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ginxparker · 1 year ago

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Shadows Song

Part 2/?

Part 1

Months of relentless searching finally leads Task Force 141 to the safe return of their missing Sergeant one John "Soap" MacTavish. However, their relief is short-lived when a mysterious song starts to play over the bases intercom, triggering something no one could have foresaw coming.

---

Captain Price sat alone in his office, diligently writing up the report of the mission that saw Sergeant John MacTavish reunited with the Task Force. The room was quiet, save for the scratching of his pen on paper as he detailed the recent rescue mission; being sure to include the inexplicable ease with which they had retrieved Soap.

It had seemed like a relief at first, an unexpected stroke of luck amidst months of desperate searching. Yet now, as he committed the details to paper, the events of that night took a deeply unsettling hue.

Ghost had first raised the point of just how remarkably easy the rescue mission had been, and Price remembered listening to the Lieutenant’s concerns at the time. But in the moment the relief of Soap’s return and the culmination of the mission has overshadowed any doubts. Price had been so relieved to have the Sergeant back in the fold that he’d forgotten about it entirely.

But now as Price wrote, he couldn’t help but recall the eerie calm that had surrounded them as they infiltrated the compound. It was like walking through a ghost town. No guards, no patrols. Just ominous silence. Finding Soap once they were inside proved to be just as effortless, as if they were being guided to him, leaving Price with an unshakable feeling that they were being watched, that every step they took had been anticipated.

Even when Soap was finally in their custody there had been no pursuit; no attempt to reclaim him. Price had expected a chase, a battle to their escape, something. Instead, they were met with nothing. And the rain, which had unexpectedly obscured their approach, provided cover of their departure as well.

It seemed all too obvious now as he recalled how the ease of the mission defied reason, and Price couldn’t help the nagging feeling that Soap’s recovery by them had been orchestrated.

A buzz of static came over the intercom suddenly, startling Price and halting his hand right in the middle of a word. Then, as the static dissipated, a song took its place, dancing through the loudspeakers and filling the room with its melody.

It was a familiar tune, one he’d heard before, over the radio in a car or inside a store maybe, but never paid much attention to. But here, over the loudspeaker in his office, and echoing through the halls of the base as the rain pelted the roof outside, it was eerily grim.

For a moment Price thought nothing of it, dismissing it as some kind of technical error. However, as the melody persisted, the familiar notes tugged at his subconscious, until he was gripped by a chilling realization.

When asked about his memory of his captivity, Soap, unfortunately, couldn’t remember much of anything. And yet he had been so hung up on a song of all things, trying with all his might to remember its tune. Even then Price dismissed it, thinking the Sergeant had heard it in the background at some point and was clinging to it as the only thing he could really remember.

But now, as the song played on, Price knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was the same song Soap had been trying to recall. And as its haunting melody seeped into every corner of the base, the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place with grim finality, and Price’s heart sank.

The chair he’d been sitting in scraped loudly against the floor as he pushed away from his desk. Panic surged within him as he processed the dire implications of the song’s sudden reappearance. He needed to reach the infirmary, and fast, to ensure the safety of his team, and above all, to help Soap before it was too late.

Captain Price rushed frantically down the hallway. But just as he turned a corner the base was plunged into darkness, the lights flickering out with a sinister electrical hum.

The abrupt blackout left him stumbling in the inky void, his heart pounding, the urgency of the situation pressing upon him like vise. He was left with no choice but to navigate the pitch-black corridor relying on memory and instinct, praying that he would make it to his team in time.

With grim determination he reached for his radio and issued orders to put the base on lockdown. Every entrance and exit and access point was to be sealed, doors and windows locked, and no one was to leave their quarters until the lockdown was lifted.

Amidst the chaos that was unfolding, the timing had been a stroke of good fortune. It was now the middle of the night, and the fact that the majority of the base's personnel were already hunkered down for the night, in a completely separate building, was a silver lining.

---

In the dimly lit corridors of the base, Sergeant Garrick moved with a deliberate pace, his instincts on high alert. He had been at the shooting range, trying to take his mind off worrying about Soap, when the eerie melody began to echo through the halls. It was a haunting tune to hear at random, one that sent a shiver down his spine, and he knew it was no ordinary occurrence.

