Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soap’s head is pounding when he wakes up, but he’s sinfully comfortable and warm, and he doesn’t want to move. It's not quite a hangover headache - more like the aftermath of an intense mission where his body goes into overdrive and everything else fades.

The memory hits him like a bullet - finding Ghost in the park, surrounded by children, going home with him, admitting he doesn’t know how to live outside of the military, breaking down in his arms… 

Soap slowly raises his head and looks around. He’s in a small, cosy room, sunshine falling on the bed he’s laying in. He remembers being in the living room, face pressed against Ghost’s chest, legs shaking. He remembers darkness taking over and then… Soap groans and hides his blushing face in the pillow, trying not to think about his Lieutenant carrying him princess-style to bed.

Fuck, now he’s thinking about it.

He lays there for a long while, just trying to overcome the headache. His internal clock tells him it’s only around 7 am, which is late for his normal standards, and the flat is quiet. Soap sighs and turns to the other side, eyes landing on a glass of water and some painkillers. There’s no note, but warmth blooms in his heart anyway - Ghost is a demanding asshole, but he cares in quiet ways, especially for Soap.

He’s not deaf or blind, Soap knows the whole base gossips about how he’s Ghost’s Sergeant, how the Lieutenant hovers over him. Soap’s never said anything because he likes it too much.

And now he suddenly got a chance to get to know Simon, not just Ghost. He’s still shocked to realise they’re almost two different men - he didn’t think there was anything of Simon left in his Lieutenant, but Ghost thrives on surprising him.

Sometime during his musings, Soap must have fallen asleep, because when he wakes up again, he feels much better. The sunlight is warmer now, his head is okay, and his body feels almost liquid, relaxed and heavy. Soap can’t remember the last time he slept in or rested just for the sake of it, and fuck it feels great, if strange.

The flat isn’t so quiet anymore. There's music coming from somewhere, accompanied by the muffled thumps of cupboards being opened and closed, and the air starts smelling amazing. Soap’s stomach chooses that moment to make a sound, so he stands up with a groan, only then realising he must be wearing Ghost’s clothes. The shirt is huge on him, falling around the middle of his thighs, and Soap’s hand is trembling when he raises the edge of it, to see Ghost’s underwear.

“Jeeesus Christ,” he mumbles, palms suddenly sweaty.

It’s not going to be the field that kills Soap, it’s going to be his fucking Lieutenant, in the middle of London. What the fuck.

It only takes a few more minutes of trying to get himself together, before Soap makes his way out of the room. He closes the door behind himself quietly and finds himself in a cosy corridor, all wooden floors and soft grey walls, pictures and knick-knacks all over them. It clashes so terribly with the image of Ghost he has in his head, Soap doesn’t know what to do, so he just keeps walking. Next he finds the same living room he fell apart in - a fluffy rug. a cat tower in the corner, and a sinfully comfortable couch covered in a quilt blanket. He takes a deep breath and follows the noise into an open-plan kitchen, where he finds Ghost standing by the stove, his back to Soap.

Immediately, his eyes are drawn to the huge, fluffy cat that’s draped over his Lieutenant’s shoulders. It’s a sleek grey, almost matching his shirt, with a tail that looks like a duster. Soap desperately wants to pet it.

Ghost himself is cooking something, dressed in simple sweatpants and a soft-looking shirt, his curls free and slightly damp. He looks fucking phenomenal and Soap itches with the need to press close, wrap his arms around his waist and plaster himself to his back. Maybe pet the cat while he’s at it.

He barely refrains.

“Morning, Johnny,” the other man says suddenly, and Soap isn’t proud of the way he jumps in place, heartbeat picking up. Ghost turns a bit, a smirk on his scarred face, and fuck, he looks unfairly pretty in the late morning sun, soft and domestic. Soap doesn’t know what to do with that. “Slept well?”

“Cannae complain,” he manages to say. “The bed’s comfortable.”

“It was chosen to be that,” Ghost replies evenly. “Tea?”

“You Brits and yer fuckin’ tea,” Soap murmurs. “Have coffee?”

Ghost chuckles (and Soap steadily ignores the way it makes his belly flutter), and gestures towards a little Italian coffee maker on the counter. 

“Coffee’s in the cupboard over there. Help yourself.”

Soap moves closer on shaky legs, so totally out of place he doesn’t know what to do with himself. To be honest, if his parents aren't keeping him fed, he lives on instant coffee and take-away while on leave. Now that Soap thinks about it, it’s sort of pathetic, especially when faced with the sunny, cosy reality that’s his superior’s flat.

He clumsily makes coffee, unsure of what to actually do - it’s always instant coffee, Gaz makes it, or they grab it from a small coffee shop in the middle of nowhere during a mission. 

“How do you like your eggs?” Ghost asks, his side brushing against Soap’s.

“Uh… Normal?” He can feel the judgemental raised eyebrow the other man throws in his direction. “However you’re making them.”

Ghost grunts, and before Soap knows it, he’s being shooed away from the stove and made to sit at the small round table by a window, flowers blooming on the windowsill. Ghost appears a second later with two full plates, and then two cups, putting them in front of Soap. He just stares, entranced and shocked, as his superior sits down, the cat sliding down to sit in his lap, purring.

“This is Kazka, she’s a little fuck who came over one day and never left. It was either feed her or see her starve,” Ghost says dryly when he notices Soap staring.

And it’s such a Ghost thing to say - Soap knows the other man by now, he can tell how fond his tone is, how much he loves the cat, how gentle his hands are when they pet the fur. Kazka has striking green eyes, and they pin Soap in place, mesmerising and dangerous at the same time.

“She fits you,” he decides. “Cute.”

Ghost raises an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting I am cute, Sergeant?” he asks, completely deadpan, even as Soap chokes on a sip of coffee.

Those dark eyes dance with amusement while Soap splutters, flushing and trying to deny it without actually denying it. He decides to lean into their familiar dynamic.

“The cutest, sir,” he drawls. “Yer cat might have ya beat, though, I’m not sorry.”

His Lieutenant rolls his eyes, but his face is fond still. The scars don’t take away from his beauty, unfortunately. As much as Soap is used to seeing his face, there’s something disarming in how it looks in the late morning light, soft and relaxed. He’s even more gorgeous, and Soap feels clumsy in comparison. Stocky, even though it’s Ghost who’s built like an industrial fridge.

“Eat your food, Johnny, and shut up.”

“Never,” Soap replies, but digs in.

He has to fight to keep a moan in at the taste. It’s just a simple breakfast, but it’s been over 4 months since he’s had a home-cooked meal, and it’s the best egg and bacon Soap’s ever had. Probably because Ghost made it, but…

“Don’t joke,” comes a dry comment.

Soap looks up at the other man, mouth full of delicious food, and gives him the finger, too busy eating to reply. Ghost sprawls in the chair and eats slowly, sharing little bites of ham with Kazka, who shows her fluffy belly to be petted. It’s an unfairly domestic image, and for the first time since Soap realised he’s bi, he yearns for this. 

It’s been so long - his life consisted only of the military and climbing the ranks, and his home life was good, if a bit boring, but since coming out and facing the fallout, he has never allowed himself to dream of domestic life. And yet here is his superior, a man who went through unimaginable pain and trauma, petting a cat in a sunlit kitchen. If Ghost can have it, then maybe…

It’s a dangerous thought. Soap’s always liked danger.

“What are you even doing in London, Johnny? Last time I heard, you’d have to be dead to ever come here.”

They’re standing by the sink together, Ghost washing and Soap drying the dishes, and he’s clumsy, but it feels nice. The buzzing under his skin is finally quiet, as it never is during leave.

“Eh, ma sister lives here, moved in with her dumbass British husband. They have a few brats, so I come sometimes to visit. They like their Uncle John,” he can’t help but brag.

He’s not as close to his family as he sometimes wishes he was, but it’s better this way. They’re not a target, and they don’t have to meet his demons, his broken parts. Whenever they do meet, Soap can be the fun and loud Uncle John, forever a younger brother, always smiling and laughing. 

It’s not all false, but not always the truth. It’s hard to exist in a civilian world.

