Archive of Our Own ^beta

Rain hammered against the rusted tin roofs, turning the narrow back-alley into a slurry of mud, diesel, and smoke. The op was supposed to be quick – recon, tag the target, exfil before midnight. Clean. Simple. Nothing they hadn’t done a hundred times.

It went wrong in under three minutes.

John “Soap” MacTavish ducked behind a crumbling doorway, weapon up, breath tight in his chest. The air tasted like smoke and heat. Their perimeter had collapsed the moment one of the greener privates had accidentally fired off a round and the target’s men realized they were being watched. Now, gunfire cracked from every direction, echoing too loudly in the tight maze of buildings of the supposedly “abandoned” factory.

There are too many of them, Soap thought, scanning for movement. Ghost was somewhere ahead, covering the end of the alley and the open street behind it with two young privates whose faces he barely knew.

Soap surveyed his surroundings, rifle raised, breath steady but pulse churning hot. When it seemed clear, he snuck through the alley to reach the next building, his boots splashing through pools of stagnant water.

“Roofline!” someone shouted through the comms just as Soap walked onto the open street.

Soap turned just in time to see the muzzle flash. The impact hit him like a metal fist to the chest – then another punched through high on his left side, hot and blooming. His breath left him all at once.

He stumbled back, vision whiting out, the world narrowing to a ringing throb. He tried to lift his weapon, but his arm didn’t want to obey. It felt like his shoulder had been stuffed with wet sand. Warmth began to spill down his torso, sticky and fast.

“MacTavish!” Ghost’s voice tore through the fog, low and ragged, the closest thing to panic Soap had ever heard from him.

Soap blinked hard, trying to focus. Ghost was a dark blur charging toward him through smoke and gunfire, mask even more ominous in the rain. One of the soldiers with them on this mission laid down suppressing fire while Ghost skidded to Soap’s side, one gloved hand finding his shoulder, the other pushing Soap back against the wall before he could fall.

The world swayed. The light on his vest flickered across the darkness, cutting briefly over Ghost’s skull-patterned mask before darkness swallowed the edges again.

Soap tried to speak, but his throat only rasped.

Ghost’s breathing was loud, sharp. “Talk to me, Soap. Where’ve you been hit?”

Soap looked down out of instinct. He almost wished he hadn’t. Blood soaked through his tactical vest in a spreading bloom, dripping over his belt, splattering onto the filthy ground.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he managed to mutter, voice weak but dry with humour. “That’s… that’s not ideal.”

Ghost didn’t laugh. “Focus.” His hand pressed hard over the wound, and white-hot pain arced down Soap’s arm.

Soap sucked in a breath through his teeth. His knees buckled, but Ghost kept him upright, kept him tethered.

“Stay with me, Soap,” Ghost growled, low and fierce. “Stay awake.”

The street flashed as rounds struck the wall above them. Ghost shoved Soap lower, practically covering him with his own body while shouting orders to the remaining team. The squad formed a defensive perimeter, shouting into comms for a medic and cover fire. Soap could hear the urgency in their voices, the grit of boots as they set up position, the rising echo of enemy movement around them. Someone yelled that hostiles were pushing through the south end.

Ghost didn’t look away from Soap.

“Ghost…” Soap rasped, breath shaking. He felt cold creeping in around the edges of his ribs, sinking deep. His fingers twitched toward the wound instinctively, but Ghost caught his wrist and pushed it firmly back down.

“Don’t touch it,” Ghost snapped quietly, but there was no anger in his voice. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Soap wanted to laugh, but the attempt sent a wet cough rattling through him.

Ghost immediately leaned over him, pressing harder on the bandages he was forming from torn fabric and gauze from his med pouch. “Soap. Look at me.”

Soap tried. Ghost’s face swam, doubled, steadied. The skull mask stared back at him, rain dripping like tears down bone-white paint.

“Good lad. Keep them up here.” Ghost’s voice was a low growl. “You don’t get to check out on me. Not here.”

Soap swallowed, the attempt thick and painful. Everything felt distant, like his limbs were submerged in cold water. The ringing in his ears mixed with the distant thud-thud-thud of firefight.

“Think… think they were aiming for ye,” he joked weakly. “Terrible shot, though.”

Ghost pressed harder onto his shoulder and Soap choked on a cry. “Keep talking. Do you hear me? You keep your eyes open.”

The world was tilting. Soap couldn’t tell if he was sitting, kneeling, or floating. Everything felt too light and too heavy at once. Darkness pulled at him, heavy and inviting. The fingers of his left arm tingled. He felt his head rolling to the side before Ghost cupped the back of his skull and lifted it gently, forcing Soap to meet his stare again.

“Johnny.” His real name – not Soap, not MacTavish. It cut through the haze. “Stay awake.”

Soap tried. God, he tried.

Someone shouted in the distance, “Med evac is ten minutes out!”

“They can’t get to us here,” Ghost snapped. “We need to move him now.”

The pressure eased for a moment – Ghost adjusting his grip – and Soap felt the warmth pour faster, slick against his skin. A wave of nausea rolled through him.

He blinked again, slower.

“Come on, Johnny.” Ghost shook him. “Stay with me.”

Soap tried. His eyelids felt carved from stone.

Just a second, he thought. Just need a second…

A hand slapped his cheek – not hard, but enough to jolt him.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Ghost snarled, voice cracking on the edge. “You stay awake. That’s an order.”

Soap wanted to tell him he’d do his best. He wanted to tell him he trusted him. He wanted to tell him he wasn’t scared – or maybe that he was, just a bit, but that having Ghost beside him mattered more than anything else right now.

But his tongue felt heavy. His eyelids drifted.

The world around him faded – gunfire turning to distant thunder, Ghost’s grip to something far away and soft. He could still feel the hand on his shoulder, still hear Ghost barking orders sharp and desperate, but it all sounded underwater.

“Ghost…” Soap finally managed to say. “Don’t… leave me.”

“I’m right here,” Ghost whispered – too soft for anyone else to hear. “I’m right bloody here, Johnny. Just stay with me.”

Ghost’s gloved hand tightened around Soap’s, grounding him, dragging him back from the pull of unconsciousness.

For a moment, Soap managed to cling to that anchor – to the heat of Ghost’s grip, to the rough steadiness of his voice, to the certainty that as long as Ghost stayed, he wasn’t alone in the dark.

Then the cold swept in fully.

Soap let out one more uneven breath before his vision collapsed into black.

The last thing he felt was Ghost’s grip refusing to let go.

~*~

Simon “Ghost” Riley had carried wounded men before. Dragged them through gunfire, hauled them over muddy ridges, pressed his hands over bleeding wounds while whispering useless promises through clenched teeth. But none of that compared to the sickening horror he felt when John MacTavish went limp in his arms.

“Soap- Johnny!” Ghost barked, shaking him once, twice. Soap’s head lolled, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. His breaths came shallow.

Ghost felt something cold and primal rip through his gut.

“Move!” he shouted at the soldiers surrounding them. “Cover us! Smoke up now!”

The team responded instantly – canisters hissed, the street filling with thick grey cover. It bought them mere seconds. Seconds Ghost spent half-lifting, half-dragging Soap down the narrow alley toward an courtyard where evac was supposed to land. Rain sheeted down in cold curtains, soaking through his gloves, turning the blood at his fingertips into a diluted, reddish smear.

Ghost ignored how the blood felt. He ignored everything except the weight in his arms and the faint rise and fall of Soap’s chest. They sprinted through the smoke, boots slipping on mud and debris.

“Johnny, you stay with me,” Ghost muttered, voice trembling despite the command he tried to force into it. “You hear? You don’t get to bloody leave me.”

Soap didn’t answer.

Ghost swore under his breath – words he hadn’t used since he was fifteen and angry at the world. He tightened his grip and ran harder.

The remaining soldiers of their squad formed a loose perimeter as they moved – weapons up, yelling warnings Ghost barely heard. Everything narrowed into two sensations: the slippery warmth of Soap’s blood under his palms and the slow rhythm of Soap’s fading breaths.

By the time they reached the extraction zone, a helicopter was circling low, rotor kicking up dust. The medics waved them forward.

Ghost lowered Soap onto the stretcher and climbed in right after him.

“You can’t come aboard,” one medic said sharply, accent thick. “Only the casualty-”

Ghost grabbed the edge of the door and leaned in close enough for the man to see the murder in his eyes.

“I. Am. Not. Leaving. Him.”

The medic swallowed and stepped aside. Ghost didn’t look away from him until the man nodded. Then he dropped to the seat beside Soap.

The medics worked frantically – cutting Soap’s gear away, applying pressure dressings, hooking him to monitors. Soap let out a faint groan – the first sound he made in minutes – and Ghost’s heart clenched. Every machine beeped too fast or too slow. Every number on the screen felt wrong.

Ghost watched Soap’s face. Pale. Lips tinged grey. Blood drying like rust across his chest.

“Come on, Johnny,” Ghost whispered. “If you die on me, I swear to God I’ll drag you back just to kill you myself.”

One of the medics shot him a startled look, but Ghost didn’t care. He only cared about Soap’s eyes, closed and unmoving.

The helicopter lifted, the ground dropping away beneath them. Rain streaked across the open cabin door. The medics worked quickly, securing an IV, applying pressure, checking vitals that twisted Ghost’s stomach into knots.

Soap’s hand twitched. Ghost grabbed it instantly, squeezing tight.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice breaking under the roar of the rotors. “I’ve got you. I’m not leaving you, Johnny.”

The medic shoved a portable oxygen mask over Soap’s mouth and nose. His chest rose in thin, uneven breaths. Ghost felt sweat trickle down his spine despite the cold.

The flight felt endless. Every second, Ghost counted Soap’s breaths like he could anchor him to the world by sheer will.

When the hospital rooftop finally came into view – a wide concrete building with fading paint and rusted railings – Ghost felt something in his chest unclench, just barely. The moment the skids hit the landing pad, the doors flew open and local medical staff rushed forward. Their uniforms were different, their speech rapid and unintelligible.

Ghost watched and followed closely as they wheeled Soap inside, down bright corridors that smelled like bleach and disinfectant. Soap’s stretcher rattled over uneven tiles. Machines beeped steadily, the only reassurance Ghost had that Soap was still alive.

The surgical ward loomed ahead. Doctors shouted instructions – some in English, most not. Ghost caught fragments: critical, blood loss, life-threatening.

They pushed through double doors – until a nurse stepped in front of Ghost, palm raised.

“You wait,” the man said firmly. “Surgery.”

Ghost tried to push past him. “I’m not leaving him-”

The nurse shook his head, expression strained. “They operate. You wait.”

The doors slammed shut, locking Ghost out. Ghost took a step forward anyway.

“Waiting,” the male nurse repeated, pointing down the hall. “You wait.”

Ghost looked through the small window in the double doors – just long enough to catch one last glimpse of Soap being wheeled beneath harsh surgical lights, oxygen mask secured over his face, blood trailing from the stretcher onto the tiles.

For a long second, Ghost stood there. His hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles ached under the gloves. The hallway buzzed faintly with fluorescent lights. Somewhere far away, a phone rang.

He forced himself to breathe.

Another nurse, an older woman, approached him slowly and touched his arm – then pointed again toward the waiting room. “Please. They… they do their best. This way.”

Ghost followed her numbly.

The waiting room was small, with mismatched plastic chairs and flickering lights. An old TV played a soap opera he couldn’t understand. A coffee machine hummed in the corner. The air smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant.

Ghost sank into a chair in the corner, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Rainwater dripped from his tactical gear, pooling on the floor. He stared at the blood on his gloves. Dried in some places, still tacky in others. Johnny’s blood. So much blood. Too much blood.

Someone brought him a cup of water. He didn’t drink it. Someone else asked him a question in a language he didn’t understand. He didn’t answer. Someone gave him a clipboard with information to fill in. Ghost wrote down everything he knew about Soap without registering any of the words.

His mind kept replaying the same image: Soap on the stretcher, pale, barely breathing, slipping away despite Ghost’s hands holding him down like an anchor.

Minutes crawled into hours. Every time footsteps echoed down the hall, Ghost’s heart kicked painfully against his ribs. But it was no one for him.

He stayed perfectly still. Perfectly silent.

But inside, everything screamed.

He should have been faster.

He should have seen the shooter on the roof.

Ghost stared at the double doors Soap had vanished through.

“Don’t die,” he murmured to no one. “Don’t you dare die.”

The clock on the wall ticked on.

And Ghost waited.

~*~

The hours Ghost spent in the waiting room blurred together into a sluggish, nauseating haze. Ghost didn’t remember standing, didn’t remember pacing, didn’t remember getting a cup of bitter coffee from the machine in the corner. He only remembered the waiting – the suffocating silence of it wrapped around him like a vice.

