Work Text:
Soap watched with aching, unsleeping eyes as the room heaved with the steady rise and fall of his sleeping lieutenant’s chest. His body screamed for sleep but his mind was too alight with whirling thoughts, playing the events of the evening over and over again like a new favorite song. Words set in the wax of his memory and Soap grieved that they would only ever fade. He fought the urge to wake Ghost, to tear himself away from his lieutenant’s simian grasp and shake him by the shoulders and demand him to say it all again, selfishly, so he could know if it was all true. The past could be fabricated, memories falsified. The present was all he had. He clung to it like a starving man.
–
“It’s weird seeing you in such a civilian place as a bar,” Soap had said, watching Ghost circle around their game of pool. He had to raise his voice over the lively conglomerate of sounds; people, television, music. Friday nights off base, despite the noise, were always a welcome escape. “To see you… blend in so naturally.”
“My lifespan depends on being good at blending in,” Ghost said pointedly. Soap didn’t see him raise an eyebrow but the tone of his voice was evidence enough.
“Yeah, you’d be a shit sniper if you weren’t,” Soap quipped. He thought on how to string the right words together without revealing himself and his stupid infatuation with his commanding officer instantly. “When we’re out on missions it’s a comfort that I don’t see you. You can’t be found.” (You’re safe, Soap doesn’t say.) “So you’re with me on comms instead. But just being in town, with no danger, somehow doesn’t make me feel any better when you’re down low enough to be invisible.”
“Sounds like you’re a good little soldier then,” Ghost said. If Soap was any less delusional he’d guess Ghost was teasing him. “Can’t do anything without your superior’s say.”
“Maybe it’s better that I don’t notice you then,” Soap replied dryly, forcing himself to ignore how he felt when Ghost called him good with that rough whiskey voice. “I can focus better without your dumb jokes in my ear all the time.”
Ghost stilled, poised and ready to strike over the pool table, and looked at Soap through heavy lids. Unmistakable amusement and something that disappeared too quickly sparked across Ghost’s eyes.
“Am I a distraction to you, Johnny?” Ghost said. He broke eye contact to shoot.
The sharp clacks of pool balls colliding was a rude metaphor for the way Soap’s heart rate spiked and sputtered. He hoped Ghost couldn’t see his face, hoped he could blame the alcohol for any flush on his face.
Instead of falling to his knees and begging (or something equally emasculating), Soap angled his next shot with a feigned focus, creating space to process, collect himself, and not lose his humanity to a stupid crush.
Soap has been through hell and came back alive. Several times. Multiple times. He’s seen the worst of Man, violence and gore that would curdle the blood of any office drone, looked death in the face and spat in it. All that, to end up dying from the shock that soaked him when Ghost said something that could, but probably didn’t, mean something else.
“Everything we’ve ever done together has relied on me knowing where you are, and that you can see me in return. I have your six, you have mine. We come back alive because I know you’re there.” Soap shot, smirking with satisfaction as a ball sank. He felt his drink loosen his tongue more with every word. (He knew what he would regret more in the morning.) “I can’t even imagine what would happen if you were somewhere I didn’t know.”
Soap looked up from his second shot– missed– to see Ghost leaning back against a table, arms crossed, considering. The pool stick was wedged in the crook of his elbow. The random prop took away from Ghost’s otherwise intimidating stance. It was too dark, the neon glow of mononym signs not enough for Soap to determine the nature of Ghost’s silent gaze. Soap didn’t have the room in his heart to try and decipher it.
“If I lost sight of you,” Ghost said, “I wouldn’t bother coming back at all.”
“It’s your turn,” Soap said, not thinking about the implications. Ghost sank three in a row.
–
Whoever coined the term “crush” knew exactly what they were doing, Soap mused cynically. It was indeed crushing, what he felt for Ghost. But each pain was from a different source, targeting a different part of him. The feeling itself, the longing, was warm but sharp, straight to the heart like an arrow. It made him dizzy. One positive word from Ghost would send Soap into autopilot for the rest of the day, leaving him nauseous with want.
The logical side of Soap’s mind that has survived thus far in this slow boil of delusion, the knowing that what Soap wanted would forever be barely out of reach, hollowed out his being and roused a hunger that would cry and cry and would never be fed and would never die. It wasn’t a pain of the body but of the soul. It attacked the source from which it came.
