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you were always so hard to read
“Shitting Christ.”
“Sergeant, how copy?” Ghost’s voice almost immediately crackles in his ear.
Fuck. “Er—all solid here, sir.”
“Right.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Eyes on the target. Heading straight for you, Soap.”
“Copy that, Lt. Charges set. I’m ready when you are.”
“Better blow them sky high, Johnny. If I have to spend one more night out here I’ll make hell look pretty.”
Soap swears at him under his breath, too low for his throat mic to pick up fully, and he hears Ghost huff in response. If it was anyone else—apart from possibly Kyle, though he’s not the type to push it anyway—Ghost would snarl out a reprimand. Soap’s heard him before when a cocky trooper joining them on a drop thought he could talk back.
But that’s Soap’s privilege and his alone. It’s how they work, him and his lieutenant. A push-pull-push that lights up something inside him. Makes them click. And they work far too well together for anyone to really care if their back and forth borders on unprofessional.
He waits, heartbeat steady and breathing even, for their mark to enter the blast zone of the explosives he’s spent the past hour or so rigging up in the dark, tangled undergrowth between the tightly packed trees. They’d attempted a remote explosion not two days past, but the triggers were all fucked and Soap had cursed up a storm.
He knows Ghost would happily shoot off a few fifty calibres, but they’ve been tracking the small group through the horribly humid jungle for a week now and they can’t risk any of them slipping through the net again. Taking out all four targets at once is their best bet.
“On my count. Ten seconds,” Ghost murmurs in his ear and Soap echoes his confirmation, stubbornly ignoring the burning pain shooting up his leg. It can’t be that bad—not from just a stumble over some pain-in-the-arse roots he couldn’t see. Probably a sprain; nothing he can’t walk off. “Five. Three. Give ‘em hell.”
There’s one millisecond of silence, and then the forest explodes. A beautiful fireball engulfs the vehicle and the tremors vibrate delightfully through his bones. He’s grinning as he watches two bodies flail in the flames.
“Soap?” Ghost barks as what sounds like the pop-pop-pop of gunfire follows the blast.
“Solid. Just the tires and fuel tank, Lt. Two bodies confirmed,” he says, edging closer to the impact zone as smoke clouds his view. “Third body confirmed. And fourth. All targets hit, sir. Guess I’ll never find out what’ll make hell look pretty, eh?”
“Don’t count your lucky stars, yet. Haven’t even got a confirmed exfil time, let alone coordinates.”
Soap rolls his eyes. “Can we not just celebrate a fuckin’ win for a minute, sir?”
“You did well.”
He fights down the fluttering sensation in his stomach at the praise, his body already alight with adrenaline. “Aye. Was a beaut. Did you see that first charge blow right under the engine?”
“I forget how this shit gets you going,” Ghost comments dryly. “You need a minute or two to yourself down there? Can’t promise complete privacy but I’ll keep an eye on your six.”
“Och, fuck off. Who’s the one always asking me if I’m watching when you’re getting your knife out in close quarters?”
“You make it sound like that’s a hardship for you, Johnny. Thought you said you liked to watch, hm?” His voice deepens into an amused drawl and Soap suppresses a shiver.
“Always knew you were a filthy fuckin’ bastard.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Oh, aye. That’s for sure. Y’know, I—Jesus motherfucker,” Soap suddenly breaks off, pain twisting in his ankle again as he starts to move through the tightly packed undergrowth. ”I’m fine, I’m fine,” he continues quickly, knowing he’ll have just set Ghost on edge again. “Don’t get your dick twisted, Lt.”
“Soap, what the fuck is going on down there?”
“M’all good, sir. Swear it. Look, I’ll—er. I’m on my way to you now.”
“Alright. I’ve gotta radio Price, give HQ an update. Just get your arse moving, yeah? And keep the fucking line open.”
“Heard, loud and clear,” Soap grits out.
He makes it back to their RV point in one piece. Something he talks Ghost’s ear off about as he waits, seeing as he was ordered to keep their line open. He enjoys being a bit of a wind up, especially given they’re out of the woods with the mission—if not out of them physically.
“You gonna keep me twiddling my thumbs for much fucking longer?” he asks, slowly rolling his sore ankle.
“Not if you don’t shut up.”
Soap rolls his eyes, leaning back heavily against the half-rotten wooden wall of the cabin behind him. He’s pretty sure it’s an old, disused drug drop stop. Looks like there was once a tunnel underneath but it’s long abandoned and partially collapsed.
Bugs buzz round his ears and sweat drips down the back of his neck making him tug at his throat mic. His clothes are sticky and clammy and he hasn’t braved a sniff at his under arms. Ripe would be putting it lightly. He can’t imagine Ghost is faring much better—especially not in that mask of his.
“Can’t wait for a shower,” he says. “And a proper fucking coffee would be nice.”
A barely audible rustle of leaves has his head whipping round to his left, rifle raised in under a second. “Two weeks in the field and you’re missing the home comforts,” Ghost says, melting out of the treeline like a stalking panther, all quiet grace and sleek strength.
“How long have you been hanging about?” Soap pushes back. “And you say I’m the one who likes to watch.”