As Gaz quickened his pace toward the infirmary, his instincts telling him to check on his friends, he felt a sudden, palpable shift in the atmosphere. The lights overhead flickered ominously, and then, like a stormfront descending, the base plunged into complete darkness. He paused for a moment, his heart pounding, realizing that something deeply unnatural was unfolding.

He began moving again with a cautious stride, his senses heightened to the highest degree. One hand brushed along the wall, using it as a guide in the darkness, the other gripped his sidearm, holding it at the ready. The song playing over the loudspeakers was a disconcerting accompaniment to his journey through the blackened corridors. His heart pounded with both determination and dread.

As he neared the end of the hall, joining with another, Gaz heard footsteps in the inky blackness, approaching from around the bend of the wall. With caution, he raised his weapon, ready for anything.

A figure emerged from the shadows, and in the heartbeat that followed, safeties disengaged with metallic clicks as they both trained their weapons on one another.

Tension hung heavy in the air as Gaz strained his eyes in the dark to make out the shape of the newcomer. But when lightning flashed outside, lighting up the corridor for just a split second, a flicker of recognition passed between them.

“Captain?” Gaz whispered, his voice tight with caution.

They both lowered their weapons, and Price exhaled the breath he’d been holding.

“Gaz,” Price greeted in a hushed tone, then narrowed his eyes at the Sergeant. “What are you doing out here, lad? This place is on lockdown. Didn’t you hear me?”

Gaz instinctively reached for his radio, only to find it missing. He swallowed, only now realizing that it was back in the shooting range, sitting on the table where he left it, among his other belongings, when the music had interrupted him.

“I… I don’t have my radio. Sorry, sir,” he apologized with a hint of frustration.

Price hummed in acknowledgment, “Doesn’t matter now. We need to find Ghost and Soap. Something very wrong is happening here.”

Gaz fell in step beside Price, their senses acutely tuned to the eerie surroundings. As they navigated the darkened corridors, Price briefly explained, "The song playing—it's the one Soap was trying to describe in the infirmary, I’m sure of it.”

Gaz’s brow furrowed in confusion, “What do you think it means, sir?”

Price hesitated for a moment, his gaze heavy with worry. "I'm not sure," he admitted with a sigh. "But I have a feeling that it's connected to whatever they did to Soap during his captivity. Let's just hope I'm wrong."

---

“Soap!” Ghost rasped, clawing at Soap’s fingers, trying to pry his hands off Ghost’s throat. “Get a hold of yourself!”

Soap’s grip on Ghost was unrelenting, making no indication that he had even heard a word Ghost said. It was as if a switch had been thrown, and the Soap he knew was no longer there, replaced by a deadly imposter, intent to kill.

Panic began to surge through him as he struggled to free himself. He knew Soap was strong, but he had never experienced him as an actual threat before. They had spared before, sure, and Ghost knew Soap could be a force to be reckoned with, but that was during training, with no will to actually hurt each other.

Desperation set in, and Ghost released one gloved hand, groping around on the floor in the dark, searching for something, anything he could use to break Soap’s hold. His fingers brushed against what felt to be a fairly heavy, metal tray, and, without thinking, he gripped it tight and swung, aiming for Soap’s head.

The sound of the impact made him cringe, feelings of guilt welling up inside him at having to resort to harming his Sergeant in order to break free. But it was a necessary act, and he hoped that when this was all over, Soap would understand.

The improvised weapon struck with a resounding clang. It might have been comical if not for the graveness of the situation. The blow caused Soap to reel back, instinctively clutching at his head, and Ghost gasped as his airways were finally freed. But he knew he had precious little time, his instincts kicking into overdrive as he scrambled to his feet and stumbled towards the door, slamming it shut behind him as he escaped out into the hallway.

As Ghost sprinted down the shadowy corridor, his thoughts and heart raced with urgency. He knew he needed to regroup with Price and Gaz, to pool their knowledge and determine a course of action to confront this new threat.

As if by some divine miracle, it didn’t take long for him to find the rest of his team, nearly barreling into two figures in a junction of hallways in the oppressive darkness.

Gaz, hearing approaching boot falls, swiftly raised his weapon, “Stop!”