When the surgeon finally appeared in the doorway, Ghost snapped upright so fast his chair scraped against the floor.

The man was in rumpled green scrubs and a disposable cap, his eyes tired but alert. A nurse hovered at his shoulder, clutching a chart. Both hesitated as they approached Ghost, as though approaching a wild animal they weren’t sure was safe.

“Sir?” the surgeon said carefully, accent thick but words deliberate. “You… you wait for John MacTavish?”

“Yes.” Ghost’s voice came out low, gravel scraped over stone. “That’s me. How is he?”

The surgeon exchanged a quick glance with the nurse, then stepped closer. He spoke slowly, carefully choosing the English words.

“Surgery… finish,” he said slowly. “It go well.”

Ghost’s shoulders sagged. Not in relief – not yet – but in something like a slow, painful release of tension. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been wound up until that moment.

But the surgeon wasn’t finished.

“We stop bleeding. Repair damage.” He tapped lightly on his own left side, roughly where Soap had been hit. “Very deep wounds. Close to lung. Close to heart. Very dangerous.”

Ghost listened, jaw clenched.

“But… he alive,” the doctor repeated, as if sensing Ghost needed to hear it.

Ghost nodded once.

“His body… very tired. Much trauma. Much blood loss.” The man drew in a breath. “He sleep. Very deep sleep. Medical… eh…” He searched for the word, brow furrowing. “Coma. To let body rest. To heal.”

Ghost felt his stomach twist. A medically induced coma wasn’t uncommon – but hearing it said aloud was like feeling the floor drop beneath him.

“How long?” he asked.

The surgeon hesitated. “Maybe days. Maybe longer. Depends…” He gestured vaguely. “We monitor. Watch pressure, breathing, brain response.”

Ghost took that in silently. It wasn’t good news. But it wasn’t the worst news they could’ve given him. He looked between the surgeon and the nurse, his throat felt dry as sandpaper when he spoke: “He’ll wake up?”

The surgeon didn’t nod. Didn’t shake his head either. “Many patients do. He is strong. Young. Good heart.”

He offered Ghost a small, sympathetic smile. “We hope.”

Hope.

Ghost hated the word. Too soft. Too fragile.

But he clung to it anyway.

Ghost straightened. “I want to see him.”

At this, both the surgeon and the nurse stiffened. The nurse stepped forward, holding up the chart almost like a shield.

“Is… not possible,” she said gently. “Family only.”

Ghost stared at her. Family. He wasn’t family. Not by blood. Not by law. Besides, command wasn’t here. The only one who knew about Soap’s condition was him. A voice in the back of his head reminded him he should have called Laswell to inform them about Soap’s injury but he had more important matters to attend to. Like getting every scrap of information available – because Soap was his to look after out here.

“I’m his partner,” Ghost said. Because he was. Soap’s work partner. Superior. Coworker. Friend. Someone who covered Soap’s six in battle, someone who had just carried his bleeding body through hell.

The nurse’s eyes widened in soft recognition. The surgeon nodded slowly, expression shifting into understanding tinged with pity.

“Ah. Partner,” he repeated, as if that explained everything. “Yes. We see. Is okay.”

Ghost didn’t register the shift in tone. All he cared about was that they no longer looked ready to bar the door.

“Come,” the surgeon said, gesturing down the hall toward the recovery wing. “We take you to him.”

Ghost followed without question.

The halls were dimly lit, lined with old tiles and faint reflections of overhead lamps. The steady beep of machines grew louder the further they walked. A nurse led them to a small ICU room where Soap lay under a thin blanket, tubes and wires branching from him like fragile lifelines.

Ghost stopped in the doorway.

Soap looked… still. Too still. His hair was damp and pushed back from his forehead. His skin was pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. The monitors beeped steadily – a small mercy – but Ghost could see the strain on his chest as the ventilator supported each breath.

The nurse stepped aside. “You go in,” she said warmly.

Ghost barely hear her. He moved to Soap’s bedside and sat heavily in the chair, forearms resting on his knees as he stared at Soap’s slack, peaceful face.

“Johnny…” he whispered.

No response.

Not even the slightest change in the ventilator rhythm.

“You absolute idiot,” Ghost murmured under his breath. “Told you to stay awake.”

Ghost dropped his head, fingers curling around Soap’s wrist where the pulse beat faint and steady beneath warm skin. He sat there for minutes. Maybe hours. His mind refused to form coherent thoughts.

The satellite phone on his belt rang, startling him. Ghost flinched before fumbling for it, bringing it to his ear.

“Ghost? It’s Laswell,” her voice was firm but strained with exhaustion. “The remaining team got out. Everyone else made it to the fallback point. We heard about what happened.”

Ghost let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Good.”

“I need an update,” Laswell continued. “The medics said Soap was critical when they handed him over to the hospital staff.”

Ghost’s gaze drifted back to Soap’s face. “He made it through surgery.”

He heard Laswell exhale sharply. “Thank God.”

“They’ve put him in a medically induced coma.” Saying it aloud felt like admitting a weakness he didn’t want to acknowledge. “They… had to.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end.

“All right,” Laswell said gently. “Listen to me – I’m arranging for medical transport back to the UK. I’m working through diplomatic channels and pulling every damn string available.”

Ghost felt something in his chest ease. “How long will that take?”

“A day or two,” she said. “Maybe three, depending on whether or not the doctors deem him stable enough for transport. I’ll handle everything. We’ll get him home, Ghost. I promise. You just stay with him.”

Ghost swallowed hard. He didn’t trust promises – hadn’t trusted them in years. But Laswell’s were among the few he believed in.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured as he looked at Soap again – pale, silent, wrapped in wires and the soft hiss of machines.

“I figured as much. I’ll update you as soon as transport is confirmed.” The line clicked off.

Ghost lowered the phone and leaned back in the chair, settling in for a vigil he had no intention of abandoning. The rain outside beat softly against the window. The machines hummed methodically.

He studied Soap’s face – the faint freckles across his nose, the tension still lingering in his brow, the evidence of the fight he’d put up. He imagined those blue eyes open again, bright and sharp, full of that stupid reckless spark that drove Ghost insane. He imagined Soap saying his name the way he always did – half-grin, half-challenge.

“You’re gonna make it home, Johnny,” he whispered. “I’ll see to it myself.”

Soap didn’t stir.

Ghost stayed there – a silent sentinel, an unmovable presence, a guardian – through the fading hours of the night.

Watching.

Waiting.

Listening to every breath Soap took.

And hoping for one more.

~*~

The next few days passed in a fog Ghost refused to acknowledge. Day and night blurred into indistinct shades of grey outside the ICU windows, but he remained at Soap’s bedside with the same rigid vigilance he brought to battlefield watch shifts.

Soap didn’t wake. He laid motionless beneath the machines, chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm controlled by medication and mechanical support. Nurses came in at regular intervals, adjusting drips, checking vitals, murmuring soft reassurances Ghost rarely understood.

Ghost slept in the chair – fitful, shallow rest that left his neck stiff and his mind foggy – but he refused the cot the nurses offered in a room down the hall. He refused to leave the room except for brief, sharp breaks to splash cold water on his face or refill the steel thermos one of the nurses had given him with bitter coffee.

Somewhere around the third day, as dawn cast pale light through the blinds, Laswell contacted him again.

“Still stable?” she asked, her voice distorted through the satellite phone.

Ghost glanced at the monitor. “Still in the coma. Vitals holding.”

“I’m finalizing airlift clearance,” she said. “I’ve secured a military transport with a full medical team onboard. They’ll land within the next twenty-four hours. The hospital’s willing to release him as soon as the flight crew certifies he’s stable enough.”

Ghost exhaled slowly. Relief wasn’t something he felt easily, but it unfurled inside him like a slow, steady thaw. His gaze drifted to Soap – still unmoving, pale but breathing steadily.

“We’re getting him home,” Ghost said quietly.

There was a brief pause.

“Yes,” Laswell replied. “We are.”

When the flight arrived, everything happened at once.

A medical transport crew surged into the ICU with brisk, rehearsed efficiency. They checked Soap’s chart, examined his vitals, exchanged rapid-fire dialogue with the foreign nurses. Ghost stood close enough to hear every word even when he couldn’t decipher it. A paramedic approached him with a clipboard, gesturing for a signature. Ghost scrawled his name where indicated, his mind not truly on the paper.

One of the flight medics, a stern-looking woman, gave a nod.

“He’s stable enough for transfer,” she announced to the room at large. “Let’s get him back to home soil.”

Ghost stepped aside, just barely, as they lifted Soap’s bed and maneuverer him onto a specialized gurney designed for air evacuation. Tubes were secured. The ventilator switched to a portable model with a sharp click. A pulse-ox monitor beeped steadily.

Throughout the process, Soap never stirred.

Ghost walked beside the gurney as they wheeled him through the hospital corridors, down the lift, out onto the roof where the helicopter waited. The wind from the rotors whipped at Ghost’s clothes and sent loose papers flying from a nearby clipboard. He ignored all of it.

Inside the helicopter, he sat so close to Soap’s stretcher that his knees nearly touched it. He braced himself to keep the bed steady during take-off, fingers curled around the metal rail.

The medics worked quietly. Ghost watched every adjustment, every change in vitals, every flicker in Soap’s breathing.

The flight to the airfield, the transfer onto the military transport plane, the take-off – all of it passed in a blur. Ghost sat strapped into a seat beside Soap’s secured gurney, watching every rise and fall of his chest, every green pulse of the monitor. When turbulence rattled the cabin, Ghost steadied the equipment with one hand.

Six hours later, the UK coastline appeared through the small window – grey, familiar, and grounding. Ghost exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

They were home.

The moment the plane touched down at the military airfield, a team of British medical personnel boarded. They were crisp, efficient, composed in a way only long-practiced military medics could be. Ghost watched quietly as they transferred Soap from the aircraft stretcher to a specialized hospital gurney fitted with more advanced equipment.

“Lieutenant Riley?” one of them asked, matching his pace as they descended the ramp. “We’ve been briefed on Sergeant MacTavish’s condition. ICU is prepped. He’ll be settled in shortly.”

Ghost gave a curt nod. “Lead the way.”

The ambulance ride to the military hospital was mercifully short. By the time the vehicle rolled into the loading bay, staff were already waiting – ICU nurses, a respiratory therapist, and an officer holding a stack of paperwork.

Ghost stepped out behind the gurney as they wheeled Soap into the brightly lit halls of the hospital. Clean air, antiseptic, sharp lighting – it all felt too calm, too normal for the chaos still echoing in his mind.

Finally, they slid Soap into a private ICU room, monitors switching seamlessly to the hospital’s system, lines reconnected, vitals displayed in crisp clarity.

Ghost followed.

Or tried to.

A firm hand pressed against his chest.

“Lieutenant Riley, I’m going to need you to wait just a moment,” a nurse said, soft but commanding. “We need to finalize his intake forms and ensure everything is correct before you enter.”

Ghost stiffened. “What needs correcting?”

“Oh, hardly anything,” she said cheerfully, flipping through the clipboard papers as she blocked the doorway. “All your details are already in his file – they were transferred directly from the foreign hospital. Spousal information included.”

Ghost blinked. “…what?”

“It’s in all the documents from the foreign hospital, dear,” the nurse waved a hand casually, eyes still scanning the papers. “Spousal designation, next-of-kin priority, medical decision authority – the works. HR wasn’t aware of the change yet but we took care of that for you. You’re officially flagged as Sergeant MacTavish’s husband.”

Ghost opened his mouth slowly. “That’s incorrect. I didn’t say that.”

“Mhm, yes, of course,” she murmured absently, flipping another page. “We’ve already got the paperwork. Just needed your signature confirming you accompanied him. The rest is sorted.”

“I didn’t-” Ghost tried again, sharper now.

“Oh, we know, we know,” she said, talking over him with a practiced, breezy efficiency. “Stressful situation, language barriers, lots of confusion. Happens all the time on overseas operations.”

Ghost stared at her, jaw tightening. She clearly wasn’t listening.

“Look,” he said, voice dropping low. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not-”

“Perfect,” she interrupted brightly, thrusting a pen at him. “Sign here so we can let you in. I’m sure this has all been terribly stressful for you.”

She was already stepping away, calling instructions to another nurse, leaving no space for argument.

Ghost’s shoulders tensed under the weight of irritation – and something else. Something uneasy. Something he didn’t like. He looked through the glass door at Soap, barely visible behind a cluster of medical staff adjusting equipment.

This wasn’t the moment to fight a bureaucratic mess.

He signed.

The nurse flashed him a proud, approving smile, like he didn’t just surrender to admin overwhelm.

“Wonderful! You can go in now, Lieutenant.”

Ghost ignored the title, pushed through the doors, and moved to Soap’s bedside.

Everything else could wait.

Right now, Soap was all that mattered.

