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“The new bunch are fucking hopeless,” Gaz complains, leaning back in his chair with a resigned sigh. Soap’s mimicking his position, wisely nodding along at his grievances. “Had them running the course, they’re good at that, good times, but it goes to their heads and, fuck, I don’t need their egos.”
“Aye. I usually take them sparring,” Soap says. He stretches his legs out onto the chair beside him, lounging back despite the plastic chair squeaking threateningly. “Easy excuse to just,” he punches his fist into the palm of his other hand, “y’know?”
Gaz nods and hums. “Can’t go too tough on them, though. Don’t wanna kill ‘em.”
He grins at Soap and Soap grins right back. He is vaguely aware that he and Gaz have as much of an ego, but, in his experienced opinion, theirs is deserved.
“You ever wanna live your frustrations out,” Soap offers, “fight me.”
“Thought I wasn’t supposed to kill anyone.” Gaz quirks a brow, grin lingering. Soap scoffs.
“As if you could even beat me.”
“You think I can’t?”
“Only in your dreams, mate.”
Gaz shakes his head, crosses his arms and meets him with a doubtful look, all the exhaustion regarding the rookies replaced by the buzz of the never-ending challenge and competition between them.
“Come off it. You’re delusional if you actually think that–”
“Johnny.”
Gaz’s argument halts mid-speech as he looks over Soap’s shoulder.
Soap doesn’t need to turn his head to know Ghost is there, purposely making himself be heard as he steps closer to their table. He does so anyway, greets Ghost’s dark figure with a bright grin before his gaze lands to the folders he’s holding.
“New mission, Lt?”
“No,” Ghost says and hands him the topmost file. Looks just the same as any other folder he’s holding, any other binder mission briefs have come in, but Ghost doesn’t elaborate, just turns on his heels and walks out just as suddenly as he’d come.
Soap meets Gaz’s quirked brow, shrugs in response. Flips open the folder to scan the documents inside, reads the first heading.
Certified Copy of an Entry of–
Soap slams the folder shut.
Gaz’s easy smile falls as he meets Soap’s wide-eyed stare.
“What?” he asks, leans forward and over the table as if to look at the paper himself.
The chair falls over with the force that Soap jumps up with. He clutches the folder to his chest, trips over the plastic legs of the chair as he books it out of the room. Ignores Gaz calling after him.
“Ghost!” Soap shouts as he rounds the doorjamb and barrels into the corridor. It’s fucking empty. He has no idea which way he went. Where the fuck he’s supposed to be. He starts down the hallway anyway. Comes to a stop at the next crossroad.
“Simon!”
No fucking answer, because the hallways are, coincidentally, completely fucking empty.
And Soap is left alone in the middle of it, clutching the folder tightly in his hand.
He opens it again, out of frustration and exasperation, brows furrowed in befuddlement as he reads over the document again in a daze.
His head is static. So many questions swirling around in there, on the tip of his tongue, yet he doesn’t know which one to focus on first. How? Why? What the fuck, overall?
Despite the way he’s holding his breath and crumpling the edges of the paper, he can’t stop reading it.
Certified Copy of an Entry of Marriage
***
Soap uses every remaining minute of free time searching for Ghost. Checks every shadowed corner he usually lurks at, circles the barracks and armoury and firing range, takes his batch of rookies to an unexpected gym session just to try to catch the man there.
But Ghost isn’t anywhere. The one time that Ghost lives up to his namesake to such a degree that even Soap can’t fucking find him.
He’s been carrying the fucking folder with him too. It’s raising questions. He has to brush Gaz aside when he tries to ask about it, notices the privates’ raised brows when he doesn’t put it down when doling out instructions.
He doesn’t want to put it down. Because it feels like a fever dream, knowing the words written on that piece of paper in his hand, and his heart is still not beating correctly.
John MacTavish
Simon Riley
Two names written next to each other in simple sans-serif. A sight he hasn’t even dreamt of.
He’s at Price’s office by the evening. Ghost hasn’t been at any of his usual haunts, so he’s resolved to go a step higher in the chain of command.
Price calls him in after he’s hyped himself up behind the door for a solid five minutes, folder still clutched in his hand. The scent of cigar smoke and wood is comforting.
Not comforting enough, since Price puts his pen down at the sight of Soap.
“What can I help you with?” he asks, the usual question. His eyes dip to the folder Soap’s holding. Soap adjusts his stance, clasping his hands behind his back and partly hiding the folder too.
“Just wonderin’ whether you’ve seen Ghost,” Soap asks. “Tried lookin’ for him, cannae find him anywhere.”
Price’s gaze lingers on him, which means he isn’t doing too good of a job of hiding the mess of emotions swirling in him. But he doesn’t comment.
“Ghost was deployed. Solo mission.”
Well. That explains a lot. Doesn’t answer any of his fucking questions, though.
Price studies his expression for a moment longer, seems to take pity on him, since he adds, “He’ll be gone for only three days, if everything goes to plan.”