“It’s me, Garrick!” Ghost hissed, hands up in a gesture of surrender, keeping his voice low despite the urgency in his tone.

Gaz and Price both lowered their weapons in unison, glancing at one another as their shoulders slumped in relief.

“Where’s Soap?” Gaz asked, wasting no time.

“On a murderous rampage,” Ghost explained, rubbing at his sore neck. “I think it was triggered by the music.”

Price sighed and nodded grimly, “Classical conditioning. This is what I was afraid of.”

“Classic- what?” Gaz hissed, whipping his head around to face him.

“Pavlov’s dog,” Price elaborated. “Train a dog to associate a certain sound with food, so it starts to salivate when you ring a bell.”

“Replace the bell with a song, the salivating with killing,” Ghost chimed in, connecting the dots. “And the dog with…”

“Soap,” Gaz finished, his voice barely above a whisper.

Suddenly a single shot rang out, the bullet searing through the air and narrowly missing its mark- Captain Price’s head- before ricocheting off the wall behind him. Soap’s figure, briefly illuminated by a flash of lightning outside, emerged from the shadows with his weapon raised, his once familiar features twisted by the blood now staining the side of his face and an unsettling malevolence.

He was a visage of terror, stalking towards them with all the purpose of a relentless killer.

“Where the hell did he get a gun?” Gaz blurted, panic rising in his voice.

Ghost's heartbeat thundered in his ears as panic surged. His trembling hand instinctively reached for his sidearm, only to discover an empty holster. Dread coiled within him, realization dawning on him that in his earlier tussle with Soap, his weapon must had gotten dislodged and left behind, finding itself now in Soap’s possession. “Fuck,” Ghost muttered.

“Don’t just fucking stand there!” Price yelled, already halfway down the connecting hall.

Without a second thought, Ghost and Gaz followed in Price's wake, the deafening echoes of gunfire pursuing them like vengeful spirits. Seeking refuge, they stumbled upon a doorway, ushered by the hope of respite.

“In here,” Price instructed. The trio spilled inside, into what looked like office space, complete with cubicles, office chairs and darkened computer screens. They crouched low, weaving their way through the maze of makeshift walls, hoping to confuse their pursuer long enough to hash out a plan.

“We have to cut the music,” Price whispered once they'd found a momentary sanctuary. “If we can shut it down there’s a chance we can bring Soap back to his senses.”

“Agreed,” Ghost replied. “Where is the intercom system controlled from?”

“The announcements are made from the admin offices in building A,” Gaz pointed out. “There has to be some kind of control unit there.”

“Where is that?”

“How do you not know?”

“Shh shh,” Price silenced them with a hush, keen ears picking up the ominous sound of heavy boot falls resonating through the cavernous room, an impending threat drawing ever closer. “Ghost and I will distract him, Gaz; you make your way to admin and see what you can do,” Price explained, his voice almost inaudible.

Without waiting for an answer, Price rose from his crouched position, spotting Soap’s ominous presence looming over the cubicle walls, intense eyes scanning the dimly lit room like a predator searching for its prey.

“Oi, Mactav-”

Soap reacted instantly, his weapon erupting in a storm of gunfire aimed in Price's direction. Price's instincts kicked in, allowing him to duck just in the nick of time, the bullets whizzing perilously close to his head.

“Fucking Christ,” he breathed, casting a quick glance back at his team before darting toward the other side of the room. His maneuver drew Soap's gaze like a moth to a flame, giving Gaz the vital opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

Ghost nodded, giving Gaz the go-ahead to make a break for it, his eyes locked onto Gaz as he stealthily slipped out of the office and disappeared into the shadows. Gaz’s heart pounded as he sprinted down the darkened hall, ears ringing in the wake of the gunfire that erupted behind him, hoping against hope that their plan worked.

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ginxparker · 1 year ago

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This one kinda blew up on tweeter

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ginxparker · 1 year ago

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the red on my face is matching you (GhostSoap)

Canon Era, Soulmate AU. Part 1/4

The meeting room booked for this debriefing is a fucking disgrace. They could have one of the newly refurbished digs closer to the centre of the base, the scent of fresh paint still bleeding off the walls and all the furniture still slightly uncomfortable in that never-been-used way, but no. Ghost couldn’t be that fortunate.