“You staying with them?”

Soap shrugs. “I try not to,” he admits honestly. “Nightmares.”

“Ah.” They both understand the issue, and it’s always worse when Soap’s on leave. “You slept like a baby here, though. You’re welcome to stay.”

At first, he wants to reject the offer immediately. They’re getting paid very well, so Soap can easily afford a hotel, even though he’s reluctant to part from this tranquillity. Hotels always mean sleepless nights and paranoia, his gun clutched in his hand the whole time he’s there. They always leave him more exhausted than he was before, and Soap wants to try this.

He wants those calm mornings and Ghost’s warm eyes, and he wants to find out who he is outside of the military.

Apparently, all it took to shake him out of the funk was breaking down in his Lieutenant's arms and getting one pep-talk.

“I’ll pay rent,” Soap replies.

Ghost raises an eyebrow. “I don’t need your money. You’ll clean instead,” he says. “And learn how to cook.”

Soap winces. “I exploded 3 microwaves these last 8 months, ye still trust me in the kitchen?”

“Oh, I don’t trust you at all.” Soap jumps when Ghost slaps his ass with a rolled towel, a smirk on the man’s face. “You’ll be under strict supervision. You can be good when following orders, can’t you?”

And fuck him. Soap is sure Ghost 100% knows what this kind of talk does to him, and he’s standing half-naked in Ghost’s kitchen, dressed in his clothes. The look in the other man’s eyes makes him melt on the spot and he nods meekly, flushing.

“When the orders are good…”

When they’re done cleaning, Ghost sends Soap to get dressed his clothes (because Soap’s are in the wash), and they get ready to leave. Soap isn’t necessarily looking forward to it, way too used to going out only at night to drink with some old mates, but Ghost is insistent.

“I have a prior engagement, and you’ll come useful,” he says, cryptic as always.

As they’re leaving, an older lady is watering plants by the window outside of the flats, by the lift.

“Simon! And a handsome young man! How nice of you to let your boyfriend stay,” she calls as soon as she sees them, grey eyes kind and weathered. “What’s your name, love?”

“Uh, S- John, ma’am,” he stammers, as Ghost is trying to stifle his laugh. Being called Ghost’s boyfriend is doing things to him. “Nice to meet ya.”

“Oh, and the accent! Simon, you sly dog, you know how to pick them!”

Ghost takes it in stride and just chuckles. “Hello, Mrs. Murray,” he says politely. “The door not giving you any trouble?”

“Sweetie, after you fixed it, it’s been swinging like a dream.” She pats Ghost’s shoulder motherly, and pins her eyes on Soap. “Now you… You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Fresh from the war, hmm?”

The joke is there, not that she’s aware of it, and Soap grunts, unsure what to do. He’s normally so charming, but normally he’s not talking to the kind of ladies calling his Lieutenant ‘Simon’ and calling Soap his boyfriend.

“I-”

“He just came back,” Ghost cuts in. “Still adjusting. Not housebroken.”

Mrs Murray laughs. “Just like my Andrew, he was always strange a few days after coming back. I’ll have a pie ready for you boys when you come back, don’t worry. Simon, love, grab me some soil?”

Ghost, apparently used to it, just nods. “I’ll help you repot the plants when we’re done. They’ve been asking for you.”

The woman apparently knows exactly what Ghost meant, because she just laughs. “You’re a darling,” she says with a smile. “I’ll try to drop by, but these old bones can’t take it anymore, you know?”

“You’ll outlive all of us,” Ghost replies. “Have a good day.”

As soon as the elevator doors close behind them, Soap’s on him.

“You’re friendly with old ladies now, sir?” he asks cheekily.

Ghost throws him a dry look. “I spend 80% of my life outside of the country. I need someone to take care of Kazka and water the plants. They knit me sweaters.”

“Really?!”

“She’s already starting to knit a sweater for you, I assure you. She’s like that.”

Soap can’t remember the last time someone made something harmless for him. His family, lovely and well-meaning as they are, stopped when he hit 17 and went to the military, figuring out Soap didn’t value anything like that anymore and- They’re not wrong, but warmth still bursts in his belly at the thought of this random woman knitting him a sweater just because.

He ducks his head and stays silent as they exit the building, and then they’re surrounded by children. It’s as if they were all waiting to ambush them, excited like puppies.

“Mr Simon! You came!” several kids scream, all overlapping and gathering around Ghost, clinging to his legs and waist, all huge eyes and innocent smiles.

The mythical Ghost, the most deadly man in England, just smiles and shakes his head. “I promised, didn’t I? And what’s the rule?”

“You always keep your promises!” they all reply diligently, hero worship in their eyes.

“Are we going to play today, Mr Simon?” a small girl in a pink dress asks, all innocence and energy.

Ghost smiles down at her. “Sure we are. Line up!”

The kids scramble to comply, forming a line with energy and precisions some recruits would envy, almost at attention. Soap’s heart softens when he realises Ghost taught the kids how to stand at attention, while making it fun.

“Cian, Annabelle, you’re choosing,” Ghost instructs, standing in the shade with his arms crossed. They wait until teams are chosen, the kids groaning and laughing as everything is divided. “Now, I have a very important person with me - John MacTavish. You need to welcome him properly.”

All those innocent pairs of eyes are suddenly pinned on him, and Soap needs to use all of his experience not to squirm in place. He faces terrorists and cartels, yet it’s a bunch of kids that will break him.

“Hi Mr John,” they chorus together. “Welcome to the Football Club!”

It’s so damn sweet and a bit cringy that Soap just melts on the spot, smiling widely. He’s always been charismatic, and maybe he doesn’t know what to do in a civilian setting, but he can fall back on his nature.

“Yeh, Ghost, you trained them so well,” he praises with a big smile. “You lot like playing football?”

“We want Mr Simon to teach us how to beat up bad guys,” a sweet little girl in a green dress replies. “But he says we need to, uh, be more dis-disco-”

“Disciplined,” Ghost finishes. “Can’t have ruffians learning self-defence, can I? Get ready and warm up, Mr John will help me judge today.”

They’re largely left alone after that, but Soap can see the way they keep glancing at him, no hostility on their faces - they’re all just excited, and they remind him a bit of his nephews, even with how little he sees them. Actually…

“How often do ya do it?” he asks quietly, leaning his shoulder against Ghost’s.

The other man doesn’t pull away. “Every week, sometimes twice a weekend if they have time. Good to get some energy out, parents are always thankful. Got a few treats as thanks.”

Soap snickers. “You’re a soft, good man underneath all those skulls and gloom, aren’t ya? What would the boys say if they saw you?”

“They will say nothing, because you’ll stay silent if you want to keep your tongue,” Ghost replies, voice cold and deadly, and Soap is 70% sure he’s joking.

Okay, maybe 55%.

“Noted,” he says. “I’ll be good.”

It’s such a stupid thing to say, and Soap flushes when he sees the way Ghost glances at him with a raised eyebrow. “Shut,” he snaps.

“Wasn’t saying anything,” Ghost soothes, but he’s smirking, the bastard. “You’re always good for me, Johnny.”

And then he walks away, just like that, clapping his hands and gathering attention. Soap stands there for a while longer, doing his best to get his brain back online. Ghost is a deadly weapon and off the battlefield, it seems, and Soap is only prepared for one of those situations.

Thankfully, he’s always been a fast learner.

Ghost pulls Soap into some preparations, instructing him quietly on what to say and how to act, and by the time the sun starts setting, Soap is exhausted, ravenous, and almost deliriously happy. The weight and sadness that usually overwhelms him while on leave is nowhere to be found, and Soap realises he’s smiling the whole time.

“That was pure dead brilliant,” he breathes, leaning his head against Ghost’s shoulder as they watch the kids and their parents leave.

A few of them left Soap with some flowers as thanks, he even got one half-eaten cookie, and it’s so endearing… It’s soft and human, and it speaks to a part of him he almost forgot. It touches the John inside of Soap, the kid who always wanted friends but never quite knew how to make them. 

Over 20 years later, and he’s starting to learn - with Ghost as a very good training dummy.

