Chapter Text
Maybe it's the look that he's giving him.
Or he's just too tinged with alcohol. But Soap can differentiate from Ghost giving him a lazy, half-lidded look when he's bored, or when he’s hungry enough that he looks like he's ripping chunks out of a sirloin. Or during a mission, when his gaze is intent and focused, uninterested with Soap’s bullshit. Sometimes Ghost will look at him like he's a sedated cat, blinking slowly like kittens do and run his tongue over his teeth.
They've been here long enough Soap’s throat burns from the scotch and he’s left the room twice for a smoke. Soap has a high alcohol tolerance, as does Ghost but Soap is drowsy and cocky and definitely is messing with things he shouldn't. Like hooking his chin on Ghost’s broad shoulder, looking up at him through thick eyelashes.
Ghost tosses back a bourbon. He's got the more lowkey mask on, a simple paper facemask with a baseball cap, the bill shadowing his eyes. Paired with the black greasepaint around his eyes that makes him look like a living shadow, dark and smoky.
This feeling is dangerous. More of a want. Prickly and addicting and absolutely fucking vicious. The pub is full of people, there's plenty of men here, plenty of people Soap could take home on his arm, and the guy down a few barstools seems to have had an eye on Soap since he walked in. The only thing holding him on this cliff is Ghost’s occasional, bored glances back at Soap. How he doesn't shove him off his shoulder and actively participates in leaning back against him.
Soap knocks his head against Ghost’s. “L.t.”
Ghost doesn't verbally respond. But his eyes flicker to him.
“Ay, Ghost,” Soap snickers, and rattles off a jumble of words that are essentially incoherent, “‘Ow ya doin’.”
“You get at least fifty-percent more Scottish when you're drunk,” Ghost mutters quietly into his ear. Maybe it's just the bourbon, but the English drawl that Ghost’s voice has seems to be amplified to ten. “How many have you had, Johnny? I’m not paying your tab.”
“Ohh, c’mon,” Soap goads. “I thought this was a date. Be a gentleman.”
Soap tips over, and rams his face directly into Ghost’s bare neck— and he almost wishes he had the balaclava on right now, because the skin on skin contact makes this much worse.
“Ach,” Soap says, then grins, “Sorry, sir. Didn't mean to.”
“Watch yourself,” Ghost mutters. A heavy hand pushes his chest back to where he was before—which Soap quickly takes notice of—how he didn't move him off his body—with Soap’s chin resting on his bulky shoulder.
“Anyone caught your eye just yet, Ghost?” He casts a needless glance around the room, stuffy and sweaty. Some brunet chick lingers her eyes on him, and Soap pointedly averts his eyes. Ghost shifts beside him.
“No,” Ghost says dryly. Soap’s shoulders slump, disappointed, and the movement catches Ghost’s attention. “You hopeful?”
“You wish.”
Leaning down, Ghost tells him privately, “There's at least six people in this room right now that are staring at you.”
Soap blinks. Gives the pub’s audience another long look, and sure enough, Soap catches their eyes. He’s maybe tipsy, but his judgment is probably biased. But even so, he turns and whispers, “Yeah, I see ‘em. Not interested.”
“So you are hopeful.”
“Naw,” Soap leans back in his seat, kicks up a leg over his knee, knocks back another swig of his drink. Ghost reaches over and nudges Soap’s glass away, yet touching it like it's poison. “Although, I’m sure if the opportunity happened to arise..”
There's something enticingly dangerous about messing with Ghost like this. Who knows what he could get out of this. Maybe the aftertaste of bourbon. You never know. Soap’s open to options. A solid variety. “Sides, it's not like anyone’s gonna walk their arse over here and ask me out.”
Ghost bodily turns to him. Soap sighs, inwardly. He's so tall. And strong. And—when he wants to be—mean. Clicks all those little boxes of just his type. So unfair. “Fuck you on about?”
“I mean,” Soap gestures with a flimsy hand. “That no fuckin’ fool with a brain in their head is gonna’ come over here and assume that me—sitting next to you—is single.”
There's the bustle and never-ending movement around them, but Ghost’s masked face never leaves Soap. His eyes don't glance off, don't seek out some pretty blonde at a far-off booth. Ghost squints. “They’d think we’re shagging?”
Soap snorts, shrugs. Reaches back for his scotch, pouts when Ghost nudges it further away. Doesn't need to say so, but the message is clear enough– you've had enough. “Wouldn't you?”
The question clearly resonates with his LT, because Ghost seems to juggle the idea in his head before he relents, backing off and taking a drink from his bourbon. Maybe even a little pleased with the thought. “Can't see why not.”
Soap frowns. “Does it bother you?”
Ghost side-eyed him. Then said, “No.”
A thick, honeyed moment. He waits for a miracle - Ghost to kiss him, to get up and drag him out by the wrist - but no joy. Ghost just turns back, and their ankles brush. Soap’s foot taps restlessly against the lip of his stool’s foot supports.
There’s something odd about his face. Tightened, a familiar expression—a mix of agitated and impatient, like he’s still waiting for Soap to catch up.
A slam. Some eye them at the sound, and Soap’s palms are pressed flat against the bar before he can rethink it. His teeth are grit so flush he might crack a molar. “I'll see ya later, Simon.”
The tension fizzles out and dies. Ghost is blinking at him, wide-eyed like he doesn't know what he’s done wrong. And he hasn't, not really, but Soap is so utterly frustrated he needs to get out of this shithole and take a smoke.
The pub’s door slams behind him. Soap fishes a lighter out of his pocket, back flat against the cinderblock, fumbling with the spark wheel.
Slumping against the wall, fumes pouring out of his nose and his mouth. Fuck.