Two months stuck in a bleeding ditch with rainwater up his arse, no cover so he was being slowly roasted alive, somehow freezing and boiling all at the same time, and they get one of the off-shoot debriefing rooms miles away from everywhere and not even a crappy coffee machine to get some dishwater that labelled itself as tea.

Ghost bites the flat of his tongue, holds the pressure steady until the ache is all he can think about, the pain dull to dead nerves, and let's go. In the end, he hadn’t really been needed, just left on the line to dry while the forward team swept through the compound like a wildfire. All flash, no bang. He’d watched them through his scope, just distant moving shadows that were somehow people all the same, seen a couple fall and not even been able to take out their killers thanks to the red tape garrotting him.

Ghost had his orders straight from Price, smelling faintly of cigar smoke and delivered in the rattle of the plane. Price’s knuckles were white on the tangle of the harness in his grasp, swaying the motion of the plane as he leant down to speak to Ghost. His words had clattered like gunfire and Ghost felt them burrow into his skin, rotting him from the inside out. It wasn’t Price’s doing, he had his own marionette strings knotted around his limbs, pulled taut in that moment, and Ghost understands that well enough.

He’s a dead man walking so he needed to stay out of the mission. Observation, nothing more. Note down the time and position that each man dies, the scope boring a hole through his skull, the trigger a tripwire against his finger, and do nothing.

Fucking bastards.

Ghost tips himself back in the chair before he settles all four legs on the floor once more. It creaks beneath his weight, some flimsy dumpster find, the wood pitted with numerous scuffs, the scrawl of someone’s initials over the back. The singular fan, a goddamn divine miracle at this rate, sits off to his right. It wheezes through the cloud of dust coating the blades, orbiting from one side to the other as if that would do anything.

He can feel his eye black running down his face, sweat stinging at his eyes as it goes, and it makes his skin crawl, the hollows of his gum aching. His fingers curl, the tapered edge of his fingers catching on every uneven scuff on the table, every dent from a slammed fist. Maybe a couple were from a quick fuck, too pent up to wait until they were behind doors that locked, still stupidly besotted enough that getting caught added a thrill of excitement, and Ghost’s fingers catches on those scratches like all the others, indistinguishable, unimportant.

Copper coats his tongue, a fresh tear in his lip that he’s been chewing without realising. The nerves are too fried to transmit much about pressure or temperature and he relies on habit rather than sensation most of the time. Sometimes it works. Blood joins the sweat accumulating on the inside of his mask, the fabric beginning to smell more like an open body pit than the nondescript fabric paint he’d used at the start. He wants to take it off. He wants to sew it to his skin and then, maybe, maybe—

“Here we are.”

Price. Self-assured swagger to his step that came along with the bars they’d added to his shoulders when he was promoted way back when. It’s a distinct enough walk that Ghost relaxes back into his seat, letting his legs sprawl out as best as the confines of the chair will allow him. He’s enough of an open book to the other man — open the same way an academic text in a dead fucking language so mostly targeted guesswork — and Price will read his annoyance like a signal tower. Bastard.

Ghost inclines his head in greeting to Price, his attention snapping to the puppy trailing Price in. Fresh meat. Fuck, had he ever been that young, that bright-eyed? He must have been the same age as the other man at one point, hell, given how young Ghost was when he joined they might be the same age now, but he never felt that young. Adult responsibilities piled onto childish shoulders that grew quickly enough to hold them.

The lad’s got a mohawk for fucks sake.

It’s intentional, a peacock shaking its iridescent tail for attention, because the realisation that the other man is also wearing a mask is slow coming. There’s introductions — “John MacTavish, our new recruit.” “Soap, please, sir.” — and Price is several sentences into an explanation before Ghost can fully take the other man in.

The hissing undulation of the fan ruffles Soap’s hair and he pushes a section back from his face without looking away from Price. He’s keen, hungrily so, more likely to slit his own throat for guts and glory and Ghost is ready to dismiss him in the same breath. Just another dog, leashed like Ghost is, but this one hasn’t learnt the incoming hand is more than often a blow instead of a pat. He must sense Ghost watching him — a prickle across the base of his name, someone walking over his grave — as he glances over, his eyes crinkling as he grins and Ghost realises.