Maybe by overcoming the man’s walls, Soap became an expert on how to make friends; never mind that all of his new friends are below the age of 12.

“You did good, Johnny,” Ghost murmurs. “Sitrep.”

It’s spoken softer than any order in the field, and Soap doesn’t stand to attention. He keeps leaning against the taller man and thinks.

“Think I’m good,” he replies eventually. “Weird, but good.”

“You’re feeling human, Johnny. It’s strange, and new, but that's how it should be.” Ghost’s tone carries all the weight of the past. Soap isn’t so naive as to think that the other man just became like this - soft and well-adjusted, with a cat and a flat.

This normalcy, somewhat deceptive, has been won with blood and tears, and enough trauma to cripple three normal people. It’s a burnt out shell of a house, and 4 graves he visits every Christmas, and it’s a kid who’s never going to grow up. It’s scars that always remind Ghost of what he went through with Roba, and it’s the blood on his hands that never washes away, no matter how much he scrubs.

Soap knows all of that, and he wants to know more - he knows the soldier and the superior, the friend he never expected to have. He knows Ghost, he even has the privilege of knowing Lieutenant Riley.

Now’s his chance to get to know Simon. Just Simon. He may be the most precious of them all - but he’s certainly the strongest.

“Guess it’s another thing I’m gonna learn from you, sir,” Soap says cheekily. “Yer a shit teacher.”

“Can’t polish a turd, can I?”

“Oi!”

They bicker the whole way back to the flat, where Ghost shows Soap where’s the cat food, and disappears to help Mrs Murray with the furniture. Kazka comes to sit by his feet, meowing loudly, and Soap stares at the can of wet food in his hand. It looks fancy, but fuck if he has any idea if it really is - he’s never cared for a pet in his life.

He’s about to start, however, because Kazka looks like she’s considering if she can murder a SAS soldier. She probably can, but Soap isn't about to test it.

“Here ya go, ye needy little fuck,” he murmurs, plopping the food into a cute little bowl. It has sunflowers on it. “Don’t starve.”

Kazka throws a small glare his way (can cats hold grudges? Soap’s pretty sure they can), but eats anyway, and Soap is left staring at her. He can’t remember the last time he did something as mundane as feeding a cat, or preparing dinner or helping kids. Now that he thinks about it, his life has been about the military since he was 16 and lied during recruitment, and he never wanted to learn beforehand.

Always the wild child, always looking for structure but baulking at authority. The military turned it into a weapon, chipping away at John’s tantrums and explosive anger, until Soap emerged - the perfect soldier, climbing through the ranks, the demolitions expert that used his anger and turned it into passion. 

Ghost’s a weapon, but there’s a reason why Soap fell into rhythm with him so quickly.

“Looking introspective over here, Johnny,” comes a sudden voice, and Soap curses, whirling around. “Is the cat eating really so interesting?”

He huffs. “She’ll kill me in my sleep,” Soap informs the other man. “Was glaring at me the whole way.”

“She’s a sweetheart, so you probably deserve it.” Ghost replies with a smirk. “Want to sleep with me to ward off any evils?”

Soap fights extremely hard not to flush at the idea of sleeping in the same bed as his Lieutenant. It’s happened countless times, safehouses often don’t come very well-stacked, but it’s different here; in this soft flat with its wooden floors and fluffy carpets. It wouldn’t be Ghost and Soap sleeping together, but Simon and John, and he’s not ready for that.

He’ll probably never be ready, because the crush turned into something more, something he’s afraid to name.

Something Ghost doesn’t need to know about.

He doesn’t end up replying in the end, and Ghost ropes him in to help with cooking. 

“Cannae remember the last time I made something more complicated than instant ramen,” Soap admits. “What got ya into cooking?”

Ghost looks comfortable cooking, at ease with himself, and Kazka quickly climbs to settle on his shoulders, like during breakfast. The man is good with knives, Soap knew that already, but there’s quiet joy on his face when he cooks.

“I needed an outlet that wasn’t self-destructive,” Ghost replies shortly. “And I had to eat something. Didn’t know what to buy for my first cat, so I cooked for him instead. And he got me into the habit of eating 3 times a day. You will forget, but your cat won’t.”

“You had other cats?” Soap asks, delighted.

“Hmm, his name was Uzi, and I found him behind a dumpster. Old and weak, I thought he’d die the first night. But he survived, and kept surviving. It was…nice to see, that will to live.”

One Ghost didn’t have back then - Soap can read between the lines. He smiles at the thought of a younger, more damaged Ghost learning how to live from an old alley cat. It’s somewhat fitting.

“When did he pass?”

“Two years ago. Raised two kittens before that, though, old cunt. Kazka is one of those,” Ghost explains. “The other’s name is Princess and she lives on the 3rd floor with the most famous old lesbian couple on the street.”

Soap snorts. “There are multiple old lesbian couples?”

“It’s a progressive area.” Ghost shrugs. “It’s good to see older queer folk, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Soap breathes out. He never spoke about it, but- “I’m bi.”

Ghost pauses for a second, before looking at Soap. “Yes, I’m aware?” he asks, seemingly a bit unsure. “I found you fucking that ginger guy in Aruba, and a day later going down on the Brazilian informant we were supposed to get in contact with.”

“Oi, I _did_ get in contact with her!” Soap protests, before the rest of the sentence computes and he blushes.

Well, maybe he wasn’t very careful, but still…

“I don’t give a shit about that, by the way,” Ghost says. “Fuck who you want, as long as it’s not ruining our work.”

Soap winces. “Understood,” he mumbles. “And what about you? With the way yer speaking…?”

Ghost sighs deeply, but he looks more fondly exasperated than angry. “I’m queer,” he says simply. “That’s a complete sentence, by the way. I won’t elaborate.”

He nods, before smirking. “Well, not like it matters, since ya have no game anyway…”

The other man snorts, before turning to face Soap, hip leaning against the stove. He’s looming over Soap suddenly, all blonde curls and dark eyes, and Kazka only adds to the air of danger and mystique that should be impossible given that Ghost’s wearing old sweatpants and a stained shirt. Soap swallows and does his best to stay still, even though his whole body wants to flee.

“No game? Johnny…” Soap shudders at the way Ghost says his name, his voice almost caressing his skin. “Maybe I’m just above the games you play with unimportant people, hmm? I don’t need games.”

Soap swallows heavily. Fuck, but it’s doing it for him, that self-assurance and almost cocky tilt to Ghost’s scarred lips, the way his body is coiled with tension, ready to spring into action. His knees grow weak, and he’s just about to embarrass himself by leaning heavily against the counter, when Ghost casually breaks the tension by turning around to stir their food.

He can see the man glancing at him from the corner of his eye, and he knows it’s clear how shaken he is, but Soap is a simple man, and Ghost may as well be the first man he’s ever loved.

It doesn’t hurt that his Lieutenant is gorgeous, both covered in blood and in tomato sauce, a cat on his shoulders. He’s in so much trouble, and he doesn’t even mind.

Ghost doesn’t continue to tease him, but there’s something in the air as they finish cooking and plate the food. It smells amazing, and Soap is so hungry, but his eyes still stay glued to Ghost’s forearms as the man opens a bottle of wine.

“I always took you as more of a beer guy,” he comments once they sit down.

The blonde winces. “My father always drank beer, so I never liked it. Learned how to appreciate good wine from a retired sommelier from the 6th floor.”

Soap whistles. “Who knew you’re such a social butterfly, hmm?”

“It was part of my therapy,” Ghost says casually. “To talk to more people and make connections outside of work. Bloody hard, but I hate to report that it paid off.”

“Therapy? Outside of our mandated hours?” Soap asks, somewhat doubtful.

Ghost throws him a dry look. “When I crawled out of my own grave, I was convinced I was dead. Trust me, I needed a lot of therapy.”

There’s nothing Soap can say in reply. He knows bits and pieces of Ghost’s past, probably more than anyone else than Price, and he can see how therapy was needed - he’s still in shock Ghost is a functional person, not a traumatised shell of one. Even with all of that, Soap’s not convinced.

“More power to ya, I guess,” he murmurs. “Cannae convince me therapy’s good for me, though. Fat load of shit it did for me.”