“Three days,” Soap echoes. Not long at all, except any time is too long right now. Soap has never been good at waiting. “Alright.”
“What’s so important, that it can’t wait?” Price asks, raises a curious brow at Soap. His eyes flick down to the folder he’s trying to hide again.
Soap opens his mouth to answer, but for once in his life finds the filter between brain and mouth. Hesitates.
If Price is asking, that means he doesn’t know about the recent marriage in his ranks. And considering that Soap just found out himself, he’s thinking that maybe he should hold off telling Price. Really needs to have that conversation with Ghost first.
“Nothin’, captain.” Soap throws him his usual smile. “Thanks for the help.”
He takes his leave and is once again left in the empty hallway with this damned folder, containing the fucking marriage certificate.
He isn’t actually against the premise. Might like it, now that the shock is slowly wearing off. It just feels so…
They have a thing going on, him and Ghost. Flirting over comms, making out and frotting after missions to burn off the leftover adrenaline, which turned into handjobs turned into blowjobs turned into being fucked hard against the nearest wall.
Yeah, Soap kind of has a massive crush on him, hard not to, with Ghost being all that. But he thought those were just physical, moments born of adrenaline and tight spaces, just mutual pleasure with no strings attached. Soap’s fine with that. Always has been. Accepted it since the beginning.
But now he’s here with a fucking marriage certificate in his hand that has his name on it.
***
They’re in the middle of a frozen taiga, trekking through the forest in a line like wolves. Soap has pine needles down his shirt and in his boots, poking at his toes. He’s been staring at Ghost’s back for the past five kilometres.
There hasn’t been a chance to talk about it. Ghost came back from his mission and then they’d all been deployed to clear this frozen forest of hostiles. Several hours of silence on infil and recon, not a moment of it alone. And Soap isn’t about to bring it up with both Gaz and Price listening in. It would also be nice to be able to look Ghost in the face.
He’s still burning holes into his back as they make it to the safehouse. Soap turns his attention to the cabin and notes that its big enough to have multiple rooms before returning his stare straight back to Ghost.
“We’ll wait for exfil here,” Price announces, already fiddling with the radio as they all gather inside, and Soap cannot hold his tongue any longer.
“Simon!” Soap barks and all three of his teammates halt their movements. “I need to talk to you.”
He jerks his chin at the next room and walks in without wasting a second, trusting Ghost to follow. He notices the creases around Ghost’s eyes, the frown at his real name. Gaz and Price are giving him weird looks too, but Soap thinks he’s allowed, as his husband and all.
Soap pulls the door shut behind Ghost with a slam. The window lets in a stream of hazy light, enough for Soap to read his expression from his eyes. A confused frown, but not defensive, since he sets his rifle down by the door.
“What is it?” he asks, all innocent and clueless, as if he hasn’t done a fucking thing.
“What is it?” Soap repeats, flat. “The fucking marriage. What the fuck.”
Ghost’s eyes crease further. “You said you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me,” he says. All casual and simple like he’s discussing the weather.
Soap did say it. He remembers the moment pretty well, had muttered it into Ghost’s neck in the heat of the moment, coming down from the high of an orgasm after a rough mission and a rougher fuck.
It isn’t that he hadn’t meant it. He just never thought it would have consequences. He thought Ghost hadn’t even fucking heard it.
“Yeah, okay.” Soap squints at him, trying to make sense of the situation. “And that results in marriage?”
“I want it too,” Ghost says, as if that answers all the questions.
Soap stares up at him, mouth open but no words coming out. He’s thrown off by how forward Ghost is about this. How he just admitted that he wants Soap in his life, for the rest of his life. Like it’s such a simple fucking thing and not something Soap hasn’t even dared dream about.
His whole world is tilting on its axis. Fuck the butterflies, there’s a whole zoo in his stomach right now.
Ghost tilts his head, eyes softening as he takes in Soap’s stunned face. “…Did you not want it?”
Soap can’t help the laugh he lets out. Can’t help the sudden smile that sticks to his face either. Ghost is so fucking ridiculous and unbelievable and, apparently, his husband.
“No, it’s fine. I do want it.” He shakes his head, laughs again. “But, fuck, Simon, take a man out to dinner first.”
***
Soap sits opposite Ghost behind the round table. It’s covered by a heavy white cloth, shining silver cutlery and a single tall white candle.
“How did you even do it?” Soap asks. The steak is mouth-watering and tastes like fucking heaven after a week of MREs, so his attention on Ghost isn’t as heavy as he’d like it to be. Then again, it is a very nice first date.
“I have some contacts.” Ghost shrugs and doesn’t elaborate. The atmospheric mood lighting does wonders for his face – bare face – and Soap’s attention is pulled in even more directions when he follows Ghost’s tongue licking up the drop of red wine sticking to his lip.
Not really their thing, wine, but the restaurant is stupidly posh and a fucking sommelier had shown up and now they’re drinking some equally fancy Spanish dry red wine.