Soap MacTavish is wearing a mask too.

It isn’t the same as Ghost’s, medical instead of tactical, camo print splashed over the front until it’s dismissed as just another part of the uniform. But it’s pulled higher than Ghost is used to seeing people wear, drawn to rest just beneath his eyes and held close to his jaw, a custom job. It’s not uncommon for other soldiers to wear masks, some people are picky about their privacy although not to the same extent that Ghost is, but Soap is another mystery all together.

The meeting room door opens once more and Gaz slides into his seat, blinking at the newcomer before he covers it with a grin. Must already know Soap because there’s only a whispered exchange before Gaz’s attention glides onto Price like it’s been there all along. Price takes it all in without a second glance, sliding a file over to Gaz without tripping over his words as he brings up the next image. Standard compound, just remote enough to fuck with the delivery drivers, several foot of trees cleared from the hastily constructed walls. Dropped into the centre, a gigantic fuck-you to any thoughts Ghost had of some R&R between missions, is a tower, leaning sideways already, a kid getting distracted and swiping at the blocks as they move away.

He can see his grave when it’s laid out in front of him.

Turning his attention back to Soap, it isn’t a surprise that the other man is staring. Not just staring, devouring, consuming, drinking Ghost down like he's air and water both, mana from heaven and the holy fucking sacrament. There’s a silver cross on Soap’s chest, the chain shining while the token is tarnished, and his hand rises to it, brushing over the metal before it drops once more.

Ghost hasn’t seen the inside of a church that hadn’t doubled as a battleground for years. Might prove a problem if Soap turns out to be the judgemental type.

But… the mask.

Why?

Ghost grinds his teeth together, the sound echoing in the confines of his skull, and Gaz flinches, a scowl already traced over his mouth. Price barely pauses in his speech, his gaze flickering over to Ghost in a silent chastisement that always twists something in the base of his throat, some scrap of a heart that’s keeping him upright and moving. Soap watches all of this, the fabric of his mask indented over his lip as he chews on it. There’s a damp patch when he releases it, nearly hidden behind the pattern of the camo. Ghost tugs on the edge of his gloves, pulls up his sleeve, folds the scrap of skin in danger of showing away once more.

It’s a choice, a deliberately maintained choice, something cared for and cultivated. Soap must have a stake in the game, something heavier than just vanity, or is it? Ghost fights the urge to grind his teeth together once more, his gums aching, a spark of restlessness burning through his joints like kindling tossed in the undergrowth. Too long spent huddled in one position and not enough time between missions and then this mystery is tipped into his lap, near-enough fucking giftwrapped to torture him about.

Roba should have tried something like this. Might’ve worked out for him better.

Soap’s still watching him. He’s being careful about it now, thanks to Price’s momentarily diverted attention, sneaking glances out of the corner of his eye between blinks. Price presses a button and the lights dim, a sprawl of surveillance footage rolling across the screen. Ghost watches it without taking it in, green-toned sepia rolling across the whites of his eyes and falling back off again. His attention — carved up for decoration like scrimshaw, thoughts gnarled together even as the upcoming battle plan etches itself on the inside of his skull — is diverted, compromised. He tips his chair back carefully and Soap straightens at the noise of protest it makes, his brow furrowing before he relaxes deliberately. Already a bleeding heart, Ghost guesses, trying to make sure he doesn’t die somewhere nonsensical before he can die and decay somewhere it would be useful, a puppy whining from its basket. Sit. Stay. Shoot.

Ghost tips his head to one side, pressure along the side of his neck, a matching ache in his thighs as he braces himself against the floor. There’s still mud on his boots and he scrapes one against the table leg, jolting it slightly. Gaz flips him off behind Soap’s back like he’s a schoolboy hiding from the teacher and Soap twitches, his mouth caught halfway between a grin and a gasp, terror woven so neatly into joy. He catches Ghost’s gaze once more, locked onto him like there’s an entire missile tracking system whirring behind his eyes, and, for all Ghost knows about the government programs twitching curtains behind the scenes, there damn well might be.

Soap looks ordinary enough, cut mostly from the same cloth as any other soldier.