“Guess you haven't found the right therapist yet,” Ghost says simply. “You should try that.”

“Eh.” Soap shrugs. “A lot of work for a few hours of talkin’.”

“I never you to give up so easily,” the other man comments, almost casually. Soap straightens. “All it took was one bad experience?”

And well, maybe he’s right - maybe Soap took one bad experience and let it ruin every other therapy for him. Maybe he’s scared of touching the mess of feelings he keeps shoving deep inside, the things he never told anyone. Maybe he’s content pretending he’s all fine, while crying himself to sleep sometimes.

It’s okay. That’s just the price they pay for the job they do.

“I know when to pick my battles,” Soap replies, and the topic drops.

Or that’s what he thinks, until it’s dark outside and he’s getting ready for bed, Ghost’s clothes left on the end of the bed for him to change into. Soap grabs the hoodie and a note falls out of it. On it, there’s just a number and a name - Dr. Kinard, a psychiatrist. Soap stares at it for  a moment, before carefully putting the note to the side.

He’s not ready yet, but maybe he will be in the future. Sometime.

Chapter Text

They don’t really talk about it, but Soap only leaves to grab his things from his hotel and check out, and then he’s back at Ghost’s. Kazka greets him with moody meows and a few hisses. Soap gives her the finger.

“Starting a feud with a cat, Johnny?” Ghost asks, amused.

Soap glares at the animal. “She’s plotting my demise, I know it! Looks evil.”

Ghost raises an eyebrow. “Shall Hassan be bested by a domestic cat? She’ll triumph where he failed?”

He snickers and bumps their shoulders together. “Yeah, because you stopped Hassan but you’ll help her. She has you wrapped around her little paw.”

Ghost just shakes his head, but doesn’t deny it. They continue not to talk about it as Soap takes over the guest bedroom. His things find their place in the cabinets and on the windowsill, and it’s not much, but it’s something. Sure, his junk, sparse as it is,, looks weird in the middle of the domestic clutter of Ghost’s flat, but he finds himself wanting to have more things.

It’s been hotels and barracks his whole adult life. His only private room was given to him after Las Almas, so it’s still pretty bare - Soap never minded living out of his duffel bag, but Ghost showed him there’s another way. He just doesn’t have anything to put there, yet.

“Get dressed,” the blonde says one early morning, already wearing black cargo pants and a black henley. “We’re going to the market.”

Soap gives him the finger, but obediently drags himself out of the bed. It’s not even 5 am, so it’s early even for his standards, but he takes a quick shower and is waiting for Ghost to lock the door at 5:07 am on the dot. The only bright spot in the dreary morning is the to-go coffee Ghost hands him then. 

“Why so early?” he whines anyway, as they make their way down the stairs. Soap’s a military man, but he’s still not a morning person. He doesn’t really sleep in as much as he lays in bed in apathy, but still. It’s early.

“The man I buy meat from always sells out early,” Ghost explains. “We need mince for today’s dinner.”

He groans, but gets into the car. It’s simple: a black VW golf, but it’s clean and clearly well-used.

“I didn’t know you had a licence, Lt,” Soap jokes.

“Who says I do?” Ghost replies dryly, but after a glance, it’s clear he’s joking. Soap relaxes in his seat. “I’m not into cars. This one is reliable and doesn’t need much work. Gets the job done.”

“I fuckin’ love cars,” Soap replies, letting himself get excited. “Though I like bikes more, as much as my Ma despairs - says it’ll kill me before my job does.”

Ghost laughs. “What’s your favourite bike, then?”

It’s a bit like during slow missions - Ghost complains, but he likes hearing Soap talk, and Soap’s still getting used to someone who enjoys his rants and explanations, the deep dives he does for no other reason than ‘it’s interesting’. He lets himself get excited and spends most of the drive explaining to Ghost the best and worst models of bikes, and which ones he tried.

“Hmm, so which car you’re gonna get once you retire?”

“A 1965 Aston Martin DB5,” Soap says without hesitation. “It’s probably gonna need a lot of work, but it’s gonna be a beauty once I’m done.”

“Undoubtedly. You’re good at what you do.”

Soap smiles, flushing at the compliment, and it takes a second for the words to compute. He just spoke about retirement as if it’s a reality in the future. He can’t remember the last time he even entertained the thought of retiring, ever since enlisting he’s been sure he’ll die on the field, but when Ghost asked, it was so easy to slip into that fantasy… And there's a big blond bloke standing next to his dream car with a fussy grey cat at his feet, smiling at Soap gently.

Maybe, for the first time since turning 15, Soap is thinking about his future outside of the service.

The realisation makes him fall silent, and Ghost doesn’t push. It takes maybe 15 more minutes to arrive at the farmer’s market, just on the outskirts of London - Soap isn’t sure, he doesn’t know the city, but the market looks almost quaint, and there are a lot of people mulling around. He sticks close to the other man, helpfully carrying his basket as Ghost makes his way into the crowd.

“Eyes on me,” Ghost murmurs into Soap’s ear when he realises how tense he is, warm breath brushing against his neck. “Stay focused, Johnny. We’re safe.”

It's easy to say, a bit harder to internalise. Soap trusts Ghost, with his life, with his everything, but they keep getting bumped into, and when a kid runs into his legs, he almost reaches for his weapon on instinct. Thankfully, Ghost’s reflexes have always been better than his, so the blond tangles their fingers together and pulls Soap to his side, arm wrapping around his waist.

“Stay. We’re safe,” he repeats, and Soap focuses on breathing. 

He’s tense the whole way to Ghost’s chosen stall, but he doesn’t reach for his gun again, and the noise slowly fades into the background. Pressed against the other man, it’s easy to focus on the way every word rumbles in his chest, the way his voice caresses Soap’s ears.

His mind drifts when Ghost talks to a guy about the best cuts of meat, and his eyes wander, and that’s exactly when he finds a stall with colourful pins. As if driven by something stronger than logic, Soap slips out from under Ghost’s hand and makes his way towards the stall, where a young person is smiling at him.

“See something you like?” they ask, and it’s warm, casual.

Soap’s eyes keep focusing on a little bisexual pin, something in him unfurling at the sight of it. He never had any issues when he came out, but he’s been a wild child and his parents didn’t really understand. And then he joined the military, which took over everything else.

“I- You made those?” he asks weakly, desperately trying to keep yearning away from his face. Soap’s an adult, he could buy the pin, but-

“Yeah, they’re very popular here. It’s nice to see people being true to themselves more,” they say. “I have charms too!”

They show him a myriad of little charms on string, different flags on different items, and then there’s a familiar presence just behind Soap, and he can breathe easier.

“We’ll take the bisexual pin and the pride gun charm. Do you have pet bandanas?” Ghost asks softly, tone a bit like back when he was talking to the kids.

The vendor brightens up before packing their things, and Ghost pays without a word. Soap is left standing there dumbly, heart hammering as his Lieutenant pins the bisexual pin to his shirt.

“Better than chest candy, ey?”

Soap’s breathless and flushed, but he can’t remember feeling this alive. “Yeah.”

He wears the pin with strange pride, feeling like he’s 15 and newly out, but also like he’s almost 30 and finally accepting himself in its entirety. It’s a lot of feelings for a Tuesday morning, to be fair.

“We got everything?” he asks, leaning against the other man.

Ghost hums. “What fruit do you like?”

“Uh, apples?” Soap answers with a question. “I never really-”

“Thought about it?” Ghost finishes. “Think about it now. What do you like?”

“Raspberries.” The word comes before Soap can even think about it, and yeah, it’s correct, just not something he ever wondered about. “I really like raspberries.”

Ghost smiles at him softly, and Soap’s heart flutters the whole time they buy raspberries and grapes, and then they’re walking hand in hand between the people. Soap isn’t as stupid as to think the other man isn’t armed, so they’re two hardened soldiers who regularly do the unthinkable walking around the farmer’s market while Ghost’s cat waits for them at his place.

It’s weird, but good weird. Soap could get used to it.

At first, he doesn’t really realise what Ghost is doing, but it soon becomes clear. The other man takes him for walks in the park with Kazka who’s wearing a cute pink harness - she seems to both hate and love it, and they have to beg her to come back sometimes.