~*~

Ghost lost track of how long he sat in the ICU room after Soap was settled. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. Over the past days, he had learned that time ran strange inside hospital walls. He spend half of the time in the chair by Soap’s bed, and the other half standing guard at the window like he expected hostiles to breach the ward.

A sharp knock on the partially opened door had him turn around.

Price filled the doorway, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Behind him stood Gaz, exhausted but alert.

“Christ, look at you. You’re a bloody fright,” Price said in his rumbling voice.

Ghost huffed something like a laugh, though it came out ragged. “Didn’t come here for a fashion critique, did you?”

Price took in the room with a single sweep of his eyes – Soap unconscious, Ghost in full gear, the medical equipment humming around them. His expression tightened for a fraction of a second.

Then he stepped inside.

Gaz followed, shutting the door behind them with a soft click.

“Well,” Price said quietly, folding his arms. “How is he doing?”

“Stable. No change.” Ghost swallowed, feeling the weight of the word stable – Soap might have been stable but he was still too fragile, too dependent on machines and drugs. “They’re keeping him in the coma until they’re sure there won’t be complications.”

Price nodded, gaze heavy with the kind of understanding that came from responsibility and years of watching good men bleed. Gaz reached out and gently touched the rails of the bed – like grounding himself. “Stubborn bastard like Soap will pull through.”

Ghost didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could without his voice breaking.

Price exhaled through his nose and stepped closer. “You alright?”

Ghost didn’t look at him. “Fine.”

Price snorted. “You look like you’re two seconds from falling over.”

“I’m fine,” Ghost repeated, the edge sharp enough to cut.

Price didn’t press. Instead, he held out the duffel bag.

Ghost stared at it and didn’t move.

“You gonna take it?” Price asked. “Or do I need to dress you myself?”

Ghost looked down. He was still in his tactical vest. Plates still in. Boots caked with dust from two different countries. Dried blood – Soap’s blood – on his clothes. He reached for the bag, feeling the weight of clean clothes inside. His throat tightened.

“Figured you would refuse to leave the building, so we brought the wardrobe to you,” Price said, voice softer now. “Get cleaned up before a nurse hoses you down.”

Gaz nudged him lightly. “You smell like recycled sweat and misery.”

Price took a seat at the edge of the room, arms crossed, eyes lingering on Soap. “Laswell debriefed us,” he said. “We know what happened.”

Gaz nodded. “The privates that were with you on the op told us you carried him through half the district. Said you didn’t let go once.”

Ghost shifted uncomfortably. “Would’ve done the same for any of you.”

Gaz gave him a look that said he didn’t believe that for a second.

Then Price said quietly, “Also heard about the paperwork.”

Ghost froze.

Gaz looked between them. “Paperwork?”

Price’s brows lifted in something like suppressed amusement. “The paperwork from the foreign hospital lists Ghost as Soap’s husband. Carried over into ours. HR has updated the system already.”

Ghost felt the skin beneath his mask go hot. “That’s wrong. I didn’t- I never said-”

Gaz grinned as if Ghost were admitting to something embarrassing and cute rather than an administrative catastrophe. “Mate, no one ends up listed as someone’s husband by accident.”

“I did,” Ghost snapped, voice low and sharp. “I never said husband. I told them partner. As in work partner. They must have misunderstood.”

Gaz laughed under his breath. “Pretty sure that’s how this sort of thing starts in every romance film ever.”

Ghost glared so hard Gaz immediately straightened.

“Oh, I am aware it was a mistake.” Price’s voice had that infuriatingly calm tone. “Language barriers, misfiled forms, the usual mess.”

Ghost stiffened. “It wasn’t- I tried to-”

Price waved a gloved hand dismissively. “Relax, Lieutenant. Medical staff have bigger worries than fixing a clerical error.”

“It’s a bloody big error,” Ghost growled.

Price shrugged. “It’s not hurting anyone.”

Ghost dragged a hand over his face. “I’ll talk to HR.”

“Later,” Price said firmly.

Ghost looked up, eyes narrowing.

“Because,” Price continued, “you’ve been granted family leave.”

Ghost stared at the older man in shock. Gaz grinned like he knew this was coming, “That means you don’t get pulled for duty, Ghost. You can stay here with Soap.”

Ghost blinked once. His throat tightened around something he couldn’t name. “They granted what?”

Price lifted a brow. “Family leave. For the husband of an injured serviceman.”

“I’m not-”

Price cut him off with a raised hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, seriously-”

“Later,” Price repeated. His voice had the same tone that once stopped a roomful of recruits mid-brawl. “Don’t worry about the paperwork. Your priority is him. All that other shite can be sorted later.”

Ghost opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“I didn’t-”

Gaz clapped him on the shoulder. “Mate, look at you two. Do you think anyone’s gonna argue you don’t belong here?”

Ghost’s jaw tensed. He looked back at Soap – pale, still, machines doing the work his body struggled to manage. His chest tightened painfully.

Price softened. “Let the misunderstanding stand for now. You’re here. He needs you. That’s all that matters.”

Ghost exhaled slowly, grudgingly accepting the point. He’d fight the paperwork later.

Price’s gaze softened. “Go get changed. Have a shower. I’ll sit with him until you’re back.”

Ghost hesitated – long enough that Price’s brows rose.

“You don’t trust me to watch your husband for ten minutes, Lieutenant?”

Ghost let out a strangled sound that might’ve been a groan or a suppressed scream.

Gaz laughed outright. “Oh, he hates that.”

Price smirked. “All the more reason to keep saying it.”

Ghost dragged a hand down his masked face. “…you two are insufferable.”

But he stepped back, because Price was right – he needed a shower, needed out of the gear that smelled like blood and dust and fear.

Price squeezed his arm once – steadying, grounding. “He’s alive, son. That’s what matters.”

Ghost nodded tightly and turned toward the bathroom the nurses told him was for family. Behind him, he could hear Gaz murmuring through the glass to Soap – soft, comforting, like he thought the man might hear him through the drugs. Price stood watch, arms crossed.

For the first time in days, Ghost allowed himself to breathe. Not easily. Not freely. But enough.

Soap was safe. Soap was home.

And Ghost – whether he wanted it or not – was now officially the man’s husband in the eyes of two hospitals and the entire SAS chain of command.

Bloody hell.

~*~

Ghost adjusted to the ICU faster than he expected, considering he hadn’t slept in a real bed in nearly a week and had spent the first forty-eight hours convinced Soap might die if he so much as blinked wrong.

At first, the nurses had eyed him with polite caution – large, masked, dressed in full armour before Price forced him into clean civilian clothes. They tolerated him sitting rigidly beside the bed, elbows on his knees, hand resting against Soap’s forearm as if physical contact were the only thing tethering Soap to the world.

By the third day, they stopped tolerating and started accommodating.

“You should sleep,” the day nurse – the one with glasses on a chain who reminded Ghost faintly of a strict schoolteacher – murmured one morning, her accent soft but steady. “Just a little.”

Ghost shook his head. “I’m not leaving him.”

“We noticed,” she replied dryly.

That afternoon, a second nurse wheeled something in – a collapsible cot, thin mattress, neat military corners as if to appeal to him specifically.

Ghost blinked at it. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said, unfolding it near Soap’s bedside. “You’re not doing anyone any favours by sleeping upright in that chair.”

Ghost didn’t know what shocked him more – the cot, or the fact she sounded genuinely worried about him.

“I didn’t ask for-”

“You didn’t have to.” She said in that gentle-but-authoritative tone they all used around family members. “Lie down before you start tilting sideways like you did yesterday.”

He bristled at being handled. “I do not tilt.”

“You absolutely do,” she said, entirely unimpressed. “And your husband would be furious if he woke to find you collapsed from exhaustion.”

Ghost blinked hard behind the mask.

The nurse paused, her expression softening. “He’s in good hands. But you’re no good to him in pieces.”

After that, it was over.

Every nurse treated him like he belonged there. Not intruder. Not just another soldier.

Like family.

Like the husband.

He stopped trying to correct them – mostly because every attempt dissolved into nods from staff who clearly thought he was just overwhelmed with worry.

Which… wasn’t entirely wrong.

But he still grumbled under his breath whenever someone called him “love” or “dear” or “Mr. MacTavish” (that one nearly killed him on the spot).

The longer the misunderstanding lasted, the harder it became to correct. Momentum built around him, softening edges he’d spent years sharpening. The nurses joked with him. They spoke to him in quiet tones reserved for long-term loved ones. They made space for him like he belonged here.

And Ghost stayed. Hour after hour. Day after day. Sitting at Soap’s bedside with that steady beeping and faint antiseptic smell, pretending the world outside didn’t exist.

It almost felt real.

By day five, the nurses were no longer the problem.

Because that morning, Ghost stepped out into the hallway to grab a cup of shitty coffee…

…and walked straight into the ambush.

“Excuse me,” a woman called, voice tight with worry. “Are ye- d’ye happen to be John’s husband?”

Ghost froze.

He turned slowly, instinctively shifting into combat posture.

Standing there were two people around Price’s age. A short, kind-eyed woman wearing a knitted cardigan that could blind a man. And a tall man with broad shoulders and a heavy brow, arms crossed, gaze landing on Ghost with the weight of judgment only fathers possessed.

Ghost’s stomach dropped. He had faced down cartel bosses, arms traffickers, and war criminals.

None of them were as terrifying as Soap’s parents. Because that was the only thing the two people staring at him could be. Soap’s parents.

Dear God.

Soap’s mum barrelled straight up to him, cupping his cheek with a familiarity that short-circuited his brain even though Ghost was at least a foot taller. “You poor darlin’. Look at you. You look like you haven’t slept in days!”

Ghost made a strangled noise. “Ma’am- I- You’re-”

Before he could finish, she enveloped him in a hug.

Ghost went rigid. Shocked. Confused. Terrified.

But her voice was gentle at his ear. “We didn’t know he got married. We didn’t know about you. But thank you for taking care of our boy.”

He had been trained to survive torture. Nothing prepared him for this.

She turned to the nurse hovering nearby. “Has he eaten today? He looks peaky. You must tell me if he won’t listen. John is the same, once he hyperfixates on somethin’, everythin’ else falls away.”

Ghost tried to protest, but the nurse was already nodding. Enthusiastically. “He’s been very dedicated but it’s hard to get him to eat.”

Soap’s mum tutted disapprovingly at Ghost. “You’re no good to my John if you waste away.”

Ghost blinked. “…your John.”

Before he could gather even a scrap of his composure, Soap’s father stepped forward. He was larger up close, an imposing man with the same steel in his eyes as his son – only colder.

He eyed Ghost from boots to mask.

 “So,” he said, voice low, “mind explaining why we had to hear about our son’s marriage from hospital staff?”

Ghost wished – briefly, fiercely – for a flashbang.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “It’s… complicated.”

The father raised a brow. “Complicated how?”

Ghost inhaled. He needed something believable – something close enough to truth he wouldn’t trip over it. And, hell, he did have a point of absolute truth he could use.

“Legally,” Ghost started slowly, “I’m dead.”

Both of Soap’s parents blinked at him.

Ghost continued, finding his stride. “My identity is classified and my records list me as deceased. Declared KIA years ago. You can’t legally marry someone who doesn’t exist on paper.”

Soap’s mother pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, love… that must be so hard on you both.”

The father frowned thoughtfully. “So you two kept it private.”

Ghost nodded stiffly. “Yes.”

Soap’s mother softened, her voice gentle. “Well, whether it’s official or not, dear, we’re grateful you’re here. You must’ve been terrified. Seeing him hurt like this.”

Ghost swallowed thickly. “I- yeah.”

Soap’s mum clasped his hands. “Then you stay, love. As long as you need. You’re family. Now, lead the way, we want to see him.”

Ghost sent a silent plea to any deity within range.

None answered.

So, faced with no other choice, he guided her into the ICU room.

Mrs. MacTavish’s breath caught when she saw her son – pale, still, surrounded by machines. She went straight to his side, brushing hair from his forehead with trembling fingers. Mr. MacTavish (the real one) stood at the foot of the bed, unmoving, jaw clenched – but his eyes were glassy.

Ghost lingered by the doorway, unsure where he fit in this scene.

“You’re not standing over there,” Soap’s mother chided. “Come closer.”

Reluctant, Ghost stepped to the side of the bed. Soap’s mother patted his arm like she’d adopted him on the spot.

Soap’s parents stayed for days.

Soap’s mum brought knitted blankets, home-cooked meals she smuggled past the nurses, and scolded Ghost each time he didn’t take a proper break – though she also praised him when she caught him sleeping on the cot.

Soap’s father remained more reserved, but Ghost caught him lingering in the doorway sometimes, watching Ghost adjust Soap’s blankets or speak quietly to him. Measuring him. Judging him. He warmed slowly but steadily after watching Ghost spend every waking moment within arm’s reach of his son.