The combination of the different flavors of yearning made Soap want to double over in pain. He knew keeping it all to himself made it that much harder on him. But he knew that if he shouted, his bones would break and no life would grow. Ghost was both his source of strength and his greatest weakness. Ghost was like a drug: not too much. Not too much.
Soap had been literally fucking shot and emerged with a scar. Why does this hurt more?
(Would this scar, too?)
In his slumber Ghost sighed deeply and in his exhale held Soap tighter in his enveloping grasp. Soap had dreamt about this before. Somehow this felt just as fantastical as the dream. Fictitious. He ached.
–
Soap had survived the night with his heart intact. He managed by forcing his words to mean nothing more than what he needed to say. But as the windows grew dark, Soap felt his resolve weaken. It was the alcohol, it was the burgeoning nightfall, it was the growing claustrophobia of being in that small shitty bar for too long. The walls seemed to shrink around them, like he and Ghost were being watched in razor sharp focus.
It made Soap sweat.
“Johnny,” Ghost said. Their game of pool was long over. “You look like shit. Let’s get you back to base.”
“I’m still standing, aren’t I?” Soap said, instinctively defensive. As much as he wanted Ghost to take care of him, he only knew how to bite the hand that fed him. He would starve. That’s okay. He didn’t deserve the food anyways.
“I prefer you upright than a drunken heap on the floor,” Ghost said. “Harder to get you moving.”
“Are you sure you’re not just pretending to worry about me as an excuse to get your drunk ass back?” Soap knew he was fueling a needless fire. After all, he’s always loved a good explosion.
“I’m not drunk,” Ghost said flatly. “I could write you up for insubordination.”
“We’re not on duty.”
“Don’t have to be. I find it hard to believe you passed through basic with a clean record.”
“Is this training, LT? For what?”
“Espionage in a civilian setting. Strategy. You never know what Price may throw at us next.”
“Do you ever turn off the ‘work’ part of your brain?”
“Being prepared is also something my lifespan is dependent on, Johnny. You could learn a thing or two from me.”
Soap hummed noncommittally, checking his watch. “Isn’t that the purpose of a training? If that’s been the case the whole night, I’ve learned lots. That your humanity shows itself in poor sportsmanship, for one. You definitely bumped me on purpose.”
“That’s a strong accusation, sergeant,” Ghost said, leading the two of them towards the doors.
“You love me, really.” Soap passed Ghost, who held the door open. The cool night breeze made Soap shiver. As the door closed, the noise of life was muted and they were left alone. He couldn’t mistake Ghost’s response for anything else. He had nothing to hide behind.
“It’s easy.”
The night was quiet. Soap heard the thundering of his heart all the more clearly. They eventually made it back to base.
“For some reason,” Soap mumbled.
“You sure love having the last word,” Ghost said, not critical.
Soap opens his mouth to respond, but a distant slam startles both men into astonished silence. Soap glances at Ghost, unmoving, and laughter falls out of him at the sight of Ghost’s full-body cringe, frozen from surprise.
“It’s just us, LT,” Soap smiled.
Ghost turned to face him. He didn’t say anything at first. Soap could only ever see the minute movement of Ghost’s eyes, the rest of him inscrutable under the mask. Something unnamable held him fast. He waited for Ghost to speak and tried not to squirm.
“Yeah,” Ghost said, unmoving. “Just us.”
They stood like that for a while, just looking at each other. Soap felt equal parts fed by Ghost’s undivided attention and trapped under his gaze. Ghost was looking straight into him. What was he looking for? What did he find? (Did he like it? Would he ever?)
Ghost turned to walk down the hallway, Soap falling into step behind him.
They were the only people in the whole world.
–
Of course Soap had thought about slipping out of Ghost’s grasp, sneaking light-footed across the room and leaving, closing the door with the quietest contact possible. He had lots of time to think about that option. He didn’t know, in the end, what made him stay in the first place. Why he didn’t split off from Ghost at the dorm entrance and instead followed Ghost into his room. What he was more curious about is why Ghost let him in. Let him stay. Had said, Alright. Here we are.
–
“LT?” In all his fantasies, Soap played it way cooler. Ghost shrugged off his jacket and let it drop to the floor. Untied his shoes, took them off.