Ghost stares at him. His head cocks ever so slightly to one side. “Inside,” he finally says. “There’s no exfil until morning.”
Fucking great. Soap spins on his heel—his good one—and shoves the cabin door open. He’d scoped the place when he arrived and he’s not looking forward to a hot, sticky, humid night on an uneven floor which feels like it’s about one heavy step away from falling through.
Ghost steps inside behind him and grunts. “Cosy.”
“Aye, real cosy,” Soap says, nodding at the bare metal frame of an old cot against the far wall. “Room enough for two, eh? Fancy a cuddle, sir?”
Ghost huffs and pushes past him, but it’s one of his trying not to sound amused huffs so Soap doesn’t hide his grin as he leans back against the rickety table to take some weight off his ankle.
“We’ll eat now. I’ll take first watch. We’ve got six hours at least before we’re getting out of here.”
“Better start twiddling my thumbs again,” Soap mutters, staring down at his ankle now Ghost’s back has turned and wincing silently when he rolls it a bit too hard.
“Right.” Ghost’s tone has shifted and Soap’s head snaps round to find dark eyes trained right on him. Fuck.
“Sir, it’s—”
Ghost moves. He lifts the less broken of the two chairs and plants it in front of Soap with an ease that makes something warm trickle down his spine. Two fingers hooked under the back of the chair and it looked like he could’ve thrown it across the room and taken someone out with it. Christ.
A gloved hand taps the table beside his hip. Soap blinks at it, slightly dazed.
“Up,” Ghost orders. And like a well trained dog, Soap’s body moves before the command fully sinks in. He’s perched on the lip of the table, feet off the ground, with Ghost sitting in the chair between his legs.
Ghost places one of their standard field med kits by his thigh and then reaches for Soap’s boot. His deft fingers untie Soap’s laces before he can work through the strange thickness in his throat to protest that he’s perfectly fucking capable of doing that himself.
Then his boot is off, placed on the floor with more care than he expects. His sock follows it, Ghost tucking it neatly into the top of his boot. And then they’re both looking at his ankle.
Ghost holds his foot towards his chest so the light coming through the window better aids his eyes. He presses his fingers lightly into the swollen, bruising skin, assessing the damage.
A hiss escapes Soap’s lips when he twists it slightly to the right and Ghost stills. He slowly moves Soap’s ankle again until it rolls into the angle where pain shoots up his calf. He tries not to wince too much, but the tension through his leg is obvious.
Ghost lowers his foot to rest in his lap and Soap sucks in a tiny breath when he peels his gloves off. Pale, scarred hands reach for the med kit by his hip and Soap is frozen in place as he watches them take out what they need.
And then warm, calloused fingers are on his tender skin. He tries not to shiver, his mouth suddenly dry. Each touch feels like a tiny spark, flushing his cheeks and fluttering in his lower belly.
“When did this happen?” Ghost finally breaks the quiet, voice tight.
“Um.”
“Before or after you set the charges, Johnny?”
“After,” he croaks.
Ghost presses a thin ice pack around the swollen joint and wraps it to keep it in place. His touch is light, gentle even, his hands working with practiced ease.
He taps Soap’s leg when he’s done and then he’s out of the chair, standing between Soap’s legs. His bulk fills the space entirely and Soap suddenly feels vulnerable, small. He has to crane his neck to make eye contact—which he regrets the moment he finds it.
“You said you were solid,” Ghost grinds out. His hands, still bare, are balled into fists.
“I was fine, sir, I barely fuckin—”
Ghost leans down, shoulders a rigid line as his eyes flash. “Don’t you ever fucking keep something like this from me again. Heard?”
He swallows, blinking as the proximity makes his head spin and his gut tighten. “Heard.”
Ghost glares down at him for a moment longer and then he’s turning away, blunt and abrupt, back to where he’d been picking out MREs for them both.
He doesn’t say another word, the silence as thick as the humid evening air.
Soap can’t find it in himself to argue about who’s taking first watch when Ghost has barely looked his way. He moves to where Ghost placed his gear and laid out his mat and finally feels eyes on him—something he’d normally be pleased about—but the weight of them is loaded and uncomfortable.
He lies down with his back to the room. Not his preference, but he needs to put something between them.
He must eventually doze off because when he wakes, it’s to a boot lightly nudging his back and Ghost’s voice saying, “Exfil in thirty, Sergeant. We need to move.”
Ghost didn’t wake him to switch watch. He also doesn’t say a single thing as Soap moves around, grabbing his gear. He tries not to limp too much, unbearably conscious of Ghost’s eyes on him.
The silence remains as he follows Ghost to their exfil location and sits heavy even as they board the helo and the jungle becomes a sea of endless green below them.
Soap gnaws on his lower lip and curses his stupid fucking ankle for the hundredth time. He glances over at Ghost—he can’t help himself—and remembers his bare fingers on his skin.
The gentleness of his touch, the strength underneath it. He wills Ghost to turn his head, to meet his stare and give him his customary post-op nod, to let them sink back into their routine so Soap can knock his knee and shoot him a grin.
But Ghost doesn’t look back.
END.