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— 🧼 —
There’s a certain suffocating feeling in hiding all of his thoughts. Soap kept his emotions below the surface—submerged and contained—because he knew what could happen if he let them materialize.
People still had the correct idea that he’s short tempered and loud-mouthed, but what they’ve seen of him isn’t even everything. No, he could kick it up another notch. But what that extra notch held within isn’t present with his consciousness.
Doing things without thinking, always what he used to be known for.
A countless array of potential bad ideas scour his mind at the thought of letting himself go like that. Getting pissed and knocking the shit in one of the drunkards at the local bar for slurring one too many insults about his hair. The utter glee he could express when the base’s pantry finally restocks their marmite, when everyone else would take the piss out of him for it. And the tears he could shed knowing his affection for a certain man may never be approved of.
Those are things that no one had seen before, and Soap’s accepted that they may never will, even if it leaves him with the crushing pressure of loneliness and missed opportunities—it’s better than destroying relationships and losing a job he’s worked his arse off for.
It’s the recent report from Price about Ghost’s mission with another squad that has those emotions teetering on the very surface of his skin. The lost connection, reports of injury, the uncertainty that everything he’s built up might be gone in an instant.
Soap flashed between extreme rage and shaken with worry. It’s that report that had him reconsidering everything, just the desire for Ghost to be alive, because they like each other that way.
Through the peaked anxiety of his retrieval and curses to a lousy captain of the respective squad, a promise lingered in the back of his head, flashbacks replayed between reciprocated flirting and secrets that have never seen the light of day. There has to be a way, after everything, maybe he’s willing to have a chance to attempt to not be alone after all.
— 💀 —
Hand shoved hard against the bullet lodged in his side, Ghost limped his way forward. No matter how much pressure he held against the wound, he couldn't help the sharp grunts of pain with each footfall, like someone driving a super-heated ice pick into his abdomen over and over.
"All stations, this is Ghost, how copy," he growled into the receiver. Nothing but static. No one to watch his six, no one to give a shite about the dead bloke in the mask. Likely figuring he'd be doing them a favor if he were to just keel over and die right here.
Begs the question of if you can kill a dead man twice.
"All stations, how copy?" He barked again, trying to keep the pained rasp from his voice.
"Calm down, we hear you," one of the other soldiers—the other lieutenant, he’d never worked with this crew before but already regretted it—snarked back. "What's wrong, princess? Break a nail?"
Ghost gritted his teeth, forcing the nasty comment back down his throat where it could rot in his belly. Now wasn't the time, never was. He just needed to make it back to the heli in one piece. Preferably with about the same amount of blood in his body as he'd started with.
He couldn't help the quiet sigh though. Alone, once again. Just like always.
That was fine, though. He was The Ghost. He didn't need a team. Didn't need anyone to give a shite about him. He'd survived this long.
He stumbled, but didn’t fall. He couldn’t. Ghost’s abdomen seared through every nerve, sending pain fizzling through his blood. Every breath, every step, heartbeat, he chanted the same thing:
Push forward.
One step.
Push forward.
Two steps.
Push forward.
Three.
He would be fine. It didn’t matter that Roba’s hook pierced him in roughly the same spot. Didn’t matter that no one came to help, not even as he approached exfil. Didn’t matter that no one even spared him a glance as he fell, slamming his head so hard into the ground his thoughts fizzled out.
— 🧼 —
Soap is on the other side of the large building, sneaking through while Ghost takes careful watch up above. They’re in dangerous territory, but it’s normal. He has his six, while Soap is careful to not let anyone close to the vantage point.
A shuffling can be heard on the radio.
“Think I spot a bloke nearby,” Ghost mumbles.
“Blow his head off, quick an’ easy,” Soap replies nonchalantly.
It should be effortless, he thinks. The next second he’s interrupted by the tail end of a man’s groan, loud and clear, and the communication on the other line goes blank.
There’s nothing but silence. He’s already assuming the worst, his head snaps out of its compartmentalized focus and into a state of utter fear. It spirals so quickly to a state he’s never experienced before.
What happened to Ghost? What if he’s captured? What if he died?
Soap’s throat tightens as his voice rasps out a message through the comms.
“Ghost, how copy?”
No response, he’s so set off balance that he barely notices a hostile in his direction—he’s almost a split second too late to shoot but does just in time.
“Ghost… Are you fucking okay?” he yells this time, formality be damned.
His teeth bite deep into his lip as he waits for his voice, it nearly draws blood to hold back the scream he’s so desperate to unleash when there’s nothing from him.
It’s too soon for another one of these, but it’s different, oh so different. His hands quiver at the thought of this being on his watch and not some other pathetic fucker’s.