By the end of the third day, he clapped Ghost on the shoulder – not lightly.

“You’re alright, son.”

Ghost didn’t respond at first.

Then, quietly, “Thank you, sir.”

Soap’s mother beamed at them both like they were already a proper family.

Ghost didn’t have the heart – or the courage – to correct her.

Ghost never meant for the lie to take roots. But after a week in the ICU, with the nurses who called Soap “his husband”, and Soap’s parents who introduced him to a rotating cast of extended family over video calls as “John’s lad” while Ghost just sat there, jaw locked, letting them, it was hard to keep the lie contained.

Ghost kept telling himself he was only maintaining the illusion because unravelling it would cause pain, confusion, paperwork. He told himself he wasn’t leaning into it. He wasn’t letting it take shape.

But every night he slept on the cot beside Soap, listening to the machines steady his friend’s fragile heartbeat, he felt something shift. Something dangerous. Something warm.

When Soap’s mum hugged him goodbye for the night, Ghost found himself hugging back – properly, arms around her, face pressed briefly into her shoulder.

He hadn’t hugged anyone like that in years.

No one questioned him. No one doubted that he belonged here, seated beside John MacTavish like the most important person in the soldier’s life.

He shouldn’t have let it happen.

He knew that.

But he had grown used to the weight of the ringless marriage he wore – this ghost of a commitment never made, never spoken, but treated as truth by every person who passed through the room. And slowly, unbearably slowly, Ghost’s resistance eroded.

He started staying awake at night imagining Soap teasing him about the whole situation. Imagining Soap laughing about Ghost being mistaken for his husband. Imagining Soap knowing the truth and not minding. Imagining Soap knowing… and wanting this to be real too.

Those were dangerous thoughts.

He shoved them down.

Then let them rise again, because there was no one here to stop him.

Ghost spent hours each day just holding Soap’s hand. No one questioned it – of course the husband would do that. Of course he’d sit there whispering encouragement, promising the world would wait, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Come back, Johnny. I’m right here.

He said it like a vow.

He said it like he meant it.

And he did.

But the longer he lived inside the lie, the more it became part of him. A shape that fit too neatly, a story he knew too well.

He had a place here.

A role.

A life he’d never imagined having.

And every passing day tightened its grip around his ribs until he couldn’t tell where the lie ended and where his hidden, impossible hope began.

Eventually, Ghost made peace with it, made peace with the fact that he wanted this lie to be real.

And then, very sudden, Soap woke up.

~*~

The first thing he felt was a dull, heavy weight on his ribs and spine, like someone had stacked sandbags across his chest. The second thing was light – too bright even through the thin veil of his eyelashes. The third was noise, soft and steady: a rhythmic beeping that tugged at the edges of his memory like a stubborn thread.

He tried to breathe deeper and immediately regretted it. His lungs stuttered. His throat burned. Something tugged at his arm.

He tried to move his fingers.

They responded – slow, shaky.

A sound escaped him. More a rasp than a voice. His mouth was dry, tongue thick, throat raw.

His eyes blinked open.

White ceiling. Soft lights. A rhythmic beeping.

The sterile smell of antiseptic.

Hospital.

He knew that much.

He didn’t know why.

His thoughts were mud – sliding, unsteady, refusing to form anything coherent. He had a sense of being elsewhere – of heat, shouting, gunfire – but it slid away the moment he reached for it.

Before he could gather enough strength to lift his head, a presence swept into the room – warm, brisk, and impossibly gentle.

“Oh!” a woman gasped, rushing to his side. “Sergeant MacTavish, you’re awake!”

Her hand settled on his forearm with practiced ease. She smiled down at him with the kind of kindness that suggested she’d been waiting for this moment. Her face swam for a moment as his eyes struggled to focus.

Soap attempted speech but barely managed a croak.

She immediately lifted a cup with a straw, guiding it to his lips. “Just a sip. Slowly.”

The first sip was heavenly agony.

“There we go,” she said, removing the straw gently. “Don’t push yourself. You’ve been through a lot.”

Her next words were casual. Cheerful. And entirely devastating.

“Your husband just stepped out to call your parents. He’ll be back shortly – he hasn’t left your side.”

Soap stared at her.

“…sorry.” He coughed, voice cracking. “My what?”

She blinked at him. “Your husband.”

Soap let out a hoarse, incredulous laugh that tugged painfully at stitches he couldn’t see. “I don’t have a husband.”

The nurse’s expression faltered for the briefest flash – worry flickering behind her eyes before she rearranged her features into a calm, professional smile.

“It’s alright, Sergeant. I’ll get the doctor, okay? You’ve had a long rest.” She squeezed his hand. “Just stay calm.”

Soap was not calm. But he could barely move, let alone argue, so all he could do was stare helplessly at the ceiling as she hurried out, her steps brisk. Too brisk. Like she was worried.

Memories slipped around him like oil. He grasped at fragments of a mission – heat, movement, Ghost’s voice barking orders – but the moment he tried to hold on, pain lanced behind his eyes.

He squeezed them shut. Gritted his teeth. Tried to breathe through the rising frustration.

Another voice entered – older, calmer.

“Sergeant MacTavish?”

He opened his eyes to find a doctor and two more nurses standing beside the bed. The doctor leaned in, gaze sharp behind glasses.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“John MacTavish,” Soap rasped.

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

“A hospital.” He swallowed. “Dunno which one.”

“That’s alright.” The doctor clicked his pen. “What’s the last thing you remember before waking up?”

Soap searched. The void resisted. He felt heat – dust – Ghost shouting – but no clarity.

He shook his head weakly. “I…don’t know. It’s foggy. Really foggy.”

The doctor’s brows pressed together, a flicker of concern tightening his expression. “You were injured during an operation abroad and you’ve been in a coma for the past two weeks.”

Two weeks. Christ.

His heart stuttered, machines picking up the shift. A nurse instantly soothed him with a hand on his shoulder.

“It is expected you don’t remember much,” the doctor continued, “You may have some retrograde amnesia after such trauma.”

Retrograde amnesia. Missing time.

Soap’s stomach dropped. “How bad?”

“We’ll run scans,” the doctor said gently. “For now, it’s good that you’re oriented and communicating.”

The nurse on his left checked his IV. The other adjusted a sensor on his finger. Their movements were careful, professional, yet all their eyes carried the same subtle worry.

And then –

A voice outside the room.

Low. Familiar. Controlled.

Ghost.

Soap’s heart jumped – automatic, instinctive – before confusion crashed right back over him. Why was Ghost here? And why was nobody telling him anything about this husband he suddenly had acquired? As far as Soap could remember, he wasn’t dating – let alone married.

Ghost stepped into the doorway but didn’t get far. A nurse put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“He’s awake, but there’s something you should know,” she whispered, not nearly quietly enough. “He might not remember you. Or your marriage.”

Soap’s confusion doubled, tripled, knotted into something sharp and dizzying. Why would the nurse say that? Why would Ghost even- Soap’s chest clenched.

He snapped his eyes to Ghost.

Ghost froze.

Completely still. Shoulders tense under the black hoodie he hadn’t been wearing the last moment Soap remembered. A black surgical mask covering his lower face. Eyes unreadable.

For a single, suspended moment, Soap wasn’t sure which of them looked more shocked.

Then Ghost nodded – slow and measured. Like he’d prepared for this possibility.

“It’s fine,” he said quietly. “’Course it is.”

Soap didn’t understand any of it. Never in his life had he been so utterly confused as he was now.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Let’s give them a moment.”

The staff shuffled out, their whispers fading down the hall. The door clicked softly closed.

And suddenly it was just the two of them.

Soap in a hospital bed, weak and confused.

Ghost standing a few feet away, massive and controlled, but with something brittle under his composure.

The silence was suffocating.

Soap swallowed, wincing at the dryness of his throat. “Ghost…”

Ghost’s breath hitched faintly – so subtle anyone else would’ve missed it.

“You remember me,” he said. A statement, not a question.

“Aye,” Soap answered. “Of course, I remember you.”

Ghost nodded once, relief flickering but not settling.

Soap studied him. The dark circles under his eyes. The exhaustion in the set of his shoulders. The tension he carried like armour. Soap licked his dry lips. His voice scraped out rough and accusing: “Ghost… why the hell does everyone think ye’re my husband?”

Ghost closed his eyes for a slow, bracing second, then opened them again – guilt, fatigue, and something else flickering behind the dull red rims. The kind of exhale that came from the bottom of the lungs shuddered out of him.

He stepped closer – slowly – like approaching a wounded animal.

Then he pulled the lone chair to Soap’s bedside, sat down heavily, and laced his gloved fingers together.

And Soap knew, with a sinking certainty: whatever the hell had happened while he was under, Ghost had been at the centre of it.

“Alright,” Ghost began, voice low, steady in the way that meant he’d rehearsed this. “You deserve the truth.”

Soap blinked, head tipped just enough to show he was listening even through the lingering fog in his head.

“You were shot during a routine operation. Had to get you a med evac to the nearest hospital where you were rushed into emergency surgery. I waited – there was a lot of blood, Johnny. I thought-” Ghost’s jaw clenched. He shook his head, as if to shake the memory away. “They put you into a medically induced coma, and weren’t letting anyone into the ICU unless they were family. No one else was there. It was just me.”

Soap’s heartbeat stuttered. He could picture Ghost alone in some foreign ward, surrounded by strangers, refusing to leave his side.

“I told them I was your partner,” Ghost said. “Figured it’d get me in the door. I needed to be there. I wasn’t… I wasn’t letting you go through that alone.”

That part sat thick in the air for a moment. Soap felt something twist under his ribs – not pain exactly, but something sharp and warm and overwhelming.

“But,” Ghost added, exhaling, “they misunderstood. I meant work partner. They made assumptions. They put ‘husband’ in the paperwork. I only noticed the mix-up when you were transported back here and suddenly I was the one with medical decision authority.”

Soap stared at him. “And you never-?”

“Tried. Nurse talked over me. Twice. By the time you were settled here properly, HR already updated the system.”

Soap’s brain spun, trying to reconcile waking up to the word husband meaning the man sitting three feet from him, looking like he’d crawled out of hell and then refused to leave.

Ghost cleared his throat, continuing, “Price and Gaz know. Found out during the debrief. Price just… told me to keep it up. Command already granted me family leave for the time it takes you to fully recovered.”

Soap blinked. “Family leave.”

The black surgical mask hid most of Ghost’s face, but there was a faint twitch at the corner of his eye that told Soap enough. “For the husband of an injured serviceman.”

Soap’s face burned hot enough to melt the IV stand.

“And that’s… not all,” Ghost added, voice tightening.

“What else?” Soap asked weakly, already fearing the answer.

“Your parents.” Ghost hesitated. “They came to visit while you were out. Nurses introduced me as your husband before I could say a damn thing.”

Soap’s jaw dropped. “My- my parents think we’re married?”

Ghost nodded once. “Your mum was… well, your mum.” Something almost fond softened his eyes. “Your dad was suspicious. Asked why he’d never heard of me.”

Soap stared at him, stunned into silence.

“I told them it wasn’t official,” Ghost said quietly. “Because I’m legally dead. Can’t exactly get married on paper when you don’t exist. It was the only way I could get out of registering a fake marriage certificate or something equally mental.”

Soap pressed both hands to his temples, overwhelmed. Ghost being at his bedside wasn’t surprising. Ghost protecting him wasn’t surprising. But this? Everyone – the doctors, the nurses, his parents – thinking he was married to Ghost all because of a misunderstanding?

His head spun. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“You alright?” Ghost asked, leaning forward slightly, concern clear in his voice.

“No,” Soap whispered honestly. “Not even a little.”

Before Ghost could respond, a knock sounded. The door opened and a nurse poked her head inside. “Sergeant MacTavish? The doctor wants a head scan now that you’re fully awake. We’ll get you ready for transport.”

Ghost rose immediately, stepping out of the way as if he was used to Soap getting transported.

Soap was still reeling from what Ghost told him, brain lagging behind reality. “Scan?”

“It’s just a precaution,” the nurse soothed. “The doctors want updated imaging. Your husband can wait here and meet you afterward.”

Soap choked on his own breath. “My- right. Yes. Him.”

Ghost’s eyes flicked with something unreadable, but he didn’t interfere. As they unlocked the wheels and began moving Soap’s bed, the first nurse leaned down to him conspiratorially. “Your husband has been extraordinary. You’ve given him quite a scare, y’know. He hasn’t left your side except when absolutely necessary.”

Soap sputtered. “Aye, he- right. Um. Aye.” His voice cracked with confusion and reluctant agreement.

Another nurse chimed in as they pushed him down the corridor. “Most devoted man we’ve ever seen. Wouldn’t even leave to get proper meals. We had to bring in a cot so he wouldn’t collapse from exhaustion. And still, he didn’t sleep more than an hour at a time without waking to check on you. Very sweet, really.”