“She really takes after you,” Soap comments as he’s holding the leash of a cat that’s halfway up the tree. “Determined to kill that one pigeon right there.”

“I’ve never killed a pigeon,” Ghost replies. “But how hard can it be?”

“Oi, we’re in public!” Soap hisses when he sees the other man reach for his knife. Ghost looks at him and slowly puts the knife back, and they dissolve into snickers as Kazka gives up and returns to the ground. “Yer a fucking menace.”

“Me or her?”

“Both,” Soap decides. “Terrible, really.”

“Hmm, that’s why you fit with us so well,” Ghost says casually. “Come on, you need to feed the ducks.”

“Is that why we bought all those seeds?”

“Bread is bad for them, Johnny, keep up.”

It’s hard to keep up with Ghost sometimes, but Soap does his best. Every day they cook something together, his Lieutenant patiently teaching Soap how to prepare simple things, and every evening they end up smoking on the balcony, London spread in front of them. Piece by piece, Soap starts learning who John MacTavish is, and how not to hate him.

“So why an aquarium?” he asks when they’re standing in line between several loud kids and a few smitten young couples. Soap’s been getting better about crowds, but his hand still hovers over his gun sometimes. “It’s summer.”

“You said you liked jellyfish,” is all Ghost says in reply, before buying their tickets and leaving Soap stunned.

He should be used to it by now, but Ghost continues to surprise him in the strangest ways. The other man can be so cold and removed, but he’s also so kind and considerate, and he remembers what Soap says. It still leaves him shocked and flustered, because his whole life people have been ignoring Soap when he started ranting, but Ghost just…accepts it. Listens even.

Remembers that Soap got very interested in jellyfish after that one documentary they watched.

“Besides, I like sharks,” Ghost says once he’s back, as if nothing has changed. “They’re cool.”

Soap raises an eyebrow. “I can see it,” he muses. “If you were an animal, you’d probably be a shark. Or an orca.”

Ghost hums. “And what would you be, then?”

“Something awesome, like a lionfish! They’re super venomous,” Soap replies excitedly. “And pretty.”

“Yeah, that checks out.”

He flushes violently and speeds up, leaving the other man to catch up to him and bump their shoulders together. Ghost gets like that sometimes, flirty and smooth, but fond and exasperated at the same time, and he sounds like he’s joking but he’s not, and it’s driving Soap insane.

He never knew what to do when his crushes liked him back, rare as it was. And this is Ghost, the legend himself. This is Simon Riley, the man teaching him how to be John again, saying his name like it’s an endearment, calmly leading him through the civilian world that used to be so scary.

There’s so much at stake, and Soap almost wishes Ghost was joking. It’s scary to think he’s not.

It’s even scarier to see the fond look in Ghost’s eyes as Soap runs around the aquarium, tugging the other man with him, reading all the information out loud, almost jumping in place when they get to the sharks. Ghost doesn’t seem embarrassed at all, even when kids point at them and older ladies whisper while looking at them. If anything, the blonde meets those gazes head-on, raising an eyebrow and leaving Soap feeling a bit hot under the collar.

Through those outings, sometimes to the park, sometimes to the library, Soap slowly lets go of the rigidness and apathy he didn’t even realise was haunting his every step. They got pushed to the side when he was in the field, but only when letting go does he realise just how bad it got.

It even spread to his hobbies, things he’s loved his whole life.

He stares at the floral arrangement in the middle of the room, his canvas empty in front of him, and then glances at Ghost.

“You’ve always liked drawing,” the man says simply. “Have you tried painting?”

Soap has, a few times in his life, but he can’t exactly carry paints to the field with him, so all of his drawings are made in charcoal or just pen, whatever he can find. Here, he has an arrangement of mediums to choose from, and he wants to use them all. The piece of him that always liked to create, the one that rests just next to the demolitions expert in him, lights up, and Soap doesn’t need any more encouragement.

He doesn’t look at Ghost’s canvas much, aware the man isn’t very artistically inclined and loses himself in creation. Ghost brought them here purely because Soap likes drawing, and he wants to make use of it.

There are no limits in art, he can do whatever he wants, mix mediums and use watercolours next to ink, add some pencils and dry pastels. Soap can let loose, giggling and listening to music, hand brushing against Ghost’s shoulder whenever he goes to grab something. He’s surrounded by other people who are here to create just like him, and there’s no grief in his work at last. 

It’s just joy.

By the time he’s finished, Soap’s exhausted in the best way. His art may not be traditional, but when Ghost comes to stand next to him, he leans against his shoulder and sighs.

“It’s gorgeous, Johnny,” Ghost whispers. “You should do it more often.”

Soap smiles, feeling free for once. “I think I will,” he decides. “I forgot how fun it can be.”

Ghost brings the canvas home with them, and props it against a side table in the living room, a bit of a focal point of the room. Soap flushes.

“It’s not that good,” he murmurs, staring at the floor. “C’mon.”

“I don’t care,” Ghost says. “I think it’s fucking amazing, and you made it, so you deserve to stare at it every day. Exposure therapy.”

Soap bursts out laughing and the tension dissipates a bit, but the thought behind it remains. Every time they have a meal together or even go to the bathroom, the painting is there, proudly displayed. Soap never realised how much he wanted his art to be admired like that, but it’s a wonderful feeling. He’s being seen, and it’s mortifying, but he trusts Ghost unquestionably. 

It’s hard to ignore what Ghost is doing, helping him every day, sharing what he probably learnt during therapy without forcing Soap to attend, but it’s working. Soap finds himself enjoying it - he’s slowly learning who he is outside of the military, and he likes the guy, damaged as he is.

That’s why, when he sees a poster on a bulletin board in a park one day, he jumps on the idea. It’s a simple thing - the Senior Center is doing a bake sale, and Soap has never baked anything in his life but it’s pure chemistry and he’s good at that. He thinks about all the wonderful older people in his life recently, about the scarves he got gifted, the pies and the food, the care, and he wants to give back.

He goes and buys ingredients on a whim, a few recipes open on his phone.

“We’re going to bake some cakes, Lt,” Soap announces the moment the door closes behind him. “Get ready.”

The other man raises his head from his Kindle, Kazka spread on his lap like the pest she is. Soap is momentarily jealous, before he focuses back on the task at hand. He raises the grocery bag filled with ingredients and gives his Lieutenant his best smile.

“We are going to bake some cakes, Johnny?”

“Yep! Unless you want me to do it all by myself…”

Just as he predicted, the threat of unsupervised Soap in the kitchen is enough to make Ghost groan and get up, Kazka climbing to his shoulder in a smooth move. The blonde gives him a deadpan look, but follows Soap to the kitchen to watch him take everything out. Soap knows he went all out, but he has 3 different recipes he really wants to try, and one special that’s just for Ghost. 

No one can say he’s not a huge sap.

“I saw a poster for some senior bake sale, and thought - how hard can it be? Made an explosive out of some forgotten crap in Bolivia, didn’t I?” Soap explains.

Ghost blinks at him slowly. “You want to bake some cakes for seniors,” he repeats slowly, and Soap ducks his head with a blush, but the other man isn’t mocking. If anything, he seems proud. “Do you have anything special in mind?”

“Yep! Ah did my research, I’ll have ya know, look!” Soap thrusts the phone at Ghost’s face, while he takes a look at the ingredients. “Do you have all the pans and shit? What do we even need?”

The other man groans but takes the phone out of his hand, humming. “You’re going to need and ask Mr Bennard for his biggest square cake tin,” Ghost muses. “And his mixing bowls while you’re at it. Flat 76, 4th floor. Chop chop.”

Soap stares at him in shock. “I have to go and ask?”

Ghost just raises an eyebrow. “It’s your idea, Johnny. I’ll help, but you’re going to do the work.”

He wants to fight back and demand that Ghost goes, but- Isn’t this what this whole thing is about? Soap isn’t as naive as to think that Ghost is doing all of this because he likes Soap, he’s just concerned and wants to share the lessons he’s learned, until Soap is a more adjusted human being. It’s okay, and going out to ask their neighbour (Ghost’s, Ghost’s neighbour, Soap doesn’t actually live here) for some baking equipment seems like the right step.