He’s ignoring the objective at stake, turning back to that large watchtower with footsteps running a mile a minute. He’ll take down anything—or anyone—in his way. No, this is unlike any other circumstance that’s started like this. His heart pounds so loudly that he can barely hear his own voice as he shouts back into the radio at Price’s way.
“Captain, this is Bravo 7-1. One down, communication cut on Ghost’s end. Not sure what’s happened.”
— 💀 —
Ghost woke to rough hands dragging him forward, far from gentle as his battered form caught on every rock, root, and rough patch of the ground. Blearily, he looked up, a trail of cherry red, crimson blood leaving a rusty wake in its path. He moaned, closer to a whimper, manhandled up and all but dropped onto the metal grating of the heli.
At least they came for him.
Slowly, he pulled himself up. Pathetic as he crawled forward, dragged himself onto one of the benches and buckled in with shaking hands. Ghost’s vision swam, dizzy with blood loss as he fumbled for his vest, desperate for—ah, thank fuck, he had enough gauze to pack into the wound.
No one came to his aid.
Not abnormal, at least. Ghost worked alone. Always. He’d learned to rely on himself—and only himself—in situations like these, no matter how fuckin’ annoying it was to have his lifeblood once again pooling onto the floor.
Still, he bit back an agonized groan as he packed the hole in his side, gnawing on his cheek until blood coated his mouth, copper slipping down his throat and making him gag. No one noticed. No one cared. Maybe this was some kind of fucked-up karma for him putting the mission first, keeping to himself where he would be safe.
It cemented one thing in his mind, however.
Much like Simon Riley, no one particularly wanted Ghost, either. No longer a man, only an asset. A weapon to be polished and stowed away until convenient. Sure, if he died here it’d be a blow to the SAS, their attack dog finally put down, but the novelty had long since worn off.
Maybe he wasn’t meant to come back from this mission. Not that he fancied giving up, but it’d be one less loose end to tie up, now wouldn’t it?
He didn’t particularly care, in any case. Too busy grinding his teeth to dust, trying to keep in the pained sobs desperate to break free. For the first time in so long, he longed for someone to help him through it. To even acknowledge the pain he was in and offer a sympathetic smile. But as he looked up into the stone-cold faces of the other soldiers, he found none.
Ghost didn’t quite know what was worse: the quiet disdain from the people he was now trapped with for the ride back, or the wide-eyed recruits singing his praises behind his back? Neither cared enough to even attempt to know the man behind the mask, not that he even existed anymore.
Slowly, Ghost leaned his head back, still pressing a hand over his abdomen. The pain kept him grounded even as the others commiserated, leaving him alone and ignored.
Just how he liked it.
— 🧼 —
It’s all a blur, there’s nothing going through his head besides “get to Ghost”. He needs to help him now. He needs him, he needs him, he needs him.
He’s going so fast that he can see flying bullets aimed at his compromised direction. He quickly shoots his gun in between strides, one man down. He does it again with fire in his eyes, another down.
But there’s nothing but that phrase repeating with every passing kill.
One man down, assistance needed stat. Ghost down.
There’s an incoherent shout in his headset as Price tries to coordinate both him and Gaz to return safely, this is serious.
The watchtower enters into view and Soap’s running on nothing but pure adrenaline at this point. He sprints on the uneven terrain, stumbling over when loose rubble trips him into a ditch. There’s a minuscule burn in his leg from the pain, but it does nothing to lessen his pace.
He doesn’t even realize until he’s climbing up the rickety ladder how fucking scared he is. The unsteady and uncertain movement of his hands as if this was the first time he’s done something like this. Ghost getting injured isn’t uncommon, but fuck if he isn’t expecting the worst every damn time.
Soap’s close to reaching the top, and he doesn’t even spot Gaz nearby yet, he’s early. But he refuses to wait, he’s running on so many emotions at the same time and he just wants everything to be over as quickly as possible, to brace for every single outcome simultaneously.
With a hasty and exhausted heave, He lifts himself up onto the platform. He can see the figure of a shadow of a man standing looming over another lifeform. Soap immediately kicks into gear and doesn’t hesitate to pull his gun out from its holster, he hasn’t been spotted yet. He shoots immediately with pure vitriol and anger flowing in his system. He doesn’t take his eyes off as he watches as the man falls to the ground lifelessly.
It’s satisfying, but it’s quickly taken over for the need to check on Ghost. He drops to the floor by his side, hands scattering as he searches for a pulse. He nervously holds onto Ghost’s wrist tightly.
Fuck, fuck, be alive, please.
One second.
Not now, not yet.
Two seconds.
I need you.
Thump.
The thumping begins to repeat into a steady heartbeat, and Soap couldn’t be more relieved.
There’s still so many more hurdles, but Ghost being alive is enough to give him hope. His eyes study every visible inch of his Lieutenant’s body, where he finds a gash and scratches in his side.