Soap made a helpless noise that might have been thanks or might have been the sound of his soul leaving his body. He could picture Ghost doing that, could picture him rigidly refusing to leave, could picture him awake at odd hours watching monitors and nurses and Soap’s unmoving body.

It should have felt absurd. Uncomfortable. Embarrassing.

But instead it tugged at something soft and bewildering in him.

He let his head sink back into the pillow as the lights above rolled past. Ghost acting like his husband. Ghost sitting at his bedside for two weeks. Ghost staying because no one else was there. Ghost somehow making himself the next of kin and then sticking to the role without hesitation.

It didn’t feel as strange as it should.

It felt… oddly natural.

Dangerously natural.

By the time they reached the imaging suite, Soap wasn’t sure what scared him more – the scale of the lie…

…or how easy it would be to imagine it being true.

~*~

Soap returned from the radiology department with his head throbbing from exhaustion and too many questions. Yet, most of his attention was fixed on the growing, anxious knot in his stomach. But the moment the door to his ICU room opened, all of that jolted to a stop.

His mum was sitting in the visitor’s chair, hands wringing a knitted scarf like it was a lifeline. His dad stood near the window, arms folded, looking like a man braced for impact but determined not to show it. And Ghost was leaning against the wall beside them, posture relaxed, talking quietly with Soap’s dad like they’d known each other for years.

All three heads snapped up when the wheelchair appeared.

“John!” his mum gasped, immediately bursting into tears as she rushed forward.

“Mum-” Soap started, but she was already cupping his face, smoothing his hair back, kissing his forehead, checking every inch of him like she expected something to fall off.

“Oh, sweetheart, look at you. Awake, thank God. You scared us half to death.” Her voice wobbled and cracked, and Soap felt his chest cave in a little.

“Aye, Mum,” he managed, voice rough. “M’here.”

Dad stepped up next, hand firm but gentle on Soap’s shoulder. “Good to see you back with us, son.”

And then Mum turned to Ghost with the kind of warm, approving look she used to reserve for people who brought her extra scones.

“Simon’s been wonderful,” she said proudly to Soap, like she was reporting on a star pupil. “Never left your side, not even when we told him to get some rest. We’ve been keeping each other company while you were under.”

Soap stared at her. Then at Ghost. Then back at her.

He expected tension. Confusion. Questions.

What he didn’t expect was the warm, fond smile his mum shot Ghost, like she was greeting a son-in-law she adored. Or his father giving Ghost a small, approving nod.

“Mum-”

Ghost cleared his throat, stepping back a little. “I’ll, uh… let you have some time. I’ll be right outside.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” his mum cut in immediately, spinning back toward him like a heat-seeking missile. “You stay right where you are.”

Ghost froze.

Actually froze. Like someone had hit him with a flashbang.

“Mum,” Soap tried again. “There’s… something I need to tell you.”

“Yes,” she said, pointing a finger at him as though he were twelve again. “You need to tell us why on earth you didn’t say a word about this lovely man,” she gestured emphatically at Ghost, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet, “Honestly, John, how could you not tell us?”

Soap nearly choked. Ghost turned his attention to the floor so quickly it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash.

“Mags,” Dad murmured, tugging lightly at her sleeve. “Ease up on the lad. He just came out of a coma.”

She huffed. “I know that, Alan. I’m not scolding, I’m expressing my feelings.”

“That’s scolding, dear.”

“It is not scolding, it’s-” she stopped, sighing. “Fine. Fine. I’m just… relieved he’s alright.”

Soap wasn’t sure if she meant him or Ghost.

Ghost lifted his head at that, eyes flicking briefly to her, something soft passing through them before he looked away again.

His mum clasped her hands. “Now then. Simon, come sit. Honestly, you look like you’re about to fall over.”

“I’m fine,” Ghost muttered.

“He’s been saying that for days,” Dad said, giving Soap a pointed look as if to convey: he’s as stubborn as you are.

Soap could only blink at him, jaw slack.

His mum was already ushering Ghost to the chair beside the bed, nudging him onto it before he could protest. Ghost sank down with the resigned acceptance of a man defeated by maternal force.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “Much better.”

Soap couldn’t believe what he was witnessing.

Ghost – towering, terrifying, death-faced, legendary Ghost – sat meekly in a chair while his mum fussed with the blanket draped over Soap’s legs like she was preparing them both for a family photo.

“How are you feeling, love?” she asked, brushing his hair back. “The nurses said you might be disoriented.”

“Aye,” Soap croaked. “Just… takin’ things in.”

Dad nodded. “It’ll come back to you.”

“Have you been eating, Simon?” Mum asked suddenly, rounding on Ghost like a drill sergeant.

Ghost straightened. “Uh- yes?”

“No, he hasn’t,” Dad corrected. “The nurses told me they barely got a sandwich in him since we left yesterday.”

Ghost shot him a betrayed look. Dad raised an eyebrow.

Soap stared between them, utterly lost. “You three are… getting along?”

Mum smiled brightly. “Of course! Simon’s been wonderful. Very polite. Very caring. Nothin’ like what ye described when ye talked about yer team.”

Soap was fairly certain he forgot how breathing worked.

“Mags,” Dad cut in gently, “maybe we should let him rest a bit. He looks knackered.”

“Oh! Of course. Yes. Sorry, darling.” She kissed Soap’s forehead again before patting Ghost’s arm. “We’ll be back later. Don’t you let him overexert himself.”

Ghost made a strangled sound. Soap wasn’t sure if it was agreement or panic.

Dad clapped Ghost on the shoulder – an act Soap had never seen a civilian survive before. “You boys behave.”

Then his parents left the room, Mum already whispering to Dad about bringing homemade food next time.

The door clicked shut.

Silence stretched.

Soap stared at Ghost.

Ghost stared at the wall.

Soap finally said, “What the hell was that?”

Ghost dropped his head into his hands with a groan. “Your family,” he mumbled through his palms, “is going to be the death of me.”

Soap let out a breathless, overwhelmed laugh.

He wasn’t sure what terrified him more: the mountain of lies forming around them…

…or how strangely right it had felt to see Ghost sitting beside his parents, like he’d always belonged there.

~*~

The next few days blurred into a strange mixture of needles, charts, machines, routine questions, and Ghost’s quiet presence.

A parade of doctors and neuro-specialists stopped by: shining lights into Soap’s eyes, asking him to remember words, testing reflexes, making him repeat sequences back to them, bloodwork, mobility assessments. Every morning they woke him before dawn, every evening they left him exhausted. But each day they seemed more optimistic.

And through all of it, Ghost was there.

Always there.

If Soap opened his eyes in the middle of the night, Ghost was laying on the cot beside his bed, half asleep but still aware of every movement Soap made. If Soap woke from a nap, Ghost was hunched in the chair beside his bed, boots planted on the floor, elbows on his knees, mask pulled up just enough to drink terrible vending machine tea, giving him one of those subtle little nods that said I’m here.

Soap caught nurses staring, whispering behind clipboards, nudging each other when Ghost helped Soap adjust the bed, or reached for a cup of water before a nurse could, or murmured a low, “Steady”, when Soap tried sitting up too fast. They looked at Ghost like he was the romantic lead in some sweeping drama.

And every time they referred to Ghost as your husband, Soap’s stomach twisted. A strange, fuzzy ache settling behind his ribs.

He told himself it was embarrassment.

It did not feel like embarrassment.

It felt warm. Too warm. Comforting in a way it shouldn’t have been.

During one afternoon, Soap walked a short loop around the ICU floor with a physical therapist shadowing him. Ghost followed like a bodyguard, arms folded, mask on, glowering at anyone who came too close. The therapist joked that Soap had an “intimidation escort”. Soap laughed, but the warmth that spread across his chest when Ghost steadied him by the elbow was no joke at all.

Soap tried to shove it down, but it kept resurfacing every time Ghost leaned close to hear a doctor’s explanation, every time Ghost adjusted Soap’s blankets without thinking, every time Soap woke from a nap and saw him sitting in the same chair, head bowed, eyes tired but soft. Soap felt his heartbeat climb like he’d sprinted up a flight of stairs. He hated it. He craved it. He didn’t know what to name it.

On the fourth day after he woke from the coma, the doctors finally returned with news that didn’t feel like a question mark.

“You’re recovering remarkably well, Sergeant MacTavish,” the lead physician said, flipping through his charts. “No signs of cognitive impairment, vitals stabilised, mobility good. We recommend another week or two of rest before official reassessment, but you can continue resting at home.”

Soap felt relief wash over him – but it mixed with something else. Something close to dread.

Home.

He hadn’t really thought about home.

Not while Ghost had been beside him every moment. Not while nurses smiled at them like they were some tragic, romantic war story. Not while his mum brought homemade soup and chatted with Ghost about family holidays and future visits to Scotland as though this entire lie was the most natural arrangement in the world.

When the nurse came to remove the last IV and go over paperwork, she gave Ghost a warm smile. “I’m so happy for the two of you. It’s always lovely when spouses get to take their loved ones home.”

Soap nearly inhaled his own tongue.

Ghost just nodded with a grim solemnity. Soap had no idea how he wasn’t spontaneously combusting.

Eventually, Soap was dressed in comfortable clothes his parents had dropped off. Ghost packed the last of his belongings with quiet efficiency, careful not to make Soap feel helpless but equally unwilling to let him lift anything heavier than a clipboard.

Everyone assumed they’d leave together.

Everyone assumed they’d go home to the same place.

A wheelchair was brought out. His parents squeezed him half to death before stepping out to give Ghost a moment to collect everything left in the room.

Eventually it was just the two of them.

Ghost stood near the door, hands tucked awkwardly in his hoodie pocket, shoulders stiff. Soap could tell – he always could – that the man was bracing himself. Picking his words carefully.

“Do you… want me to stay? At yours. Just for a bit. Help you with carrying things, meals, whatever you need.”

His voice was low and uncertain, something unlike Soap had ever heard from Ghost before. Soap froze.

Just stopped breathing with the discharge papers in his lap.

Because he wanted to say yes.

God, he wanted to say yes so badly it scared him.

He imagined Ghost in his tiny kitchen. On his ratty sofa. Moving around his space like he belonged there. Imagined waking up to the scrape of boots on his floor instead of cold silence.

It was too much.

Too real.

Too dangerous.

Soap panicked.

Instinctively. Stupidly.

“No,” he blurted. “No, that’s – uh. Not necessary.”

Ghost didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

But Soap saw it – the flicker in his eyes. The way something inside him shuttered, just slightly. Ghost’s posture didn’t change, but something softer in him pulled back, tucked itself away, leaving Soap colder than the hospital air.

Soap wanted to reach out and snatch the words back, shove them down his throat, anything to erase that flicker in Ghost’s eyes. But he forced himself to stay still. To breathe. To remember that none of this was real; that letting it feel real was a mistake.

“Right,” Ghost said, voice neutral. Too neutral. “If that’s what you want.”

Soap swallowed hard and nodded, hating himself a little. “I just- I think we should both get our bearings. After all this.”

Ghost nodded once. “Understood.”

No bitterness. No frustration. Just that damn unreadable calm.

Which somehow felt worse.

The drive back was quiet. Ghost didn’t fill the silence. Soap couldn’t find words that didn’t feel like lies.

Ghost walked him to the front of his building. Helped him carry his discharge bag inside. Stood in the doorway like a soldier awaiting orders.

“Call me if you need anything,” Ghost said softly. “Anything at all.”

Soap nodded. “I will.”

They both knew he wouldn’t.

Ghost stepped back.

The door closed.

And Soap, for the first time in weeks, found himself alone. Completely, achingly alone.

He stood in the middle of his flat – silent, empty, untouched by the chaos of the world outside – and felt the quiet press in around him.

The bed was cold. The air was still. No steady breathing. No watchful presence in the corner of his eye.

For the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, Soap realised just how massive the absence of Ghost felt.

And it terrified him.

~*~

Ghost sat on the edge of his own bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tightly his knuckles ached. The room around him was dark, quiet, and painfully tidy – nothing like the sterile hum of an ICU, nothing like the constant presence of monitors and footsteps, nothing like the small, rhythmic sound of Soap breathing in the bed beside him.

He hadn’t realized how much noise Soap made just by existing until all of it was gone.

Three weeks. Nearly three weeks of being at Soap’s bedside – sleeping on that cot, waking every time Soap’s monitor so much as beeped, listening to nurses chatter about “Soap’s husband” while pretending it didn’t make something in his chest twist.

Three weeks of touching Soap’s wrist or shoulder every hour just to reassure himself the man was still alive.

Three weeks of watching his face for any sign – any twitch, any movement, anything – to prove he was still there, still fighting.

Ghost hadn’t been alone for more than a shower break.

