time he had wanted to make anyone proud. Soap was euphoric when Price decided to recruit him to the 141.
Meeting Gaz had been easy—the two were quick friends turned brothers. Their kindred, friendly, competitive spirits led them to push one another, to tease and heckle each other in a way that always had Soap’s face hurting from how hard he grinned and his body hurting from how hard he pushed himself.
Meeting Ghost was something else entirely. Soap had heard the rumors prior to their first mission together. Ghost was more urban legend than man at that point: a scary story told to keep privates straight. So when Soap had seen the Lieutenant on the tarmac that first time, he had been determined to get to the living, breathing man behind the mask.
His enthusiastic bump to Ghost’s shoulder coupled with a “Let’s get ourselves a win, yeah Lt? I’ll save you a seat, sir,” made for an apprehensive beginning, but the events of Las Almas and Soap’s time alone in the city allowed Soap to come to know who Ghost really was.
Including all of his stupid fucking jokes.
It was also the catalyst for Soap viewing Ghost with a safety uniquely associated with home. Ghost’s emphatic declaration that they were a team and Soap could trust him to have his back was the first time Soap really came to understand what it meant to be able to rely on someone. That he wasn’t alone, not when he had Ghost.
It was that foundation that became the basis for their relationship—and what made Soap want to run back to Ghost now that he had spent his mandated time separated from home.
Soap had requested an immediate exfil and return to base, uncaring of the late hour in which he would land. Anything to get him away, to get him back where he belonged. He tried unsuccessfully to still his shaking hands the entire way back to his base, but by the time he landed, the tremors had only grown worse.
He jumped onto the tarmac as soon as possible, his knee twinging from the rough landing and the rougher six weeks. Soap was so overwhelmed with the prospect of finally being safe that he missed the only other occupant of the tarmac.
“Johnny,” a quiet voice rumbled. Soap, still fighting off the adrenaline and cortisol of his time on loan, couldn’t contain his flinch, whipping around to face the only man in the world allowed to call him by that name.
Looking at Ghost now, Soap couldn’t help but think that he’d do it all over again, do every painful mission, fight every life-threatening, gut-wrenching fight, just to see Ghost like this. He’d go anywhere, face anyone, knowing that what he was coming home to was this.
“Hi, Si.” Soap’s voice cracked as he answered. The concern hidden in Ghost’s eyes increased with Soap’s response, and Soap watched him as he moved to stand in front of Soap. Ghost’s gloved hands were rough, grounding, as they traced over Soap’s body, searching for hidden injuries.
“You broken, Johnny?” Ghost’s murmur was soft in the still night air.
Like a spell broken, the adrenaline fueling Soap’s body for the last six weeks began to ebb away, and his body sagged forward into the weight of Ghost’s hands. With a lump in his throat that he couldn’t find a way to speak around, Soap did little more than shake his head in response.
His response lost any possible credibility when Ghost’s gentling hands placed pressure on his bruised ribs. Soap couldn’t help the whine of pain that escaped him, further clueing Ghost in on just how wrong the situation currently was. Usually, it took a fair amount of pain to even begin to phase Soap. The mounting exhaustion of the week combined with the fairly significant amount of injuries he currently sported had Soap’s inhibitions lowered entirely now that he was back in Ghost’s hands.
The tense lines around Ghost’s eyes told Soap that Ghost didn’t believe him when he said he wasn’t broken, but Ghost didn’t try to argue Soap into medical. Instead, he took more of Soap’s weight, extra careful with his bruised side, and said, “okay, Johnny. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
The walk to Ghost’s room was slow going as the pain coursing through Soap’s body returned in full force. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug, and Soap hated the come-down. His bruised ribs made breathing feel almost impossible, and more than one gash on Soap’s body throbbed a reminder of its existence. Soap didn’t think he could forget about them now even if he wanted to.
By the time they reached Ghost’s room, Soap wasn’t confident he was holding any of his weight, leaning fully on Ghost to support him. Ghost, however, had continued without faltering.
Ghost had deposited Soap onto his bed before disappearing into his attached bathroom to retrieve his first aid kit. Soap hadn’t been able to resist his body sagging into the familiar surface. He was convinced that there wasn’t a softer surface on the face of the earth, despite knowing somewhere in his mind just how unpleasant these beds really were. In that moment, though? Soap had never felt anything better.
