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Sometimes, Ghost's mere presence is grounding enough. He's someone Soap can see, touch, listen to his even breathing, and Soap calms down without him ever knowing. Other days are tougher. Sometimes it takes bruised knuckles, a few slipped pills, an unsavory amount of drinks or all of the above, but it shuts the misfiring part of Soap's brain off, and knocking himself out right about counts as sleep.
And then there are days like this one.
It's some ungodly hour. Soap can't even see the clock; his eyes are flicking around in search of danger. He clutches his head in his hands; come on, calm the fuck down, you've been there, stop, just make it fucking stop.
Soap jumps when the mattress dips next to him. He's breathless, barely standing on his wobbly feet, and the wall behind him calms him as much as it makes the fear worse.
"Fuck!"
"Johnny."
It's fine, it's just Ghost, they're both here – where's here – right, it's nighttime, they're on some mission, there's dead silence…
"Johnny," Ghost calls again, and the images fade – but they’re still not transparent enough. Not even nearly fucking close to enough.
Soap's trembling hands find his eyes, and he, only half-acknowledging Ghost's presence, slowly shakes his head.
There's probably more going on, but he misses it all. There's a brief "good" in Ghost's deep, raspy voice, followed by a quiet scuffle as something slides and stops next to him.
For a brief moment, Soap's whole body is prickled with panic. He remains frozen until there's a brief sound of radio static, and then,
"Pick it up, Johnny."
On pure instinct, Soap follows the spoken command.
Even with his mind in shambles, disoriented and, for all intents and purposes, blind, he knows he can trust Ghost's voice. He clips the radio to his tee and waits.
"Good. Next room's clear. Go." Soap's hand reaches for the door before he knows it. "See the tap?"
He does, clear as day. All the dark corners of the kitchen don't make his panic surge now; he checks them methodically, pushing to his objective, and then presses "TALK" and reports his success.
The radio, again, comes alive with Ghost's voice intertwined with static.
"Find a glass. Fill it up." Simple. Soap does all that, and the radio comes alive with more static again. "What's the worst kind of toast?"
"What's the worst kind of toast?" Soap echoes back, breathing a bit easier by now; it’s just a routine, easy mission. They’ll be fine.
"The one burned to ashes and delivered before the funeral."
"Fuck," Soap groans.
"Bathroom's next. Take a leak. Freshen up."
"Next thing you'll send me to sniff out drugs, eh, Lt?"
"Didn't tell you to bark, MacTavish." Ghost's voice drops colder, turning dangerous, but Soap's aware enough by now to smile when it's due.
"Wash your face," More static. Then, less formal, "Wash it all away, Johnny."
Soap takes his time with the task, immersing himself in ice-cold water until his skin stops burning hot, then warming up his frozen fingers back to life.
The next command comes when he shuts the tap off,
"A mission well done, Johnny. You’re now RTB."
The promise of rest makes Soap's bones buzz; fuck, he needs that rest. ETA ten fucking seconds. "Rog’."
When Soap is back in bed, half-asleep in Ghost's arms, surrounded by his smell-touch-warmth, the radio buzzes again,
"You sleep well."
"You too, Si."