Now he was… home. Off duty. Still on family leave.

Family leave for a man who wasn’t his husband.

For a man who didn’t actually want him around.

Ghost dragged a hand over his face, trying to shake the memory loose – the way Soap had folded in on himself, panic tightening his voice when Ghost had offered to stay with him.

I think we should both get our bearings. After all this.

Ghost knew what that meant.

Space.

Distance.

The polite version of I need you to back off.

He’d nodded. Just nodded. Because what else was he supposed to do? He wasn’t about to crowd the man. Wasn’t going to force himself into Soap’s life outside the hospital. But the phrasing stuck in the back of his mind like a splinter.

Both get their bearings.

Meaning what? That Ghost’s behaviour in the hospital had been too much? That the closeness had become uncomfortable? That the lie had put pressure on Soap he hadn’t realized?

Ghost dragged a hand down his throat, chest tightening.

He hadn’t meant to make Soap feel cornered.

He’d only wanted to help.

But that didn’t mean the words didn’t sting.

Ghost leaned back against the headboard, head thumping dully against the wall. He tried not to picture Soap alone in his flat – tried not to imagine him struggling with the things the hospital had warned about.

The surgical wound still needed changing every day.

His left shoulder had limited mobility.

He was supposed to avoid lifting anything heavier than a kettle.

He would get dizzy if he moved too fast.

He wasn’t to shower without someone nearby, in case of a fall.

Ghost pictured Soap’s injuries – the deep sutures, the bruised ribs, the bruised lung, the long line across his shoulder that made lifting his left arm impossible without pain. He pictured the wound care instructions the nurses had given him. Soap had nodded along like a good soldier, but Ghost had been the one to absorb the details, to memorize the movements, to watch the technique.

Soap’s voice had started to waver near the end of the explanation.

Ghost had steadied him through that too.

Now Soap was alone with all that.

Ghost pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop his brain from spiralling through every scenario at once.

He stared at the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the blinds. He wanted – physically ached – to call. Or text. Or just knock on Soap’s door and pretend he’d forgotten something at the hospital.

Anything to check if Soap was alright.

But that sentence kept looping in his head, steady and cold:

I think we should both get our bearings. After all this.

Ghost swallowed hard. Soap wasn’t wrong. They had lied. Pretended. Built something out of necessity and fear and circumstance. Ghost had spent three weeks playing husband because of some stupid misunderstanding. Because the thought of Soap being alone, even at a hospital where he was monitored closely, made something ancient and primal inside him snarl.

And maybe he’d… gotten used to it. Too used to it.

The routine. The closeness. Soap’s parents fussing over him and Ghost sitting at his bedside like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He slipped into the role without thinking. A man wears a wedding band long enough, people assume it’s real. Ghost had worn the title of husband long enough that part of him had started to believe it. Not entirely. Not foolishly. Just… the smallest bit.

But Soap’s reaction at the hospital made things clear.

He needed space.

He needed time.

Ghost exhaled slowly, trying to purge the ache in his chest. It didn’t leave.

He wondered if Soap had eaten.

Wondered if he’d remembered the instructions about the antibiotics.

Wondered if he’d been able to get the bandages off without tearing the stitches.

Wondered if the dizziness had hit him again when he tried to shower.

Wondered if the climb to the second floor of his building had wiped him out.

Wondered if Soap was lying on his couch right now, grimacing at every movement, too damn stubborn to ask anyone for help.

Ghost gripped the sheets until the tension trembled down his arms.

He promised himself he’d check in a few days but that suddenly felt very far away.

He wanted – needed – to see Soap. To hear his voice. To watch his breathing even out in sleep. To know he was safe, because the last three weeks had carved a panic into Ghost’s bones and it wasn’t letting go.

But Soap had asked for space.

So Ghost stayed in his empty flat.

In the dark.

Alone.

And tried not to crumble under how much he already missed a man who wasn’t, and had never been, his to begin with.

~*~

Soap didn’t sleep much his first night home.

He tried – collapsed onto his bed with the exhaustion of someone who’d been running on adrenaline and hospital routine – but as soon as he closed his eyes, his mind filled the silence with things he didn’t want to remember.

The impact.

The weightlessness.

The sudden drop in his chest when he realized he couldn’t breathe properly.

Ghost’s hands on him, shaking, steadying, telling him to stay awake –

The sound of Ghost shouting for a medic –

Then nothing.

He woke sweating. Heart pounding hard enough to hurt. The room was dark, quiet, and stubbornly empty. No beeping monitors. No chair occupied by a tall, frighteningly gentle shadow. No constant presence keeping the nightmares at bay just by existing.

He drifted in and out until dawn, restless, cold, stomach twisting with nerves.

The first full day home was… manageable.

Barely.

Changing his bandages without another pair of hands was a fucking ordeal. His left arm wasn’t cooperating; reaching across his torso pulled at the sutures, and the moment he tugged on the tape, he saw stars.

He forced himself through it, breathing through his teeth, reminding himself he’d done worse in the field. But military grit didn’t change the way his vision went blurry or how his hands shook when he finally sat down afterward.

He had toast for breakfast. A single piece. Half of it went cold before he gave up.

Every few hours, his phone buzzed.

Mum: How are you and Simon settling in?

Mum: Do you need us to drop by this weekend? Or sooner?

Mum: Has Simon made sure you’re eating properly? You know what you’re like.

Soap stared at the screen, guilt and longing tangling in his chest.

He typed back:

Soap: Doing good. Just resting.

Soap: Don’t worry about us. We’re fine.

We.

He deleted the word, typed it again, deleted it again, and finally left it there.

Mum would worry otherwise.

But Ghost hadn’t been by. Hadn’t called. Hadn’t even sent a text.

Not that he blamed him – Soap had told him to keep his distance. Still, by late afternoon, the flat felt too quiet. Too big. Too cold. Every shadow made him twitch. Every sound made him think someone was walking in – tall, masked, familiar – only for nothing to happen.

He found himself checking the door twice, three times, expecting Ghost to knock.

He didn’t.

By the second day, Soap’s appetite was non-existent. He tried soup for lunch but the smell alone made his stomach twist. He spent half the afternoon on the couch, fighting waves of dizziness, unable to focus on TV or books. Every so often, he’d doze off only to jerk awake with the echo of shooting ringing in his ears.

When his phone buzzed that evening, he startled so hard he nearly dropped it.

Price.

He answered quickly, forcing his voice steady. “Captain.”

There was a beat of silence, then Price’s low, rough voice. “Heard you were discharged. How’re you holding up, son?”

Soap swallowed. “Doin’ alright. Bit tired.”

“Understandable.” Another pause. “You and Ghost managing?”

Soap blinked. “Ghost?”

“Aye.” Price sounded cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he was stepping on a landmine. “He’s still on family leave, yeah? Thought he’d be with you.”

Soap sat forward, heart skipping. “He’s… home? Like – his flat home?”

“Well, he’s certainly not with me,” Price snorted. “Figured he’d be parked at your bedside like he was in the hospital. Man barely let anyone else breathe near you.”

Soap stared at the blank wall across from him, stomach dropping.

He’d assumed. He’d just assumed Ghost had been called back to base, pulled into debriefs, something that justified the silence.

But Ghost was home.

Alone.

Waiting, probably, for a call Soap hadn’t made.

Confusion twisted inside him – sharp, hot, and painfully tangled with something warm he didn’t want to examine.

“Aye,” Soap managed. “We’re… figurin’ things out, cap.”

Price made a soft sound – approval, maybe. “Good. Just checking in. Let me know if you need anything.”

After the call ended, Soap stared at his phone for several minutes.

Ghost was home. Doing nothing. Probably stewing. Probably thinking Soap didn’t want him around.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, frustration sparking through him.

He did want Ghost around.

Too much.

That was the problem.

Gaz texted later that night.

Gaz: Heard from Price you’re home! How’re you feeling, mate?

Gaz: If Ghost is hovering, tell him to chill. Or don’t. Honestly he’s funnier when he’s worried.

Soap’s reply took ages to type.

Soap: Ghost isn’t here.

Soap: Just me.

Gaz: ???

Gaz: Everything ok?

Soap: Aye. Just tired.

He didn’t elaborate because he didn’t know how.

Didn’t know how to confess that he missed Ghost fiercely. That the silence of the flat pressed in like a weight. That he hadn’t slept properly. That his hands shook sometimes for no reason. That he kept glancing at the door expecting Ghost to walk in with that steady presence that made everything feel manageable.

He didn’t know how to explain that seeing Ghost leave after he had dropped Soap off had hurt in a way that didn’t make sense – because Ghost wasn’t supposed to matter the way a husband might.

Except everyone thought he was a husband.

And part of Soap – traitorous, confused, aching – kept replaying how gentle Ghost had been. How careful. How fiercely protective.

And now Soap was alone with his thoughts, and the quiet, and the ache in his ribs, and the memories of Ghost sitting at his bedside like it was where he belonged.

He tried to sleep again.

He failed. Again.

At one point, he stood at his kitchen counter, hands braced on the cold surface, breathing slowly in and out to steady the sudden surge of panic that came out of nowhere – heart racing, palms sweaty, vision tunnelling.

He’d lived through worse. He’d fought through worse.

But right then, in the dark kitchen of his silent flat, he felt very, very breakable.

And he missed Ghost so much it hurt.

~*~

Soap woke late on the third day – if it could be called waking at all. He drifted up from another shallow, broken half-sleep, muscles stiff, throat dry, head pounding like he’d been drinking the night before.

He hadn’t. He hadn’t done much of anything.

He rolled onto his side and immediately regretted it. The pull on the sutures made his breath stutter. His whole torso throbbed with each inhale. He lay still, eyes on the ceiling, waiting for the pain to ebb to something tolerable.

It didn’t.

Not really.

He got up anyway, because staying still felt worse somehow. Like if he didn’t move, he’d think too much.

He needed to change the dressing on his wound again. He could feel the tacky pull of the bandage against his skin, and the thought of peeling it off himself made his stomach lurch.

He stared at the bathroom doorway.

It was maybe twenty feet away.

It might as well have been a mile.

But he forced himself upright anyway, one shaky breath at a time. His legs trembled under him. Halfway there, he had to stop and lean against the wall, sweat beading at his temples.

“Get it together,” he muttered.

The words didn’t help.

When he finally made it to the bathroom, he had to lean on the sink for a moment, swallowing against dizziness. His reflection looked wrong – skin too pale, dark circles bruised under his eyes, hair a dishevelled mess.

It took him nearly fifteen minutes to get his shirt off with one functioning arm.

By the time he peeled the bandage back, his vision was blurring. He hissed sharply. The wound wasn’t infected, but it was ugly – angry, swollen around the sutures, the surrounding skin mottled with fading bruises. Cleaning it one-handed was messy and painful. At one point he had to stop, breathing shallowly, bile rising in his throat.

He wished – God, he wished – he had another set of hands. Someone steady. Experienced.

Someone who would help without being asked. Hold him steady. Make quiet comments that somehow grounded him without prying.

He wished Ghost were here.

He caught himself thinking it and almost laughed.

Missing a man who isn’t even your real husband, Johnny. Doing stellar, honestly.

It wasn’t funny.

None of this was funny.

When he finally got the fresh bandage on, he felt wrung out. Shaky. Overheated. Exhausted down to his bones. He had to sit down on the bathroom floor for a minute with his back against the tub, eyes closed, breath shallow.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Soap ignored it.

Another buzz. And another.

Finally, with a frustrated groan, he grabbed it.

Mum: John? Are you up?

Mum: How are you feeling today?

Mum: Did Simon make you breakfast?

Soap’s throat closed tight. Shame pressed down on him like a weight. He wanted to talk to her – wanted to reassure her properly – but the idea of trying to sound normal, to pretend everything was fine while he felt like he was falling apart?

He couldn’t.

Instead, he wrote the simplest thing he could.

Soap: Sleeping a lot. Will call later tonight. Promise.

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Appeared again.

Finally:

Mum: Alright love. Rest.

Mum: Kiss Simon for me and tell him thank you.

Soap let the phone drop from his hand and covered his face, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“Kiss Simon,” he muttered into his palms.

Fucking hell.

He hadn’t even seen Ghost since the hospital, and here he was pretending he was living with him all while he couldn’t remember the last full meal he ate.

Speaking of which –

His stomach rumbled weakly. Not hunger, exactly – more like the vague sensation that he probably should put something in it.

He finally managed to get back onto his feet and shuffle to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and frowned at the sight. It looked like a bachelor’s fridge after three weeks of neglect – half a bottle of juice, mustard, old leftovers he didn’t trust, and a sad apple rolling in the drawer.

He should get groceries.

He tried to imagine walking to the corner store and a cold prickle of panic crept up his spine.