“In this room I’m Simon.”
Soap was running on fumes. This may actually kill him. This was it. Luckily his will had been written up for years. Sell my apartment, Mam, use the money to buy something nice for yourself. Spread my ashes at–
“Do you want to leave?” Ghost said, something softer than a challenge. Still hit like one.
“No,” Soap dared.
“Why’d you follow me?”
“Felt right.”
Ghost hummed, then laid himself on his bed, huffing as he relaxed.
“Come here, then,” Ghost said. Not an order, but Soap obeyed all the same. He willed himself with force to remain on this mortal plane.
Soap hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in years. He’s drunk, Soap thought as he took off his coat, untied his shoes. He’s drunk. This isn’t real. He’ll forget this. I won’t tell. It’s fine. Nothing will change. (A pang in his heart. Should he go to medical tomorrow?) Nothing will change.
He lay face-to-face with Ghost. Even with the mask still on, even though Soap could only see Ghost’s eyes, he felt overwhelmed by their closeness. If eyes were the window to the soul, why didn’t Ghost cover them too? Surely the soul is more intimately known through exposure than any number of scars.
“Still not drunk,” Ghost said suddenly, shocking Soap stiff. “I want you here.”
“Okay,” Soap said. “I want,” he gulped. His words that so flourished in his mind died in his throat. It was always his secret, how much he wanted this. His to keep, even from Ghost. Simon. Whatever.
“What do you want, Johnny?” They were so close, Soap felt the rumble of Ghost’s voice more than he heard it. His mouth went dry. He nodded shakily.
“I want to be here.”
“Good.”
There were no windows in Ghost’s room. Soap wondered how the night’s silence followed them here. It was cool, quiet. He’d calmed down somewhat, his body a little slow accepting the reality of the situation. Slowly. Surely? That part was debatable.
Ghost huffed, something like a laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’ve never been so clammed up before. It’s strange to see you this hesitant around me.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Soap mumbled. “If I show half a second of pause, that’s a matter of life or death. No room for feeling out on deployment. Of any kind.”
“Our job is too dangerous for that,” Ghost agreed.
“I know. That’s why it’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s not realistic, then,” Soap replied. He didn’t expect Ghost to defend him. “I can’t let anything but the mission be on my mind. Anything else is death.”
“I am a distraction, then?” Ghost’s voice grinned.
“You threatened to write me up when I last answered that,” Soap said. “I don’t want to poke the bear. I can’t tell if you’re joking or not, sometimes.”
“I have no title here,” Ghost replied, completely serious. “In this room I am yours.”
Soap buried his face in Ghost’s neck. His nose and cheek touched Ghost’s cold exposed skin where his mask did not reach. This had the opposite effect from what Soap wanted. He felt even more overwhelmed, disoriented, ungrounded. He felt like he could blast away at any notice.
“Why do you say stuff like that?” His voice was further mumbled, his lips moving against the fabric of Ghost’s shirt collar. He convinced himself he only imagined Ghost’s breath hitch.
“Stuff like what?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Why won’t you?”
“You’re gonna be the death of me, LT. Not this job.”
“Simon,” Ghost pressed.
“Yeah, for that exact reason,” Soap said, purposefully ignorant.
“Say it.”
“Ghost-”
“Say it or I’ll think you don’t actually want this.”
“I already said I do,” Soap said, bunching together the fabric of Ghost’s shirt as he clenched his fist. Ghost waited expectantly. Soap gulped. “...Simon.”
“Was that so hard?”
Soap sighed as an answer. It could mean whatever Ghost wanted.
“It’s still dangerous,” Soap whispered, “to feel like this. Here is fine, but out there…” At Soap’s pause, Ghost ran his hand across Soap’s back, smoothing the tension in him like a sculptor with wet clay. “I don’t want to be a liability.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Ghost said simply. Like any of this was simple. “I trust you. We’ve both gotten this far. I have your back. I know you have mine. What else is there?”
“And if it ever gets that bad?” Soap asked.
Ghost pulled back and looked with a wild desperation into Soap’s eyes. Brown, brown, brown. There aren’t enough gemstones that are brown, Soap laments.
“I’d die for you, Johnny.”
“Please don’t.”
–
Birdsong. Gray dawn. Soap falls asleep.