His arms are mostly bare, sleeves pushed up to his elbows due to the heat. There’s the faint lines of scars visible when he shifts, the light catching off of the silver marks and the notched counterparts, a tattoo on his right forearm of a familiar logo. Cocky fuck. If they both survive this mission, and Soap can manage to find his feet on solid ground, he might grow to like this new stray Price has brought in off the street. The tattoo is too faded to be new, the ink bedded into Soap’s skin aspirational or in memoriam. Could be chasing after his own ghosts and Simon is just another notch on his belt of actions he’ll regret. The mask hides the majority of his features, suggestions of a crooked nose beneath the fabric, a grin bright enough to be noticeable despite it all.

“Any questions?”

Ghost shakes his head at Price, rocking his chair back onto four legs. He’ll be glad to be out of here in any capacity, even if it is to another squeeze into a metal box before he can be thrown into battle once more. Price might sit next to him for the flight, the cigar smoke clinging to the weathered lines of his palms, a curved line of heat at his side to combat the chill of so many booted feet marching over his grave.

Soap could sit next to him.

Ghost dismisses the thought in an instant, anger burning in the base of his throat, bitter like he should be. He’s dead, buried in a grave he was too stubborn to stay in; life isn’t for men like him.

“Good.” Price nods once, pride clear in his wide stance, the easy grin he wears. “It’s going to be a small team this time, lads, so in and out, no guts, no glory. Understand?”

Another nod from Ghost bumping up against the regulation-size “Yessir,” from Gaz, both torn apart at the heels by the bright “sir, yes, sir” from their newest addition. Soap’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins, every piece of his face that is visible utilised to shout his emotions to the world, a fanfare covered by a tea towel. Fuck, Ghost needs a drink. Preferably several, each strong, all served alone in the quiet nest of his room, but he’ll take whatever cheap swill he can coax from a coffee machine before he has to shrug all of his gear back on. It’s been days since he’s taken off his eye black and caught a glimpse of his own reflection, years since he’d wanted to.

Gaz dawdles and Ghost is going to gut him for it. Give him a new set of scars over his rib cage to show off to his flock of twittering admirers, each one burning with jealousy and trying to catch alight on the reflected glory of Gaz’s attention.

It gives Soap time to break away as Ghost makes his escape, to slip out of the door moments after he does.

“Hey, LT.”

Ghost stops. Soap doesn’t.

“Looks like we’re going to be working together on this one. Hope it’s a good one, yeah.”

Standing, they’re nearly of a height, Ghost claiming a few inches over Soap. He glares down at the other man, his jaw clenched tight enough he thinks it might shatter, spilling blood and bile down onto the bleach-stained floor. “What are you doing, Sergeant?”

The fuck off and leave me alone is unspoken, landing like a tactical nuke in the space between them, and Soap ignores it utterly. He’s still grinning, sharper now, somehow, the bright blue of his eyes drawn darker beneath the fluorescence. “Getting to know my teammates, sir. I’ve been hoping to get assigned this unit for a long time now.”

“Why?” Like a gunshot, better to be over sooner rather than later, a quick impact between the eyes than a slow puncture in the belly. Ghost folds his arms over his chest, tipping his head to one side. The cut on his lip had scabbed over, now torn open anew.

Soap meets his glare head-on, the same stubborn streak painted over every aspect of his being that must have set him on this course. “Got my reasons, sir. Not about to kiss and tell on the first date, so to speak.”

Cocky fuck.

If he lives, Ghost might grow to like him.

“Go get your kit. Dismissed.”

Ghost turns and walks away. He doesn’t look back, even when he hears the conspicuous absence of Soap’s footsteps, the heavy starving weight of his stare imprinted on the back of Ghost’s head. One more mission, then he can rest. Another mission before he can sleep.

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ginxparker · 1 year ago

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My copium au where they get to grow up

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ginxparker · 1 year ago

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Banal Retired SoapGhost headcanons

Soap still does demolition work, but in the construction field. He's got a nice office job which he has mixed feelings about.

Ghost works part time as museum security, part time as a nightclub bouncer. He finds the museum job pleasant because it's not sensory overload and people rarely talk to him, but boring for the same reasons. By contrast the nightclub is hell on his sensory issues but he enjoys strongarming the odd jerkwad.