He breathed through it, slow and careful, until the feeling receded. But his legs still felt wrong. His chest still hurt. His hands were shaking too much to trust.

He wasn’t making it to the shops.

He wasn’t making it anywhere.

He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor in his kitchen, knees drawn up, one arm wrapped around them to keep himself grounded. He rested his forehead against his forearm and tried to force his body into cooperating.

“Get it together,” he muttered. “C’mon, Johnny. You’ve been through worse.”

Maybe he had. But never like this.

The room felt incredibly small.

His heart hammered painfully fast, each beat a desperate thud he couldn’t control.

It’s just adrenaline, he told himself. Just your nerves being stupid.

But the logic didn’t catch. It never caught fast enough.

His vision narrowed.

His hands tingled.

His thoughts scattered.

And beneath it all – far too loud for comfort – was the hollow, aching absence left by someone he wasn’t supposed to miss this much.

Someone he had pushed away without meaning to.

Someone who, if they walked through the door right now, Soap wasn’t sure if he’d tell to leave or collapse into.

The thought made his throat tight.

He curled onto his side, careful not to pull at the sutures, and shut his eyes right there on the kitchen floor. Everything ached at the thought of having to stand up and walk to the couch.

He wiped at his face and found moisture there.

He didn’t remember crying.

He hated this.

He hated feeling weak. Hated feeling like a burden. Hated feeling like he couldn’t control his own mind. Hated that he needed someone – and that the someone he needed was the one person he wasn’t supposed to want.

Soap jolted awake with a choked gasp.

For a moment – just a sliver of a moment – he didn’t know where he was. The dark felt wrong, too deep, too much like the dust-choked air of the street at the abandoned factory where everything had gone wrong. His heart thundered, frantic, disoriented. His skin burned hot and cold at once.

His chest hurt.

Not the healing ache he’d grown used to – this was sharper, ripping along the sutures, forcing him to curl in on himself as if he could shield the wound from a danger that wasn’t actually there.

His fingers clawed at sheets. He couldn’t even remember going back to bed.

He tried to sit up.

He couldn’t.

His vision went blurry at the edges, breath spiralling out of control. His mind wasn’t in his flat.

It was back there.

Gunfire.

A sharp, stunning impact to his chest that had ripped his breath away.

A darkness pulling at him, heavy and inviting.

And Ghost’s voice – hoarse, urgent – ordering him to stay awake, stay with me, you don’t get to check out on me, Johnny, not here –

Soap dug his nails into his palms, trying to pull himself back into his bedroom. Into the present. But the nightmare clung like barbed wire. His chest hurt – too tight, too sharp. Every inhale was shallow and desperate. Panic spiralled up like a flare.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t think.

His pulse hammered in his ears. His vision pulsed at the edges. His wounded ribs seized with every panicked breath, which only made him panic harder, the pain feeding the fear feeding the pain in an endless loop.

“Stop-” He pressed a shaking hand to his chest. “Stop, stop, stop!”

But his body didn’t listen.

His breath stuttered, fast and useless.

There was only one thing – one person – Soap could think of he needed right now. Blindly, his hand scrabbled on the bedside table until he found his phone. It slipped out of his shaking hand twice before he managed to unlock it and hit the first contact at the top.

He put the phone to his ear, breath whistling, chest seizing.

It rang once.

“Soap?” Ghost’s voice came sharp and alert despite the late hour. “What’s wrong?”

Soap tried to speak – tried to say he couldn’t breathe, that it hurt, that he didn’t know what was happening, that he was scared – but only broken, panicked sounds came out.

“Hey – hey, listen to me.” Ghost’s tone softened instantly, grounding and firm. “I’ve got you. It’s alright. You’re safe. Just breathe for me, yeah?”

Soap tried. He really did.

But his chest felt tight, each inhale catching on pain that shot down his side. His heart raced so fast it hurt. He felt like he was drowning on dry air.

“I- I can’t-” he gasped.

“You can,” Ghost’s voice didn’t rise; it stayed steady, grounding and low, a command wrapped in concern. “You’re safe. You’re home. Nobody can hurt you.”

Soap’s chest seized again, a sob forcing its way out. “It hurts-”

“I know,” Ghost murmured. “I’m coming to you. Keep the phone on.”

“N-No- don’t-” Soap’s voice cracked around pain and panic. “Ghost, I-”

“Five minutes,” Ghost said firmly. “Stay with me, Johnny. Keep breathing for me.”

Soap managed a painful, shuddering gasp. The nightmare still clung to him. He could smell dust that wasn’t there, feel hands pressing on a wound that had already been stitched weeks ago.

“Just stay with me,” Ghost said softly through the phone, echoing a memory that made Soap’s stomach twist. “I’m almost there.”

His panic ebbed only slightly – and only because he could hear Ghost’s steady breathing over the line, could hear movement, the clang of a door, footsteps, a low curse that meant Ghost was running.

The front door crashed open.

Soap flinched violently at the brutal sound – but then Ghost was there, in the doorway of his room, mask nowhere to be found, hair mussed, chest heaving like he’d sprinted the whole way.

“Johnny.”

Ghost crossed the room in three strides. The phone slipped from Soap’s hand as Ghost sat on the edge of the bed and cupped Soap’s face with warm hands that were gentle and careful.

“Hey,” Ghost murmured, thumb sweeping sweat from Soap’s temple. “I’m here. You’re alright. Look at me.”

Soap’s gaze snapped to him on instinct.

Ghost’s expression softened instantly – as if just seeing Soap alive and conscious was enough to pull the tension out of him.

“Good lad,” Ghost murmured. He shifted closer, easing Soap upright against his chest. “You’re not alone. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Soap pressed his face against Ghost’s shoulder, the familiar scent of him – gun oil, soap, aftershave – cutting through the nightmare like clean air.

Ghost’s arm wrapped around his back, warm and solid. His other hand stroked slowly through Soap’s hair, soothing, steady. “Breathe with me, yeah? In… and out. Nice and slow.”

Soap’s breaths were ragged and uneven, but he tried. Ghost’s steady rise and fall beneath him gave his lungs something to follow. Fingers threaded gently through his hair in slow, soothing strokes.

Gradually – agonizingly slowly – Soap’s breathing loosened. His chest stopped clenching like a fist. The nightmare fog receded inch by inch, Ghost’s presence anchoring him back to himself.

At some point he realized he was crying. Quiet, exhausted tears soaking into Ghost’s shirt. Ghost didn’t react except to hold him tighter.

“There you go,” Ghost whispered, voice soft in a way Soap had never heard from him. “You’re doing brilliantly.”

Soap’s shaking eased. His grip loosened, though he didn’t let go. His body sagged against Ghost, every muscle trembling from adrenaline and exhaustion. The warmth, the firmness, the steady presence – he hadn’t realized how starved he was for it until now.

“’M sorry,” Soap mumbled weakly into Ghost’s shoulder.

Ghost’s hand immediately stilled. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Johnny.”

Soap sniffed, breath shuddering. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s no trouble,” Ghost said, brushing his fingers through Soap’s hair again, “I’ll always be there when you need me.”

Something in Soap’s chest stung sharply at that – some raw, tender place he’d been trying not to touch.

Ghost laid down beside Soap on the bed, pulling him carefully against his chest, one hand at the back of Soap’s head, thumb brushing soothingly at the nape of his neck.

Soap’s eyes drifted shut, heavy and aching but comforted in a way he hadn’t felt since before the mission. His breathing evened out, hitching only when he shifted wrong, and Ghost murmured quiet reassurances until the tension bled out of him entirely.

“Sleep, Johnny,” Ghost whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Soap didn’t fight it. He couldn’t. Wrapped in Ghost’s arms, anchored by warmth and the steady beat of Ghost’s heart beneath his ear, he slipped into sleep – deep, untroubled, the first peaceful rest he’d had since the day everything fell apart.

Ghost stayed awake for a long while, watching over him, hand still carding gently through Soap’s hair.

And when he finally settled beside him, eyes growing heavy, he tightened his arm just slightly around Soap. For the first time since the hospital, Soap slept without pain and nightmares clawing him awake, and Ghost slept peacefully with the knowledge that Soap was safe in his arms.

~*~

Soap woke slowly, surfacing from sleep like he was surfacing through warm water. Warm light seeped through the curtains, soft against his face. For a moment, he lay very still, blinking groggily, trying to piece together why he felt… safe. Calm. Rested in a way he hadn’t felt since before the hospital.

Then he reached out – instinctively – and found empty sheets.

His heart sank sharply.

For a moment, Soap wondered if last night had been a dream. A vivid one – Ghost’s arms around him, Ghost’s voice in his ear, the soft, steady reassurance he’d needed. The warmth of Ghost’s chest against his cheek. The weight of a protective arm. A hand stroking through his hair until he finally fell asleep –

Maybe he; d imagined it.

He pushed himself upright with a soft hiss, pain flaring along his ribs. His flat was quiet, still, too still. He waited – listening for any sign of movement in the flat – but there was nothing.

Soap sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Figures.”

He swung his legs off the bed slowly, steadying himself on the nightstand. His whole body felt heavy, the exhausted aftermath of panic and pain. But he forced himself to stand, to shuffle quietly toward the living room.

That’s when he heard it.

A low, deep voice coming from another room. Familiar. Warm in a way he never let people hear.

Ghost.

Soap froze in the hallway, breath catching.

“No, ma’am, he’s alright,” Ghost was saying. “I promise. A rough night, yeah, but he’s sleeping now.”

A moment of silence before – “I’ll make sure he calls when he’s up… Yes. Yes, I know. I’ll tell him.”

Soap rounded the corner, and his breath caught again – this time for a different reason.

Ghost stood at the kitchen counter with his back to him, shoulders broad beneath a black long-sleeve shirt. Soap’s phone was pressed between Ghost’s cheek and shoulder, leaving both hands free as he unpacked a ridiculous number of groceries onto Soap’s kitchen counter: bread, fruit, vegetables, pasta, pre-made soups, meds, two cartons of juice, even the special tea Soap liked.

Soap’s empty cupboards were being filled methodically, neatly, like Ghost did this kind of thing all the time.

“No, ma’am, it’s not a bother.” Ghost paused to adjust the phone. “Yeah. No. It will be alright.” Another pause, softer, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Soap stepped forward without meaning to. His shadow crossed the threshold of the kitchen. Ghost turned his head slightly, spotted him, and straightened like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. “I’ve got to go,” he muttered quickly into the phone. “He’s awake. Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell him. Take care.”

He hung up.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Soap asked quietly, “Who was that?”

Ghost’s hand tightened around the bag he was holding as he hesitated – not his usual tactical pause, but something awkward, almost sheepish.

“Your mum,” he admitted. “She… called. Five times.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh. Picked up on the sixth.”

Soap blinked and he felt his face flame up with embarrassment and something startlingly close to guilt. A knot formed in his chest – tight, complicated, pulling his ribs and heart all at once. Ghost had answered his phone. Ghost had reassured his mum. Ghost had filled his cupboards. Ghost had stayed.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Soap asked quietly.

Ghost’s gaze flickered away. “You needed the sleep.”

Soap swallowed. Hard.

He felt pulled in two directions – mortified and strangely, painfully touched.

Ghost turned back to the counter, continuing to unpack groceries with practiced efficiency, but his shoulders were tense. Silence stretched between them. Soap stepped further into the room, feeling unsteady for reasons that had nothing to do with his injuries.

“Ghost,” he said softly, “about last night…”

Ghost stiffened, bracing for something Soap wasn’t sure he knew how to deliver.

Soap’s voice came out smaller than he meant it to. “All of this-” He gestured at the groceries, the phone call, the way Ghost had stayed all night. “Is it just because you feel responsible? Because everyone thinks-”

“No,” Ghost cut in quietly. “No, Johnny.”

Soap looked at him as Ghost turned around to face Soap. A moment of silence before Ghost stepped toward him. Not fully closing the distance, but enough that Soap could feel the weight of the confession coming.

“It started as a misunderstanding,” Ghost said quietly. “I know that. And I didn’t mean to let it get this far.”

Soap’s stomach twisted painfully.

“I- I went along with it, with the lie,” Ghost continued, softer now, “because you were hurt and alone and-” He swallowed. “and I wasn’t leaving you. And when it was just me in that room with you, day and night… Some part of me stopped seeing it as a lie.”

Soap stared at him, breath caught in his throat.

“And then we got back home…” Ghost’s voice dipped, uncertain, eyes on the floor instead of Soap. “I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Just kept wondering if you were alright. If you were hurting. If you remembered the wound care. If you were sleeping.” He huffed out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Driving myself mad, basically.”

Soap took a shaky step closer. “Ghost…”

Ghost finally looked at him. Really looked. “I didn’t know how much it mattered until I wasn’t with you anymore.”

Soap’s chest felt too full. His breath too tight. His pulse too loud. He took another step, close enough to see Ghost’s throat bob as he swallowed.