“There’s a pulse, but he’s unconscious, need medevac stat!” he exclaims into the radio.
Soap’s there, that’s what matters. Help will be on its way soon enough, and he’s hoping that he’ll be okay—almost praying that he is.
For now, he leaves a small kiss on Ghost’s masked forehead right before Gaz arrives.
— 💀 —
No one came to see him in the hospital. Why would they? Simon Riley was dead, and The Ghost had no friends. He completed the objective—not that his superiors were exactly pleased with his performance—and their asset returned mostly unharmed.
Save for the bullet that nearly took out his kidney. Most wouldn’t ask questions—only one ever took any vested interest in him, anyway, the weirdo with the bucket hat that refused to call him anything but Simon. A few weeks of desk duty, of kissing up to his COs, and he’d be back in their good graces.
Well, as good as their graces would ever be towards him. Dead men didn’t bleed, they weren’t supposed to. And Simon Riley was dead. Ghost didn’t matter, he knew that. He’d known it all along, that this was the tradeoff. Accepted it with open arms, signing a name that didn’t belong to him anymore on the dotted line.
There would never be anything—or anyone—else for him.
He lingered for a moment, staring down the hallway. Faint cigar smoke drifted toward him from a cracked-open door; a low, gravelly laugh reaching his ears before he hurried away. No point in longing for what he couldn’t have.
Instead, Ghost stalked his way towards his own room, only letting his shoulders drop when his door clicked firmly behind him. Bed perfectly made, devoid of any signs of life. No family photos, no little trinkets from the places he’d gone, not a single object out of place.
Dead men didn’t need personal items, either. Dead men didn’t have families, or friends, or anything of the sort. No use for them, after all. He was perfectly content here, alone. No one to worry about.
No one to worry about you, either.
Better that way. Safer.
For them? Or for you?
It was his fault everyone who got close to him got hurt. Simon Riley hadn’t been strong enough to save them. This would forever be his price to pay for his shortcomings.
Shortcomings? Or was it truly not your fault, Simon?
He sat with a low grunt, slowly swinging his long legs up to the hard, cold bed. Did it even matter? No one would come for him. No one ever had.
— 🧼 —
The rapid-fire clacking noise of boots against the linoleum is blaringly loud, yet Soap’s focus is entirely set on striding to the end of the hall. He scans every door for the specific set of numbers he was informed is his room.
He’s so uncontrollably nervous, not knowing what to expect once he bursts through his door. But he can’t hold himself back, not this time, the state Ghost was in when he finally reached him is precisely burned into his memory, injuries so brutal that he’s not even sure if this is it—that it’s permanent. Soap can’t remove those visions when he’s the one who found him, he needs another glimpse just for clarity.
Because God knows last time he couldn’t even bear the thought of being at the hospital.
The beat of his heart continues to torment him so loudly when he recognizes the numbers on the door. He can hear a distant conversation as his hand roughly grasps onto the handle. He’s not sure what he’s going to do or say, he’s so distraught that he doesn’t think having full control in this situation is going to be possible.
The door flies open with an abundance of sudden energy. In front of the room by the hospital bed is Price, obstructing his view from the patient. He turns around half expectantly but also uncertain, eyebrows raised.
The captain opens his mouth to say something, probably a remark or to shout a sudden order, but one read of Soap’s face has him immediately shutting it. Soap moves past him, standing at the foot of the bed above a man, a pure example of the circumstances of rough conditions and war. Ghost wears a mask—not one of his usual ones—an oxygen mask, his body is wrapped in layers of unappealing gauze and an eyesore of a hospital gown.
He’s seen him better, far better. But never worse, never more disheartening than how Ghost appears right now.
Ghost’s eyes flicker open from the intrusion, they’re bleak, but one second later they melt into a dreary, sorry reflection. He doesn’t hold up walls, doesn’t keep up a grim and cold outlook for everything.
And Soap doesn’t hold up his walls either. One glance is all it takes and he’s driving his head into the scratchy fabric of his chest, ear pressed into the ribcage. He only actually exhales when he hears his heartbeat moving steady. Ghost lifts an ungloved hand and rests it on top of Soap’s head.
“Thought I lost you, Simon,” he confesses quietly.
“Hell isn’t ready for me just yet, love,” Simon whispers back, caressing his hair.
His breaths are uneven yet consistent, it’s a persistence and attempt to hold himself together for something.
In the background is a shuffle of footsteps, a low grumble, and the pressurized creak of the door as Price leans against it. Johnny didn’t even consider the company, his thoughts escalated from zero to a hundred the moment he saw Simon’s helpless gaze.