Ghost’s eyes flick up to his then. He sets down his cutlery as if to emphasise his point. “It’s legal. All of it.”
“I know. Was just curious,” Soap says, but lets the matter drop. It doesn’t really matter in the end, anyway. He looks down at the steak as he cuts it, uses the tilt of his head to glance at Ghost through his lashes and throw him a smirk. “Guess you do like me, though.”
Ghost scoffs, rolls his eyes, and Soap has the privilege of seeing the rest of his face go along with the motion. He takes another sip of wine, probably larger than proper, but Soap isn’t the one to correct him on that.
Then he turns back to his own dish, a blush high on his cheeks. It looks pretty under the soft, warm light. Then again, Soap thinks he always looks pretty. Skull mask and all.
“Want to spend the rest of your life with me, aye?” Soap needles a little further, since Ghost isn’t the one filling the silence, and god forbid if Soap’s gonna let it linger.
“Already told you that, didn’t I.” Ghost glares at him half-heartedly. As if he didn’t, in an odd, roundabout way, propose to Soap.
“Aye.” Soap settles his whole attention on Ghost now, likes to see the way that blush darkens under Soap’s eyes. “Wanna hear it one more time though.”
Ghost frowns at him. Takes his sweet time chewing. Soap’s grin doesn’t waver as he waits, watches Ghost wash that bite down with some more wine. Then Ghost sighs and his eyes soften.
“I wanna spend the rest of my life with you, Johnny,” he says, and Soap pretends his heart doesn’t skip a beat or three.
“Wasn’t that hard, was it?”
He earns another glare. Soap stretches his leg out and hooks his ankle around Ghost’s under the table. Ghost’s foot nudges into his to increase the contact.
“I want a wedding, too,” Soap announces.
Ghost frowns for real this time, genuine confusion drawing his brows together. “For what?”
“What do you mean for what?” Soap levels him with a look. “I want to be present at my own fucking wedding, that’s what.”
The waitress glances at him weirdly as she passes by, but Soap has bigger problems right now. Problems like Ghost apparently thinking that he was gonna get married without any ceremony.
***
Simon looks fucking beautiful, even though the fluorescents in the registration office are too bright and the cut on his lip from the last mission isn’t quite healed all the way and he’s rolling his shoulders for the millionth time to get the military dress blues to settle more comfortably over his frame.
Or maybe Soap’s just in love. That might be it.
The officiant is reading out some probably important text, but Johnny turns a deaf ear. He’ll never get tired of looking at this face.
The whole ceremony was hastily thrown together, but Johnny can’t hold back his grin. The rings are the simplest golden bands they could find, Simon had to turn his whole closet inside out to find the uniform he never wears, Johnny managed a miracle with how quickly he got a traditional Scottish outfit together. The first available timeslot had been two in the afternoon on a Wednesday.
“I can’t believe I’m here with you,” Simon says with equal exasperation and affection. Johnny jolts at his voice. Didn’t realise the officiant’s speech was over. Simon spins the golden ring between his fingers, dark eyes flicking between it and Johnny.
“Not good at words,” he continues, gives a shy smile that Johnny reciprocates tenfold, “but I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Want more of your Scottish gibberish and your bratty attitude. I love you, Johnny, even though you are a stupid fucking cunt sometimes.”
The officiant takes a sharp, shocked breath in. Johnny grins so wide his face hurts. Simon slides the ring onto his finger.
Johnny catches Simon’s gaze, smirks at him and Simon rolls his eyes pre-emptively.
“Guess ye do like me, mo gràidh,” Johnny says. Simon can’t fully suppress his smile.
“Loved ye since I first saw ye, Simon, spooky ghost that ye were,” he continues the rest of his vows – renewed vows, technically, even though they never did the first ones –, lays his accent on thick just to see Simon’s brows scrunch together as he tries to figure out the words. “Never gonna get tired o’ tellin’ ye that. Never gonna get tired o’ lookin’ at ye, pure deid bonnie lad that ye are. An’ yer a fuckin’ eejit if ye think ye can get rid o’ me now, leannan.”
He grins up at him as he slides the ring onto Simon’s finger to see the adorable furrow between his brows. Then steps closer until there’s scant space between them.
The officiant is saying something again, but Johnny’s attention is all on Simon, on his mouth as the corners of it quirk up and he murmurs, “What the fuck did you just say.”
On his lips as he kisses Johnny and says everything that words never can.
Gaz whoops loudly in the background. Price claps a little more politely.
When they separate again, Johnny sees them both beaming. On his other side, the officiant is looking a little thrown off by their rapturous audience of two.
Johnny looks back at Simon, meets the dark eyes already watching him. Their hands are intertwined and neither can stop smiling.
“Y’know,” Johnny murmurs, “we’re gonna havta get married for a third time too.”
Simon frowns. “Why?”
“My family wasn’t here.”
Simon squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head against Johnny’s with a groan.