By some miracle, Soap's hearing is not completely destroyed. It's still adequate, but he's learned BSL and ASL as a precaution and he's discussed any potential need of hearing aids down the line with his GP.

His ears may be fine, but remember the knee brace in MW2? Yeah, that's still an issue. It's an old battle wound, so he's had time to find helpful therapies, but whenever a ripper of a storm starts blowing in, expect to find him on the sofa with his leg propped up, muttering curses.

Ghost wears unscented deodorants, uses unscented soap, refuses to touch anything with perfume in it. This is a common thing in soldiers with PTSD, apparently. Their neighbor has MCAS and gladly shares product recommendations while breathing a sigh of relief that there's at least one house they can safely visit without triggering a flareup.

Fireworks are one huge pain. At least they don't have the fourth of July to worry about. One time someone in their neighborhood got a little too freaky with the bottle rockets. The next day Ghost came over to "politely tell them to keep it down". There hasn't been a repeat since.

Those neighbors now view him with a combination of terror and awe. As is proper.

Soap has a severe fear of heights due to the whole being-dangled-out-a-window thing. Combined with Ghost's claustrophobia, they both wind up taking the stairs a whole lot.

(Ghost offers to carry Soap on the days when his knee acts up. Soap cuffs him upside the head and laughs at this.)

(He'd still say yes if it meant not subjecting Ghost to an unexpected elevator.)

Civilian life gives them a lot of time to unpack their dual PTSD diagnoses. Ghost has a harder time letting his guard down because he's been on guard for most of his life.

Soap's ADHD was less noticeable in the military, but in their shared living space, he tends to lose track of things. At least once a day he goes, "Babe, where the (thing)?" and Ghost is like, "In the (place), dumbass (affectionate)."

Of the two of them, Soap is more prone to nightmares, usually about Las Almas. Ghost has always been a light sleeper, so he tends to wake up in time to either bring him out of it or comfort him when he jolts awake. Soap is always quick to return the favor.

(Ghost will only admit this to Soap but he gets his best sleep with Johnny in his arms. He loves knowing Soap is safe with him.)

Soap's also prone to getting the wiggles in bed, so sometimes Simon sleeps on top of him for that deep pressure goodness.

It goes both ways, of course. Sometimes Ghost comes home from work and goes, "Floor me." And Soap lays on top of him while he rests on the floor because job loud and stupid, husband warm and soft.

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ginxparker · 1 year ago

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ginxparker · 1 year ago

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Borders 🚧

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ginxparker · 1 year ago

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land softly

Summary: Ghost & Soap are snowed in at a bed & breakfast. Fleabag voice: This is a love story. Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5

Part 1 - Johnny meets a Giant

“Your destination is on the right,” the GPS chirps, and Johnny works hard to resist the urge to roll his eyes. That doesn’t stop the involuntary cursing out loud, though, and with both hands on the wheel, Johnny sighs and looks at the rustic inn, cottage, whatever through the window.

It’s…beautiful. It stands starkly out against the white snow, looking like it belongs there, somehow, meek and delicate, yet like it knows how to hold its own, has had to hold its own against the dreary December weather.

It’s no Marriot, but it’ll have to do.

When he makes his way up the cobbled stone path leading to the front door and steps into the unlocked front room, he’s greeted by silence. It’s toasty warm inside, attributable partly to the roaring fireplace, he’s sure, but also the cheesy 80s music that plays over an ancient radio. Not a soul around, though and he walks up to the reception, but there’s no sign of one of those bells he can ring for someone’s attention. Just before he can do something silly (like scream in frustration at his rotten luck), the front door opens and clicks quietly shut.

The man that walks in is less man and more giant. He’s tall, but that’s like saying a bear standing up in front of you is tall. Well, yeah.

No, this man is tall and big, with broad shoulders and a massive chest. A giant, truly. A giant who’s currently glaring at Johnny. A giant who’s glaring at Johnny…and who’s wearing a face mask ?

“Can I help you, mate?” His voice is deep, rough, and it makes the hair on the back of Johnny’s neck stand up. The man smells of smoke and spicy cologne, and his eyes take a leisurely pace looking at Johnny from top to toe.