“Okay.” He steels himself and walks back towards the door. Ghost squeezes his shoulder lightly and pushes him. “I’m goin’.”

“Good luck. Don’t get lost.”

Soap throws Ghost a finger for good measure as the doors close behind him, and he makes his way down the stairs, heart hammering. It’s ridiculous - he’s done so many terrible things, risked his life more times than he can count, fearlessly walked into traps, but it’s the prospect of walking to a nice old man that has him terrified.

When he knocks, his palms are sweaty and he’s dizzy, but Soap knows he can be charming so he leans on that. He realises with some shock that it’s not entirely just a facade.

“Ah! You’re the lad that’s with Simon now, aren’t ya? How can I help?” 

Mr Bennard is a warm man with kind grey eyes and lanky arms, always wearing an old Hawaiian print shirt. It’s ridiculous and Soap never met his grandparents, but he imagines it’s a bit like this. He doesn’t hate it.

“Uh, I, uh we wanna bake some sh- uh, some cakes, and Gh- Simon says we don’t have a big square pan and enough mixing bowls,” Soap manages to stutter out, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can we borrow yers?”

The older man’s face crinkles when he smiles, and he opens the door even wider. “Yes, of course! I’ll bake some cookies, my oven’s been having some issues, you know, so I don’t trust it, but you can have everything! Here, my granddaughter brought me some of that fancy vanilla bean paste, and I’ll never use it before I die, so may as well share it.”

Soap fumbles with all the things that are suddenly thrust in his direction, a natural smile breaking out on his face. Mr Bennard is more lowkey than some of the old ladies in the block, but no less warm, and he puts Soap at ease. He thanks the man profusely, promises to drop by for an afternoon tea (fucking Brits), and waddles back up the stairs, feeling at least 3 sizes bigger.

Ghost’s eyes are warm when he returns, the owen already preheating, Kazka back on his shoulders. Soap smiles at him and proudly presents his spoils of war.

“Let’s get to it, then,” Ghost orders.

Soap’s never baked anything in his life ever, and Ghost, by his own admission, is no baker, but they make do. It’s messy, before they get the hang of it, and it’s only Ghost’s general experience in the kitchen that keeps them from disaster, but they quickly fall into a rhythm together.

He leans his hip against a counter, watching Ghost wash the dishes in between mixing, and feels content. They work well together, everything slotting into place just like it did out in the field - Lieutenant and Sergeant, Ghost and Soap, and finally here, Simon and John.

It’s a good feeling.

The baking takes so long, Ghost decides to order Indian food for them, and Soap moans in appreciation.

“Not as good as in Bangalore that one time, but fuck,” he comments. 

“England is famous for its chicken tikka masala, isn’t it?” Ghost teases, and Soap rolls his eyes.

“Wanker.”

“You knew that already.”

Truth be told, this exactly is one of the reasons Soap is so gone on this man - the easy companionship, the teasing and jokes, and the complete assurance that Soap is safe here. He can let go and be unsure, and Ghost is always here to lead him, encouraging him in that weird way of his.

Somewhere along the way, the commanding officer became his friend, the one Soap turns to when he doesn’t know what to do, and all in all, he shouldn’t be surprised that extends to civilian life.

“The oven’s too small,” Soap says sometime later as they stand and watch the cakes bake. There are 3 more pans waiting to be put in, but there’s just not enough space.

“Didn’t expect to be baking for sales,” Ghost replies dryly. “They should be fine to wait.”

“Well, cannae be worse than whatever I’d make on my own,” Soap decides. 

“You did good, Johnny,” the other man says warmly, gently squeezing Soap’s shoulder. He pretends he doesn’t absolutely melt into the touch. “It’ll be appreciated.”

He ducks his head and smiles. Soap’s no stranger to doing good - he’s a damn good soldier, one of the best, quickly climbing through ranks. He’s a demolitions expert, a sniper, and he keeps up with the Ghost. But there’s something different about being praised in this setting. All Soap did was try to bake some cakes, but it feels monumental.

Is this what it means to feel human?

He puts the thought away for the moment, and thinks about the little note hidden in his night stand, with a name and a number. It’s not the right moment yet, but it’s closer. Always closer than before.

The cakes turn out good. Maybe not great, but they’re pretty tasty and don’t look too shabby either, and Soap’s face is permanently red during the bake sale, as everyone keeps praising him. A good part of their neighbours come to taste too, and it’s overall a wonderful, if a bit overstimulating experience.

Ghost lurks in the background and steps in when Soap starts getting overwhelmed, and they sneak away to the community centre’s garden for a while, to just breathe. They sit pressed together and Soap lays his head on the other man’s shoulder, smiling when Ghost wraps his arm around him, tugging him closer.

“I dinnae think I can do it all the time,” Soap muses. “But it’s fuckin’ nice.”

Ghost chuckles. “It is. Besides, we’ll be back on duty in 2 weeks, so it’s not forever.”

Soap waits for the excitement and impatience to settle in, as it always does when he thinks about returning from leave, and it’s there but it’s not so overwhelming this time. He likes his job, fucking loves it really, and he can’t wait to be back, but he’s also enjoying himself here, in this little bubble they made for themselves.

“You’ve been going to the shooting range more recently,” Soap notices. “Getting restless?”

“Nah. Can’t get rusty,” Ghost replies easily.

He can’t help but snort. “I don’t think you’re even capable of getting rusty.”

“Everyone can get rusty. Even you. That’s why you’re coming with me next time,” Ghost informs him.

Soap just smiles widely. “Cannae wait.”

They clean up their stand at the bake sale, shake some hands, share a few beers with everyone else, and when Soap goes to bed that night, he feels fulfilled. It’s such a small thing, but there’s a sense of accomplishment; warmth that burst in his stomach every time someone smiled at him or gave a word of praise. It’s nice to create sometimes, for all that he loves his explosions.

There’s still something strange about seeing Ghost in a loose t-shirt with cats on it and old cargo pants, shooting a gun with the same cold precision he shows at work. It’s as if two different images are finally overlapping and creating one person - well-rounded and complicated, mixing his cosy civilian life with the lethal brutality of his military service.

Soap wants that for himself too, and it’s not so unattainable anymore.

They compete playfully, and Soap takes his loss with grace, more than used to it. The usual fire and excitement bursts to life under his skin when he feels a gun in his hand, but it doesn’t take over or make him yearn to be back in the field. He’s slowly getting restless in London, but he still enjoys the cafe they visit when they’re done shooting, the sun warming their skin.

It’s a very careful balance, but one that Ghost seems to walk seamlessly. Soap isn’t as naive as to think achieving it was easy, but he’s determined.

And if there’s one thing Soap can be called, it’s stubborn.

Chapter Text

Soap’s whole body is aching when they stumble into the flat, but he’s relieved once the door closes behind them, and he can drop down onto the couch with a groan, stretching his bad leg in front of him.

“Shower and change first,” Ghost snaps at him, tired and grumpy, looking wonderfully ruffled. Soap wants to pet his hair.

He might be a bit sleep-deprived.

“Too tired,” he complains. “Carry me.”

He makes grabby hands at the other man, comfortable with a familiar exchange, and Ghost looks like he’s considering it for a second, but then his body seems to catch up with him and he just gives Soap the finger.

“Rot here all you want, I’m showering. Order food.”

Soap just whines and closes his eyes as Ghost leaves the room after ruffling his hair. He lets the sounds of the other man moving around put him at ease, and the only thing missing is Kazka jumping onto his lap. Unfortunately, however, it’s nearing 2 am and the cat is still with Miss Norris from the 2nd floor, who was kind enough to take care of her while Ghost was gone.

He’s still a bit shocked how seamlessly he found his way back to Ghost’s flat, which is starting to feel like their flat - and that’s a dangerous thought, because they’re not even together. They’re something for sure, little touches and comfort, sparring together, always glued at the hip. The last few months were strange, but a good strange.

A bit as if they were heading towards something.

