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They’re on the roof, basking under the golden light of a watercolor sky as the sun finally, blessedly, slips under the horizon. The unseasonable heat lays thick and heavy over them like a wet blanket, humidity coiling around Ghost’s lungs, restricting his breathing.
They'd tried lighting up cigs, but the smoke only made the thick air that much more unbearable, so instead they are sucking on ice lollies that Ghost is pretty sure Soap charmed out of one of the nurses from the medical wing (the lollies are ostensibly kept around for soldiers with mouth injuries to reduce swelling, but Soap wouldn't be the first soldier this week to wheedle some out on the pretense of heat exhaustion).
Beside them is a cooler of beer that Ghost won from Gaz in their poker game on Friday. Technically, alcohol is contraband on base, but Ghost has never cared for the rules and it was worth it to see Johnny’s grin. Ghost is more interested in the cold glass against his skin and the chilling touch of condensation dripping down his fingers than the piss thin beer anyways.
The heat is suffocating enough that Ghost is actually in a t-shirt, shitty tattoo sleeve and scars on full display. Ghost can feel Soap’s gaze on his exposed skin, as sticky as the drips of melted lolly the Sergeant is licking off his fingers (and almost as sweet). It’s by far the most Ghost has let himself be exposed in years, and Ghost can nearly hear the question stuck to the tip of his Sergeant’s tongue, the silence as thick as the sweltering air.
Ghost is usually comfortable in silence, prefers it most of the time even, but with Soap burning up with curiosity, the silence is somehow louder than the Scot’s usual brand of inane chatter. When Johnny manages to go through another beer without saying anything, Ghost decides to reward him for his patience and get the whole thing over with. "Spit it out, Sergeant."
Soap startles and tears his eyes off Ghost’s arms up to his eyes with the vaguely guilty look of a dog caught rolling around in a muddy puddle. "Huh?"
"I can feel you staring, Soap, so whatever it is that you want to say, spit it out," Ghost sighs and begins to mentally prepare himself for the usual comments.
Those must have hurt. That one is usually an immediate gut reaction, with the person who said it feeling stupid about saying it a second later. Obviously they hurt. If Soap didn’t say that the moment Ghost shrugged off his lightweight sleeves, he’s not going to say it now.
I'm sorry you had to go through that. Unlikely. Soap is a military man himself, he knows first hand how most soldiers cringe away from comments like that.
A flirtatious remark that only Soap would dare to make. Maybe if Ghost is lucky tonight.
How'd you get that one?(insert random scar here). Distinctly likely. Soap is a curious man.
What do your tattoos mean? See above for curiosity with the added facet of Soap being an artist.
"D’ye ‘ave a favorite scar?"
Ghost blinks. That’s a new one. He hadn’t been expecting that, although in hindsight, it’s a very Soap question to ask. This is the man who claims that the scar on his chin gives him an imp-ish charm (it does). The same man who switched to wearing sleeveless shirts after Las Almas so he could show off the bullet scar in his arm and commissioned a jeweler to turn the bullet that Ghost had dug out of his arm into a necklace that he could wear on his nights out as a “conversation starter”.
As unexpected as the question is, it’s a welcome change. It also has an easy answer. “I do.”
Soap grins. “Ye gonnae tell me whit one or do Ah gotta guess?”
Ghost huffs with amusement, weighing his options. The hopeful look on Soap’s face makes the choice easy. Ghost sets down his beer and with a smooth motion pulls his shirt overhead.
Soap’s expression is everything he could have hoped for, wide eyed admiration, lips parted in surprise, the tint of blush spreading over his cheeks.
If Ghost’s forearms are littered with scars, his torso is practically a collage of them. The eye-catching Y shaped vivisection. The starburst on the right side of his ribcage from the meat hook. A constellation of circular cigarette burns spread across his clavicles. His left flank, covered in a burn scar that’s healed into a watercolor of purple and pink stretched skin. An acid splash across his right hip bone that peaks up over the waistband of his joggers. A myriad of other miscellaneous marks.
But in that landscape of pain, there is a pair of scars that Ghost is proud of. The only ones he ever chose for himself. Two lines curve under his pecs with vertical lines that extend up to his pierced nipples. The scars are thin, older and better maintained than the ones surrounding them, cared for by a loving hand from the very day that he got them. One of the best days of Ghost’s life, and one of the few left untainted by later grief.
He gives Soap a few moments to stare slack jawed at the new swath of pale skin, while trying not to visibly preen under the attention before he gestures to the pair. “These two. They are my favorite scars.”
Johnny blinks and tips towards Ghost to get a better look, “Christ ye're a bonnie lad aren't ya, Simon?”
There's the flirtatious comment he was hoping for earlier. Ghost shrugs and finishes off his beer so that he can flip his mask back on and hide the pink tint on his cheeks.
“Ye eveh gonnae lemme draw ye like ‘is, Lt.?”
Ghost’s chances of looking visibly unaffected by Soap’s attention goes out the window. “Maybe if you best Gaz’s time on the new track,” he chokes out. The thought of posing for Soap, languishing under his attentive gaze while the scratch of pencil on paper immortalizes the moment, leaves his cheeks burning more than the sun ever could. Much to his own annoyance even the barest hint of blush has always shown up on his skin like someone dropped a bucket of red paint on a white floor, and there's more than a hint spreading down his neck right now. Time for a deflection.
“Do you have a favorite scar of your own?” Ghost asks while hastily tugging his shirt back on. It might feel like hiding if Johnny’s smile wasn't so bright.
“I havenae got so many to choose frum yet so is gottae be t’one frum Las Almas. Bit o’ a borin' answer since ye've already seen it but is whit Ah got.”
Ghost nods. “It's a good one.”
Johnny grins. “Bin thinkin' aboot gettin' a cross'air tattooed aroond it.”
Ghost can't help but snort, “sounds like tempting fate.”
“Och c'moan, Si! What's te chances o’ getting shot in te same place twice?”
“I dunno but it's got to be higher if you tattoo a cross hair there.”
“Superstitious,” Johnny says, shaking his head, but he's still grinning.
Ghost doesn't have a retort to that, Soap’s right, even if he won't admit it aloud. Instead he reaches for another beer, and when they lap back into silence, it's a comfortable one. Johnny picks up the sketchbook he abandoned earlier and starts capturing the sunset in broad stokes, probably in preparation for painting it later. Ghost finds himself thinking that maybe, just maybe, he will let Soap draw him next time.