“So what now?” Soap asked, just as quietly. “What is this, Ghost?”

Ghost didn’t move for a beat. Then he stepped close – slow, careful, giving Soap time to pull away.

Soap didn’t.

Ghost lifted one hand, hesitant, and brushed his knuckles along Soap’s cheek, feather-light. Soap leaned into it before he could think. Ghost watched him with an vulnerability Soap had never seen in him before.

Ghost’s voice dropped to a rumble. “Tell me to stop, Johnny. Tell me none of this is what you want.”

Soap’s breath hitched. “I can’t.”

That was all Ghost needed.

He leaned in – slow, careful, but with the quiet certainty of someone who’d been holding back for far too long.

Soap met him halfway.

Their lips pressed together – warm, cautious, then deeper as Soap’s hand curled into Ghost’s shirt, pulling him closer.

It was soft and slow and shaking at the edges.

It was everything Soap had been missing and everything Ghost had been terrified to want.

When they finally broke apart, Ghost rested his forehead against Soap’s, breathing unsteady.

“Johnny,” he murmured, voice raw, “tell me this is real.”

Soap closed his eyes, let the warmth settle through his chest like a lifeline, and whispered: “It’s real.”

~*~

Ghost stayed.

He didn’t even pretend to want to leave. After making Soap breakfast and settling him on the couch with his meds, Ghost left only long enough to go to his own flat, grab a duffel bag full of clothes, toiletries, and – of course – a first aid kit so large it could support a small clinic. When he returned, he dropped the bag by the door, walked straight to Soap, cupped his jaw, and kissed him soft and slow.

Soap had never felt so relieved to have someone come back to him.

In the days that followed, things settled into something soft. It was strangely easy. Not effortless – Soap still hurt, still struggled to move, still needed help with more things than he liked – but easy in the sense that the tension between them had finally snapped, letting something warm and steady replace it.

Ghost cooked simple meals for them. Soap tried to help, only to be gently guided back to the table when his stitches pulled and his head became dizzy.

Ghost helped with bandage changes. Soap finally stopped pretending he could reach everything on his own.

Ghost sat with him through nightmares. Soap finally admitted when he couldn’t breathe.

And through it all, their affection grew in small, steady increments – stolen kisses in the kitchen, a soft brush of Ghost’s thumb against Soap’s jaw while helping him sit up, Soap leaning heavily against Ghost on the couch because his ribs ached and he was tired of pretending they weren’t.

One afternoon – about three days into Ghost practically moving in – Soap finally said it out loud. The thing that had been tearing at him since he arrived at his empty flat.

“I can’t do this alone,” he said quietly, staring at the half-wrapped bandage Ghost was changing on his ribs. “I thought I could. But I can’t.”

Ghost didn’t tease. Didn’t tell him he knew that already. He tugged the fresh bandage tight, taped it down, and brushed his thumb lightly against Soap’s skin.

“You don’t have to,” Ghost murmured.

Soap swallowed. “You sure? You’ve got your own place, your own life-”

“Not leaving you,” Ghost said simply, like it wasn’t even a question. “Not again.”

And Soap’s chest warmed in a way that had nothing to do with pain.

Ghost kissed him again after that. Just a brief press of lips – firm, reassuring – before helping Soap ease into a clean shirt.

The rhythm of the days settled naturally.

Ghost cooked, cleaned, helped Soap shower, helped him change dressings, kept track of medication times, and made damn sure he ate three meals a day.

Soap tried to make things easier – tried to stand on his own, reach for things on his own, move without help – but between the pain and the fatigue, he couldn’t hide the strain. Not when Ghost had a stare that could see through steel.

“Sit,” Ghost ordered one afternoon when Soap tried to stand too fast and nearly toppled over.

Soap grumbled something unintelligible.

Ghost just hooked an arm around his waist, lowered him back onto the couch, and kissed the top of his head.

Soap went red to the ears. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A bit,” Ghost admitted.

Soap elbowed him – gently, because his shoulder still hurt. “Prick.”

Ghost leaned over and kissed him in retaliation, slow and warm, until Soap forgot why he’d been annoyed in the first place.

They were on the couch when Soap’s mum called again. Soap was curled into Ghost’s side, half-asleep, Ghost stroking a hand slowly through his hair while the telly played something neither of them were actually watching.

The phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Soap groaned. “Bet you anything it’s my mum.”

Ghost huffed in amusement. “Aye. She’s proven to be more relentless than a drill sergeant on inspection day.”

Soap poked Ghost’s stomach weakly. “You can answer then.”

“It’s your mum.”

Soap sighed dramatically and used his free hand to reach for the phone. He didn’t make it. Ghost caught his wrist mid-air, grabbed the phone, and pressed ‘accept’ before Soap could protest.

“Hi mum,” Soap said tentatively, bracing himself.

“Oh, sweetheart! Finally!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been worried sick. And Simon didn’t pick up this morning-”

“Mum,” Soap cut in, cheeks instantly burning. “We’re fine. Honest. Please don’t terrorize Ghost with phone calls.”

Ghost murmured under his breath, “It’s fine,” and Soap felt the rumble of his voice.

“Oh hush, Simon can handle it,” she said briskly. “Now – how are you feeling, love? And how’s Simon? Is he with you?”

“I’m doing good. And yeah,” Soap said softly. “Ghost’s here.”

“Well put me on speaker then! I want to talk to both of you.”

Soap sighed but did as asked. Ghost adjusted his position so his arm stayed around Soap, body solid and warm beside him.

“Afternoon, Mrs. MacTavish,” Ghost said, somehow sounding both calm and awkwardly respectful.

Soap’s mum let out a delighted noise. “Oh, Simon! I’m so glad you’re there. John sounds better already.”

“I’m doing my best,” Ghost said simply. “Making sure he eats and gets his rest.”

“Good! He doesn’t listen to me when I tell him to eat. Make sure he takes his pain meds on time, alright?”

“Always.”

Soap rested his forehead on Ghost’s chest, hiding a smile.

“We’ll video call later in the week,” Soap said quickly, before she could pry further. “Alright?”

“Oh fine, but only because you need your rest,” she said. “Love you, John. And you too, Simon!”

Ghost startled. Soap nearly choked.

“Uh- yes, ma’am,” Ghost said, voice suddenly gruff and awkward. “Love you too.”

Soap covered his face with his free hand. “I’m ending the call now.”

“Bye, boys!” she chimed.

The line disconnected and silence settled over the room.

Then Ghost murmured, stunned, “Boys.”

Soap groaned and buried his face in Ghost’s chest. “She’s never letting any of this go.”

“Could be worse,” Ghost’s voice betrayed his smirk. “She could hate me.”

“She’d adopt ye if she could,” Soap mumbled.

Ghost shifted so Soap could look up at him. His eyes were soft. “Luckily for her, I’m not going anywhere.”

Soap’s breath caught.

And Ghost kissed him again – slow, deep, meaningful. Soap melted into it, fingers curling into Ghost’s shirt, careful of his ribs, careful of everything except the way Ghost’s hand cupped the back of his neck, steady and sure.

When they finally pulled apart, Ghost rested his forehead against Soap’s, breaths mingling.

“I’m serious, Johnny,” he whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since waking up in that hospital bed weeks ago, Soap believed it.

And it felt like coming home.

~*~

Recovery took time.

Soap healed in uneven steps – both physically as mentally. Three steps forward, one step back, a week where everything felt lighter, then a morning where he woke breathless and aching again. Ghost stayed through all of it, a constant presence at his side, watching Soap more closely than any mission target in his life.

Their lives folded together in easy, quiet ways.

And then, after getting his stitches removed, more check-ups and the scans, after weeks of Ghost cooking and Soap healing and both of them falling asleep with their legs tangled together – Soap was officially cleared by the hospital to go back to work.

Price called it a miracle. Laswell called it fortitude. Gaz called it “finally, you useless bastard, get back here and do some actual work”.

Soap called it what it was: time to return to the place he and Ghost had learned to trust each other long before either of them had dared to cross the invisible line between them.

Back at base, everything felt the same and entirely different at the same time.

Their quarters – their shared quarters because in the eyes of HR they were still married and apparently married couples got shared quarters on base – had most of their stuff already moved in. One bed. Two footlockers. A small kitchen cabinet with an expensive coffee machine Ghost had once acquired.

Soap tossed his bag on the floor with a grin. “Feels strange being back.”

Ghost shut the door behind them. “Strange good or strange bad?”

Soap turned, kissed him lightly. “Strangely home.”

Ghost didn’t say anything, but the way his shoulders eased was answer enough.

Before Soap was cleared for field assignments, Price insisted he run drills – mobility, endurance, weapons handling. Soap had thought it would be easy, but the first day of exercise drills practically killed him.

The obstacle course felt twice as long and ten times as steep after so long out of commission. By the time he finished, bent over with hands braced on his knees, sweat stinging his eyes, Ghost was waiting at the end.

“Are you dying?” Ghost asked dryly.

“Nearly,” Soap panted. “Hold my funeral. Full bagpipes and everything.”

Ghost snorted, slinging Soap’s arm over his shoulder to help him toward a nearby bench. “And make your mum proud by telling her you died because you slipped on monkey bars.”

Soap elbowed him but he leaned into him all the same.

Days passed. Then a week. Then two.

Soap pushed himself hard, motivated partly by pride and partly by the way Ghost watched him. Ghost stayed close but didn’t hover, just watched with that silent watchfulness that meant he’d step in the second Soap wavered.

Finally, one cold morning before dawn, a medic handed over the signed clearance form.

“Sergeant MacTavish,” she said, “you’re medically cleared for active duty. Welcome back.”

Soap’s heart leapt.

Ghost’s gloved hand squeezed his shoulder once – firm and proud.

They returned to the team together.

~*~

Price cornered Ghost two days after Soap’s clearance, catching him outside the briefing room like a man lying in wait.

“Lieutenant,” Price said, voice low and amused, “walk with me.”

Ghost blinked. “Christ, what’ve I done now?”

“It’s not about what you’ve done,” Price said as they walked down the corridor, “It’s about what HR thinks you’ve done.”

Ghost took a breath. “Right. The… marriage situation.”

Price’s lips twitched. “Yes. That. HR still thinks it’s real and if you want to fix it, I suggest you don’t wait too long since you’ve gotten privileges that might take a while to reverse. Joint quarters, benefits, emergency contacts – the whole bloody thing.”

Ghost rubbed a hand over his face. “Right. I’ll go talk to them then.”

“Before you do – tell me straight, Ghost. Are you and Soap together? Actually together?”

Ghost considered lying. Or dodging. Or ignoring the question like he usually did. But something about the calm certainty in Price’s expression made avoidance pointless.

“Yes,” Ghost admitted quietly. “We’re together.”

Price stopped walking. Turned. Looked Ghost directly in the eye.

“Well,” Price said, “that’s good.”

Ghost blinked.

“Means I don’t have to pretend to be surprised when you ask him to marry you for real,” Price continued casually, voice dropping just a little. “Which you will. Eventually. So the paperwork is correct.”

Ghost stared at him.

“Captain- are you saying you want me to marry Soap?”

“I want you to consider it,” Price corrected, clapping a hand on Ghost’s shoulder with vastly more affection than ceremony. “And when you do, make it good. Soap deserves a proper moment.”

And with that, Price walked off like he’d simply discussed the weather. He barely made it to the end of the corridor before he turned around and added casually, “Also, I need your report about the newest batch of privates by tomorrow morning,” before strolling off as if he hadn’t just reordered Ghost’s whole world.

That night, Ghost told Soap about his conversation with Price. They were on their bed, boots off, Soap leaning back against the wall, legs stretched out with Ghost between them, laying half on top of him.

Soap listened quietly. At first.

Then his mouth curled slowly into a bright grin.

“Price said that?” Soap wheezed. “To you?”

Ghost glared up at him. “He ambushed me.”

Soap didn’t seem deterred by Ghost’s glare in the slightest.

“Price told you t’ propose?” Soap said, delighted.

Ghost scowled half-heartedly. “He didn’t tell me- he suggested-”

Soap laughed and leaned forward to kiss him mid-sentence, cupping Ghost’s face in both hands. Ghost sat up more to meet him halfway.

When they finally broke apart, Soap grinned at him.

“For what it’s worth,” Soap whispered, brushing Ghost’s cheek with one hand, “you’re the best husband I could’ve ever wanted.”

Ghost’s breath caught.

“Johnny,” he said quietly, “we’re not actually married.”

Soap smiled, leaning in for another slow kiss.

“Aye,” he murmured against Ghost’s lips, “not yet.”

Ghost pulled him closer.

And in the dim, steady quiet of their shared room, Ghost thought – for the first time without fear – that maybe one day soon, he’d ask and they would be husbands for real.