The sound of the shower turning on pulls Soap out of his head and he finally fishes out his phone, deciding to look for something to eat. They’re both starved, flying to London straight from southern Chile, jetlagged and cranky, and Soap’s mouth waters at all the options. The beauty of London is its restaurants and pubs, many of them open well into the night, and he gleefully orders a huge spread of Mexican food.

He’s feeling spicy.

“Food’ll be there in 30,” he reports to Ghost, doing his best not to let his eyes wander over the miles of bared skin.

Ghost’s shirtless, clad only in old sweatpants that slide down his hipbones, drawing his gaze. Soap knows the other man is attractive, but he’s somehow approachable like that, soft and tired, even with a knife in his hand - he’s never unarmed.

“Your turn. Get off the fucking couch, Johnny, you’ll stink up the place. Go.”

Soap groans and complains but drags himself into the shower, only grabbing a change of clothes from the spare room that may as well be his at this point. The water feels heavenly, hot and just the right pressure, which is a nice change after the experiences in the field. Safe to say the base wasn’t really up to normal standards, and Soap almost cries when he uses his strawberry shower gel.

He exits feeling a bit more human, smelling like a dessert, and ready to eat his weight in food and then crash for at least 20 hours.

That’s exactly what they end up doing as soon as the food gets there. Soap almost falls asleep eating, but his body demands food, so they finish quickly and leave everything to be dealt with in the morning. He throws the other man a sleepy smile and crashes as soon as his head hits the pillow. He doesn't even care that it smells musty.

Waking up is a pleasant experience, strangely reminiscent of the first time Soap woke up in Ghost’s flat, and that makes him smile. He stretches and decides he's well rested, so he gets up right away. Dust floats in the air, made visible by the sunlight getting in, and the whole flat is somewhat covered in it, though still liveable. Soap knows Ghost always makes arrangements for someone to come in once a month and clean the place.

He quickly gets out of the room, smiling when he hears the silence - Ghost is still asleep, and that’s a rare treat. Soap makes his way into the kitchen, briefing glancing at the pile of their clothes and bags still thrown all over the living room. He puts on some coffee and quietly gets to putting things away, gathering all of Ghost’s clothes in one pile.

The coffee is strong and sweet, with a dash of Soap’s little indulgence - toffee syrup. He sips the coffee while staring outside, enjoying the early spring weather. It’s almost 1 pm, and his body still aches, but that’s just old bruises and bad sleep. He feels rested.

Deeming it safe, since Ghost is still asleep, Soap sneaks out of the flat and walks down to the 2nd floor, knocking on the door with a smile.

“Mr MacTavish! When did you get back?” Miss Norris greets him once the door opens. She’s wearing a yellow sundress and Kazka is peeking out from behind her legs, meowing incessantly. “She’s missed you.”

Soap rolls his eyes but obediently crouches to pet the needy creature, sighing when his fingers sink into the soft fur. The ice between him and Kazka broke 3 days before they were due to leave last time, so he carefully picks her up and cradles her to his chest, scratching behind her ear. She melts against him, almost cuddling close, and he can’t stop smiling,

Miss Norris is beaming at them, opening the door wider. “I have all her things in one place, I was expecting you guys back soon,” she says. “She’s a sweetheart.”

“She’s a menace, just like her owner,” Soap insists, but he knows his voice is dripping with fondness. “Did she shit on yer carpet?”

The woman laughs, but shakes her head. “She’s been a perfect angel. Moped around for a few weeks after you left, but perked up eventually. She likes being close to people.”

“Gh- Simon trained her to stay on his shoulder when he cooks,” Soap explains, only stumbling over Ghost’s name a little. The other man is more ‘Simon’ than ‘Ghost’ recently, at least in his head. “She likes to feel tall.”

“Can’t blame her, really, with those shoulders…” Miss Norris drawls, a sparkle in her eye. 

Soap bursts out laughing. “Oh ye, certainly. Shoulders for days.”

“You’d know everything about it, hmm?” she teases, and Soap chokes on his next breath. Miss Norris shakes her head. “Oh, I don’t blame you at all, I’m not a prude.” Then, as if she didn’t just shake Soap’s entire world, she gestures towards a neatly packed bag. “Those are her things, all clean and taken care of.”

“Thank you so much,” he says sincerely. “Did Simon settle the payment?”

“Oh yes, don’t worry about it,” Miss Norris assures. “But you can always bake me something as thanks anyway.”

“Will do!” Soap agrees with a smile, before walking back to their flat. 

It’s still silent, but Soap’s not surprised - Ghost was up for over 40 hours non-stop, finishing the mission and then going over a debrief, filling out some paperwork while they were on a plane. Soap puts Kazka down and fills her bowls, before settling to make breakfast. He’s still not a great cook by any means, but he’s much better, and he can make mean scrambled eggs with toast. He puts on some music, swaying his hips to the beat, and almost jumps out of his skin at a careful touch to his back.

Soap whirls around, reaching for his gun immediately, only to be faced with an amused Simon Riley in all his sleepy glory. 

“Away an bile yer heid!” he hisses, glaring at the other man.

Ghost just smirks. “You make a pretty housewife, Johnny,” he murmurs, voice still hoarse from sleep. Soap shivers and hopes it’s not noticeable. By Ghost’s smirk, he judges it is. “You got the princess back.”

“She missed you,” he says simply. 

Kazka chooses that moment to prove his words true, by swiftly climbing up Ghost’s pants and demanding to be held, rubbing her head against his chest and purring a storm. The blonde smiles and cuddles her close, pressing their foreheads together for a moment, and Soap watches them exist together, reuniting. It’s magical, the bond they share, even with all the time apart.

“Was she good?”

“An angel. I promised Miss Norris a cake for her troubles, so we need to do some shopping,” Soap informs Ghost. “After breakfast though. And maybe a bit of cleanup. The flat’s a mess.”

Ghost throws him a warm look and gets around making his morning tea. Soap goes back to making breakfast, chest feeling full and warm. Not that long ago he was a shell of a human in the civilian world, but here he is, worrying about the state of their flat.

Dr Kinard will be so proud of him, next time they talk.

It’s yet another thing Soap didn’t expect - appreciating therapy as much as he does. He can’t say he enjoys it, but he doesn’t think therapy is really meant to be enjoyed. But it’s helping, and with how flexible Dr Kinard is about online sessions, Soap was able to get a headstart during their deployment. It’s going slow,  but it’s going, and from what he knows now, that’s all that matters.

Ghost is proud of him.

They eat breakfast by the kitchen island, legs pressed together, Kazka meowing at them from the floor, and Soap feels himself unwind slowly. It’s definitely not instant, but he can see that Ghost is also still wired, tense and armed even eating breakfast, eyes darting around. They’re safe here, but it’ll take some time for their brains to catch up.

“Any plans for those next two weeks, Johnny? You’re in charge this time,” Ghost says with a small smile.

“Well, I know that our favourite old lesbians will demand our asses on their couch soon,” Soap muses. “But I’ve been thinkin’ about taking it slow. Definitely have to play with the kids soon, they’re probably climbing the walls already.”

“Hmm… I’ve been thinking about setting up some people to take over when we’re gone. What do you think?”

“Fucking brilliant,” Soap replies. “Not a lot to choose from, but there are some promising recruits.”

He’s still not an expert at being a civilian, but Soap knows how to judge a person, how to choose the right one for a given task. He didn’t spend that much time with their neighbours and people around them, but enough to get a feeling for some of them, and that’s more than enough. 

He’s good at his job.

“Tomorrow maybe,” Ghost decides. “Need to decompress.”

“I have some TV shows we need to watch,” Soap informs the other man. “Aila kept sending me shit the whole time we’ve been away, and we only got through a part of them.”

Ghost’s smile lights up the room and his eyes soften. “How it’s been going with her?”

Soap shrugs. “Cannae complain,” he answers after a while. “She doesn’t really understand, but she’s tryin’. I’m tryin’ too.”

“I’m sure your nephews are delighted to know that,” Ghost comments.