Soap startled again when he felt a hand cup his face. Survival instinct he hadn’t fully shaken had him shooting out to grip harshly at the wrist touching his face, before settling again.
Ghost’s brow furrowed as he looked over Soap. The balaclava Ghost had been wearing on the tarmac had been removed while Ghost was in the bathroom. Soap loosened his grip on Ghost’s wrist slightly, but didn’t let it go. He focused on Ghost’s pulse under his fingertips and drank in the sight of Simon, as Ghost stroked Soap’s face gently.
“You gonna let me look you over Johnny?” Ghost’s voice was still so soft, gentle in a way he didn’t often show. All Soap could do was nod blankly, brain foggy with exhaustion.
Ghost helped Soap undress piece by piece, pulling his tact gear from his body and helping him shimmy from his shirt and jeans. Soap watched Ghost’s face grimace as he took in all of Soap’s exposed skin. While Soap hadn’t seen it for himself yet, he could feel every one of the bruises and gashes that marred his body. He knew it wasn’t a pretty sight.
The more Ghost stared at Soap, the tighter Ghost’s jaw became. Soap had enough wherewithal to worry for the state of Ghost’s molars, and reached out to grab Ghost. As Ghost kneeled in front of Soap, Soap pressed his hand to Ghost’s jaw, rubbing his thumb gently over the tight muscle.
“I’m alright now, Si.” Soap said softly, continuing his gentle ministrations. “I’m back with you.”
Simon’s brows furrowed further at the sentence, his face reflecting his clear displeasure. “You should’ve never been away from me to begin with. I should’ve done more to keep you here, or gone with you, or—”
“It doesn’t work that way, Simon.” Soap interrupted. “You know that. I know that. Occupational hazard.”
Soap couldn’t help his small huff of laughter at the unimpressed look Ghost leveled at him, as Ghost applied disinfectant and antibiotic to the cuts that littered his upper body. Soap grimaced as Ghost treated a particularly nasty cut, the wound reopening as fresh blood dripped down Soap’s torso.
Frustration flashed across Ghost’s face, and Soap marveled at how expressive Ghost could be when the mask was gone. “Johnny, how did this even happen?” Ghost asked, the anger in his voice marking his clear displeasure at the situation.
Soap, disarmed from the exhaustion, the pain, and finally feeling safe, told Ghost everything. Every painful moment filled with adrenaline and the drive for survival and something that felt very close to betrayal as he endured a team he wasn’t sure he would ever escape from—as he tried not to believe that his last moments would be spent so far away from his home.
Ghost had listened carefully as he had finished wrapping Soap’s wound-ridden body. When Soap dropped off into silence, finished with his account of the last six weeks, Ghost stood up and pressed a gentle kiss to Soap’s forehead. Soap pushed back into the pressure, until Ghost moved away to pull his own clothes off.
With nothing more than the soft warm glow of lamplight, Ghost laid Soap down onto his bed and crawled in next to him. Ghost gently manouveured Soap and cradled him to Ghost’s chest, pressing his nose into the soft hair on the top of Soap’s head.
The last of the tension melted away from Soap’s body as Ghost ran a gentle hand up and down Soap’s back, the other hand militant in its role of cradling Soap’s head to Ghost. Soap’s eyes were already almost closed when Ghost whispered, “tomorrow, we will give your report to Price. The full report. This will not happen again. I promise you that, Sergeant.”
Blue eyes opened slowly and blearily at the mention of his rank. Soap searched for Ghost’s eyes, and when he finally found them, he watched as Ghost’s eyes melted into something softer.
“Johnny,” Ghost rumbled, softly. “My Johnny. I’ll keep you safe.”
Soap leaned up slowly, meeting Ghost’s lips with his own. The kiss was soft and unhurried as Ghost sat up and leaned over Soap, tilting Soap’s head just right with his hand as their mouths finally found the perfect connection.
Ghost kissed Soap with all the tenderness Soap had been deprived of in the last month and a half, licking into Soap’s open mouth and nipping his kiss-swollen lips. Soap could do little more than gasp helplessly into Ghost’s mouth.
Ghost tapered off, kissing Soap once, twice, a third time, before settling Soap back against his solid chest. Soap nuzzled into his warmth, his eyes gently drifting shut. As sleep gripped him, Ghost pressed a final, soft kiss to Soap’s lips and whispered, “welcome back home, love.”