If their careers weren’t already at stake from the bleeding wounds of a crazed enemy against Ghost’s skin, then the revelation of their bleeding hearts from a secret kept too long would surely do the trick.
Price coughs, almost comically. “It’s good to know, boys.”
Soap flicks his head back in offense, is he being sarcastic? He wants to growl and show his teeth for resolution when he just doesn’t care anymore. Yet there’s a tightened grip between the frayed strands of his mohawk.
“You good, captain?” Ghost asks, throat raspy.
“‘M alright, it’s just been a lot for you both, huh?”
Price is casual, not irritated, not mad, like he’s chatting over morning coffee about how the Lieutenant of his task force is shagging his Sergeant.
“You know how things go, this is a cruel place. But if you can make it work, then that’s dandy,” he concludes.
Reassurance is their comfort, in many forms, the closure from restless worry is so intoxicating that the drooping of his eyelids is almost instantaneous at the relief. Because he’s not alone, and he doesn’t need to keep it hidden from the world, there’s people who accept him the way that he is. For he worked so hard to get this, to have these relationships.
Johnny doesn’t move another inch, he rests himself with the lullaby of Simon’s heart, lulling into a deep sleep knowing that the two of them are fine. They’re alive, together.
— 💀 —
Ghost wakes with a quiet groan, unable to stifle the noise even despite his best efforts. Granted, it’s like anyone will hear him anyway—
”Simon?”
He jerks, startled and defensive, his momentary cry now laced with pain as it sharpens. Two deep blue orbs swim in his blurry vision, a shock of pale skin and brown hair… Johnny?
”You with me, son?”
Oh. Price.
”Yessir,” Ghost manages, tongue thick and heavy in his desert-dry mouth. His captain, thankfully, is a perceptive and kind man—at least towards ‘his boys’—and is quick to hold a straw to Ghost’s parched lips. He drinks slowly, having done this song and dance too many times to know pushing himself won’t help any. “Thanks,” he grunts, pulling away.
”Of course.” Now that his vision is clearing, he feels… more than a little foolish, really, that he thought Johnny was here. The two are night and day from each other, and while he loves both dearly… he can’t help but close his eyes with a quiet sigh.
His eyes flicker open again when the door flies open, a shockwave of explosive energy careening through the room, Price blocking his view of the sudden intrusion for a mere moment before the visitor comes to stand at the foot of his bed.
Oh, Johnny…
Simon must look bloody awful to be deserving of the look his lover’s giving. The way his face crumples as he takes a moment to see Simon. No walls, no strong facade to hide behind, just him.
A few things happen in that next moment: namely his ball of sunshine careening forward, all but scrambling over the bed to drive his head into Simon’s chest, desperately seeking for confirmation that it’s not a dream.
Slowly, Simon lifts a hand, stroking it through Johnny’s ridiculously soft mohawk.
”Thought I lost you, Simon,” he hears, muffled by his chest.
”Hell isn’t ready for me just yet, love,” Not now that you’re here. That you came for me.
And when was the last time that happened? It wasn’t until the 141 that Simon ever had anyone waiting with bated breath to know he’s okay, that he’s alive, and isn’t that something? Johnny likely traded recruit duty with Gaz to make sure he could be here. Wanted to be here.
Someone came for me.
Price coughs, turning both Simon and Johnny’s attention back. “It’s good to know, boys,” he smirks.
Johnny stiffens, at least until Simon grips him that much tighter. He trusts Price—against his better judgment at first, what, with the way the bloody prick refused to take no for an answer—knowing their captain won’t give a fuck. After all, it’s not like Simon isn’t aware that he wants to shag Gaz. Maybe this’ll be the push he needs.
“You good, Captain?” He rasps. Johnny still sits stiff, worried blue eyes darting between the two men as Simon, in a moment of possession, brushes his dry lips across his lad’s forehead. Mine.
”’M alright, it’s just been a lot for you both, huh?”
He wants to smack the knowing look off the man’s face, smug ass fucker. He knows better than anyone—anyone aside from Johnny, at least—how much pain went into getting to this moment. To the realization that he wanted—no, needed—a team. Needed someone to give a shite about him, to care enough to want him, to care for him, to come to his rescue, that he hated all the days weeks months years of being alone.
“You know how things go, this is a cruel place. But if you can make it work, then that’s dandy.” Simon heard the undercurrent in his words: it’s about damn time.
Johnny’s soft sigh of relief mirrors Simon’s own. Neither move an inch, not even as Price chuckles to himself and departs. Somehow, Johnny manages the rest of the way up onto the bed, cramming his form beside Simon in the too-small space, head still resting over Simon’s heart. It’s his slow breaths that eventually lull Simon back to a deep sleep, knowing the two of them are fine.
Simon Riley wasn’t alone anymore. He never would be again.