When the giant crosses his arms over his chest, Johnny’s eyes are drawn to how the movement dislodges flecks of snow from his shoulders.

“Uh, ah don’t have a reservation, but have ye…got room for one?”

“Sign outside sayin’ we’re closed,” comes the short reply. “You missed it?”

Johnny sighs and rolls his eyes to the ceiling in exhaustion. “No I–I didne miss it. But I need somewhere to sleep tonight, alrate? It’s cold, and ah’m lost. Be on me way first thing in the mornin’.”

“We’re closed,” the giant insists, but his eyes flicker to the large windows anyway, and whatever he sees outside makes him sigh and his stance soften. He uncrosses his arms, starts to take his coat off. “Fine. One night.”

“Thank ye kindly, mate,” Johnny murmurs. He hands his own coat over when glove-covered and impatient fingers motion for it with another soft thanks . “I’m John,” he says, while he hands over his drivers’ licence. “Cold and lost, like I said.”

“One night, John. Like I said. Fill this out.” While Johnny quickly jots down his personal information, the periphery of his vision shows the giant fidgeting with the edges of his gloves. Tattooed skin peeks curiously out at Johnny, and when the fingers freeze, he quickly goes back to the form, a flush crawling up his neck in embarrassment.

“King rooms are on the second floor,” the man says, giving the form a quick once over, and starts to walk deeper into the inn, though he freezes and whirls around suddenly to address Johnny. “Need a hand wi’ those?” Johnny looks down at his bags by his feet.

Johnny could almost laugh. “I’m alrate,” he confirms. “You got a name?”

“Yes,” the giant says, and about turns, giving Johnny no choice but to follow.

“Army?” Johnny guesses, the giant’s posture and movements and rigidity a dead give away. Also the muscles on muscles. “Air Corps, meself,” he adds, and winces at the bitterness in his voice, hoping that he’s the only one who can hear it. “Got out some time ago, though.”

“Special Forces.”

Johnny sighs and gives up, too exhausted to carry on the charade of being politely enquiring towards someone who clearly didn’t want the social interaction. The big guy finally brings him to the end of the corridor, stopping and pointing at the two doors that he proceeds to open. “Both king rooms, both the same. You’re welcome to either. John,” he adds, as though suddenly remembering his manners.

Johnny glances inside and sees two pristine rooms, simple luxury in the middle of nowhere. Only one has a bay window, though, and so he motions to that one. He gets handed a key and his guide takes a step back. “I’ll get out of ye way tomorrow mornin’, I promise.”

A stern good night is the only response he gets. With that anti-climatic farewell, he hears the giant clomp his way downstairs, and then the inn goes entirely silent.

For a fleeting minute, Johnny finds himself hoping for a blizzard. There’s nothing he loves more than a mystery, after all. He finds that, all things considered, he’s not too fussed about making it home in time for Christmas. But there is someone he needs to call first.

“Yer a fool, Johnny,” his sister chides before she even says hello.

“Hullo,” he says, chuckling, and she tuts in response.

“Yer a fool,” she repeats. “You’re not goin’ to make it home, pup, I know it. I saw yer text!”

“Ah may not,” he admits. “Ah’m so sorry! I’ll try but the weather is just—”

“Dinnae fash, Johnny, ah get it. Where are ye anyway?”

“This bed & breakfast in Yorkshire. It’s alrate, I’ve got a roof above m’head for tonight. And tomorrow, if ah need it!”

“But mam’s going to be—”

“Relieved. Mam’s going to be relieved, she dinnae want me there in the first place.”

“Johnny…”

Johnny feels a little guilty making his sister endure Christmas with their parents, but at least she’ll have her husband and her toddler with her. She’ll forgive him.

Their mother? Not so much.

“It’s alrate, love, I get it. I wouldnae make good company anyway.” He grins. “Give me little niece a kiss from her uncle Johnny, aye? Tell her I love her.”

“Tell her yerself!” There’s a small pause, and Johnny’s grin drops, knowing what’s coming. “Ye’ll try ye best to come?” Her voice is small and hopeful, and he feels a pressure inside his chest, making his heart squeeze painfully.

“I will.”

They say their goodbyes and Johnny adds to the long list of promises he’s only been able to make.

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