This time, he can’t help but smile brightly. Soap’s never been that close to his family after coming out and then going away to join the military, but over the last few months, he’s been working to slowly repair his relationship with his sister and her family. Their parents are another can of worms he’s not ready to open yet, but they’ve been exchanging letters. It gives him just enough emotional distance to be able to handle it somewhat regularly.

“I promised to visit them,” Soap admits. “Dunno when yet.”

Ghost shrugs. “We’ll make time,” he promises. “I have some things to handle anyway, can I trust you to be left alone for a few hours?”

And Soap just doesn’t understand. “That means you don’t wanna meet mah family?”

The other man freezes, eyes growing wide. It’s hard to catch Ghost off guard, be it on the field or in private, but here Soap is, succeeding without even trying this time.

“You want me there?” Soap’s heart breaks at how soft Ghost says that, 

“What kinda fuckin’ question-” Soap interrupts himself and takes a few deep breaths - yet another thing his therapist has been introducing to him. Think before he speaks. “Of course,” he says eventually, internationally soft. “You’re- Ye changed my life, Simon.” He can see the way the use of his first name shakes the other man, makes him perk up. “‘sides, my nephews really want to meet the legendary ‘Ghost’. And mah sister really wants to meet the Simon who’s making my life better.”

The other man doesn’t seem to know how to reply, and they sit in silence for a while, Soap’s words hanging between them. It’s not bad, just heavy and strange, and his heart breaks when he realises this is probably the first time since Simon’s family died that he can actually feel like he belongs like that.

Because, his issues with his sister notwithstanding, Soap is 100% sure they’ll all welcome Simon like he’s one of them. And he is, maybe even more than they realise.

The love and devotion he felt for the mysterious, secretly warm Lieutenant changed into something real, something alive; built on soft moments in the flat and blood spilt in the field, deranged smirks shared as easily as coffee on Sunday mornings. 

He’s well and truly gone on the other man, and the longer it goes on, the surer Soap becomes it’s not one-sided. It’s probably the scariest thing in this whole situation.

“Tell me when and where, then,” Simon says eventually, something achingly soft in his eyes. “I’ll be there.”

“Never doubted ya.”

It’s probably the truest thing he’s ever said.

They put the conversation behind them, but it lingers still, even as they do their shopping and clean the flat. Those mundane tasks make Soap feel even more like he belongs, chasing Kazka away with a broom and laughing as Ghost dusks the top of the shelves Soap can’t reach. It’s domestic and it’s theirs, stacks of weapons carefully hidden away all around the apartment.

“Y’know, in the beginning, ah thought ya went full pacifist here,” Soap comments as they’re cleaning out one of the hiding places. “And then ah stumbled upon yer automatic weapons stash and it all went to hell.”

Ghost laughs. “I’m functional, not suicidal, Johnny. I’m never more than half a meter away from a gun in this flat. You should know where to find one anyway.”

That’s why they spend the rest of the evening by going over every single hiding place and stash, cleaning knives and checking guns, ensuring the grenades are all properly secured. Soap’s surprised to even find a few homemade bombs properly stored away below the floorboards in the guest bathroom.

“I learned from the best,” is all Ghost says, and Soap glows with pride for the rest of the day. He’s the one who taught Ghost how to properly make bombs on the fly.

He’s not in any hurry to meet up with his family, and they take their time setting everything up. Eventually, they decide that a meeting in a park in central London is the best option - it’s a neutral ground, and with the public setting, they’re less likely to shout at each other.

His sister is very similar to Soap, even though she’s a civilian.

They settle into a rhythm easily, and everything’s smooth sailing, and that’s exactly why Soap’s shocked when the nightmare happens. As far as nightmares go, this one isn’t the most terrible he’s experienced, but he still wakes up with a shout, automatically reaching for a weapon.

Before Soap can grab it, however, his arms are gripped tight and held down, and he trashes in place, fighting for his life.

“Johnny! Stand down.”

It’s a clear order, one spoken not much louder than a normal sentence, but it’s like a bucket of cold water dumped on his head. Soap freezes in place, heart hammering, and then his eyes adjust and it’s just a worried, dark brown gaze meeting his, familiar mussed curls almost silver in the moonlight.

“Simon,” he gasps.

Ghost’s gathering him into a hug before Soap can do much else, and he sinks into it without a thought, immediately trusting the older man to be safe. This is his Lieutenant, the same one who always has his back, pulls him out of trouble. This is Simon, who’s quickly becoming his partner in life, who taught John how to live as himself, as more than Soap.

He buries his face in Ghost’s neck and takes in raggedy breaths, the nightmare dancing on the edges of his vision. Soap clenches his eye shut and almost climbs into Ghost’s lap, breathing in his scent - minty shower gel and lavender of his laundry detergent, soft and worn, and familiar, with an echo of gunpowder.

He’s safe.

It’s as if his whole body decided to give out, and Soap drops into Ghost’s hold with ease, breathing deeply, clutching his shoulders. Ghost has him cradled close, arms around Soap’s waist and back, pressing him against Ghosy’s chest, the blonde’s face buried in his sweaty hair.

“There we go, good lad,” Ghost whispers, his voice rumbling in his chest. “You’re okay.”

Soap swallows and nods, and one by one, the whispers of the nightmare go away, until he can’t remember what he dreamed about, what made him panic and reach for the gun. Whatever it was, it wasn’t real. This is real - Simon, solid and strong in his arms, the bed soft underneath them, Kazka worriedly brushing against Soap’s bare thigh.

He’s not alone.

“What the fuck,” he says weakly but with feeling, somewhat hysterical.

Ghost just hums. “That’s called PTSD, Johnny,” he says dryly. “Happens to the best of us.”

“Even you?” Soap can’t help but ask.

The other man laughs bitterly. “I used to wreck my room for years after Roba,” he admits, and there's weight in his words but it doesn’t seem forced. “One time Price tried to wake me up and I stabbed him 3 times and broke his arm before he managed to get me back. I get it.”

Sometimes Soap forgets that Ghost and Price knew each other for years before the 141 task force was established. He never forgets what Ghost went through, but realising that he wasn’t completely alone brings him comfort. Price may be awkward and a bit stiff sometimes, but he worries and cares, and everyone knows he has a soft spot for Ghost. 

“‘m glad you’re better,” Soap murmurs into Ghost’s neck.

“You’ll get better too.” It sounds like a promise. John finds himself believing it, because he always trusts his Lieutenant. “C’mon, you’re sleeping with me.”

And just like that, with no preparation whatsoever, Ghost hoists him up effortlessly, Soap’s legs wrapping around his waist as he carries him out of the room. He makes a small squeak, but wraps himself around the other man and holds on, feeling safe and a bit silly. There aren't many people capable of carrying him with such ease.

Soap doesn’t want to be carried like that by anyone else but Ghost.

He’s never really been in Ghost’s bedroom, but it feels familiar and welcoming right away. The walls are a soft grey, with a burnt orange, fluffy rug on the floor, and his sheets are back, but there’s a huge knitted blanket by the end of the bed. It’s cosy and nice, and he clings tighter to Ghost when the man lowers them onto the bed, not letting Soap go.

“It’s okay,” Simon rumbles, covering them tightly. “Just relax.”

Soap lets his legs unwrap, but stays glued to Ghost’s chest, and the other man doesn’t seem too keen on letting him go either. He keeps his arms around him, face pressed against Soap’s hair, and he sinks into the embrace, finally feeling safe. A small weight lands on his back, and he smiles when he realises it’s Kazka, curling up by Soap’s spine.

They’re surrounded by darkness, his senses filled with Simon, and everything else falls away. All of Soap’s fears and hang-ups feel insignificant suddenly.

He feels brave.

“Simon?”

“Johnny.”

The familiar call and response makes him smile. 

“I love you.”

The words are light, like droplets of morning dew on grass, and Soap’s heart is hammering, but he’s safe.

Ghost just tightens his hold on him. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He smiles. “I’m here. Sorry, it took so long.”

“Never apologise,” Simon whispers, lips brushing against Soap’s temple. “We’re right where we need to be.”

Soap falls asleep with a smile on his face, safe from all nightmares waiting to haunt his dreams. He’s in the arms of the man he loves. Of the man who loves him back.

He’s okay.