#ghoap whump

[galacticgraffiti]

A Borrowing of Bones (5)

This work is a collaboration with my most beloved artist and friend of all time Blumi: Story by me, art by Blumi ♡

Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish Rating: Mature (for heavy themes) Chapter Wordcount: 2k

MCD, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat// Heed also the Masterlist for general warnings. CW: blood, gore, (past) violence, yearning but make it sososo sad, fantasising about consuming blood, like in a romantic way,

A/N: Blumi's artworks are added at the end of each chapter.

Read on AO3 ✧ Taglist Signup for this fic ✧ Fic Masterlist

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Five: Interlude in Blood

One year earlier.

Blood drips from Soap’s mouth. When he smiles, it’s a terrifying thing, wet and drenched in red. Drowning in it.

“I got ‘im, LT.”

Ghost stares. Hides behind his mask and stares, and hopes that Soap has not learned to read his eyes just yet. Hopes that his breath isn’t too harsh, isn’t too loud, hopes that his heart will stop beating so goddamn fast in his chest and the world will stop spinning.

Hopes that Johnny never stops smiling. Hopes that he will. Or that he might at least look away, because Ghost can’t tear his terrified eyes from him.

Soap is covered in blood and viscera. Some is his own – a horrifying thing in its own way – he is hurt – but most is not. His hands are bare, his face pale beneath the eternal tan. Red drips from his lips, leaves streaks down his chin and soaks the collar of his shirt.

Ghost stares and stares, relieved that Johnny is alive, is here with him. Horrified by how they got here. Alive.

Terror mixes with fear, and dread with love undying.

It should be me, he wants to scream. I should be the terrifying thing that descends to kill in darkness. It should never have been you, should never have to be you, and yet- There is nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you. Nothing at all. Not even this. Least of all this. He doesn’t say it. Never says it. I love you always, for everything you are and for everything you have done. Never in spite of it. Always because of it.

Ghost blinks, and Soap’s hands are suddenly on his shoulders, gripping tight, his bloody smile right in Ghost’s face as strong fingers dig into muscle. Soap looks up at him, red staining his barely-there beard, smeared across the little cleft in his chin. His eyes are as blue as ever, all cruelty gone from them now, replaced by mild concern as he takes in the state of Ghost.

Simon wants to kiss Johnny’s freckles, to wipe away the blood and tell him it’s alright. Ghost wants to lick the viscera from Soap’s face and tell him well done.

Soap’s voice comes from far away.

“Ye hear me, LT? I got tha’ bastard. We’re good.”

Ghost can’t move, mesmerised by the way Soap’s tongue darts out to lick up a crimson droplet from the corner of his mouth without thinking. Terrified by it only because it’s a stranger’s blood touching the holy ground of Johnny’s mouth. Soap doesn’t even notice what he did, is used to the taste of blood on his tongue.

Ghost wants it to be his blood on Johnny’s tongue.

Soap’s fingers dig in harder, pulling at Ghost’s tactical vest. And finally, words come rushing to the tip of Ghost’s tongue.

“You got him,” he says, voice even and numb. “You got him, Johnny.”

“Aye,” Soap confirms with a horrible grin that splits his face in half almost like Ghost’s is. His hands drop down from Ghost’s chest, leaving dark stains in their wake, and still, Ghost misses their warmth the second they stop touching him. Always so warm. Even like this, even after all this. He almost reaches out, barely catches himself in time. Pulls himself together and focuses his eyes on Johnny’s face.

Dark brows drawn together in concern, nose wrinkled, teeth gnawing at his split lip. He smells like copper and gun oil and the stupid fucking hair product he uses to keep his mohawk in check. He smells like Soap, still, so he must be Soap, right? Must be his Johnny, even with his tongue blood-stained by another.

Still my Johnny. Ghost doesn’t say it. Never says it. Can’t say it, no matter how much he wants to. Can’t reach out for him, can’t kiss the blood from his mouth. Can’t taste him, lick him, devour him to make sure it’s really Soap. Can’t leave his own blood in the wake of his mouth to lay claim to him. But Ghost knows. My Johnny.

He blinks slowly. Soap’s fingers tap his vest before he steps back.

“We really gotta go, Ghost.”

Ghost hesitates. Can’t help but take him all in again, properly now that his eyes are focused, now that his head isn’t swimming with the heady smell of him. For a moment, he contemplates how fucked up it is that his heart still stumbles now. Then he calms his breathing and bans the fear from his heart. Still my Johnny. Mine.

“Get cleaned up first, Sergeant.” It’s an order, his own voice as calm as ever, not a tremble to be heard, though all Ghost wants to do is take Johnny by his shoulders and shake him. You almost died. You almost left me alone. Almost went away without knowing how you make me feel- without knowing that I lo-

Johnny vanishes from his field of vision for a moment.

Ghost tries not to stare too long at the corpse in the corner. He’s seen a lot of bodies. Been responsible for a lot of death. Lot of torture, too, slow and agonising and carefully planned. He finds a strange sense of calm in it, even, and he has made peace with the fact that he doesn’t feel guilty about it.

But Soap? Soap is a different beast entirely. Visceral and bloodied and so fucked up. He’s beautiful.

Ghost’s knives are always methodical, sometimes slow as they deal their suffering, quiet and deadly. Quick and merciful even, other times. But they always follow the steady hand that wields them. The anger doesn’t take him over, hasn't in a long time. Ghost is meticulous, a perfectionist in his efficient cruelty. A fucking weapon himself, tempered by loss and sharpened by pain.

Soap is all teeth and feeling. All rage and gore. All bark and all bite.

The enemy was on him the second he breached the door, when Ghost was too far to help out, couldn’t get an angle, only heard Johnny’s pained grunts.

Ghost has never run so fast in his whole fuckin’ life.

It was still close, too fuckin’ close. As good as they are, sometimes the enemy is better. Sometimes they’re faster, sometimes they are just uninjured. Sometimes, they get the element of surprise. And it gets too fucking close for comfort.

But Soap’s teeth are sharp. Sharp enough to rip out a man’s throat when it comes down to it, to leave only torn filament and broken bone. Cruel enough to smile as his foe chokes to death on his own blood and he watches.

Ghost’s fingers twitch.

Fuck.

“Oy, LT.” Soap is standing in front of him, holding his hands up, eyes aflame in the setting sun. Teeth still stained pink, freckles still painted in shades of crimson. “You solid?”

Ghost tears his eyes away from the body. Stares at Soap instead.

How beautiful he is. Even after all that. A demon with the face of an angel. I’d follow him to hell if I knew I could have him for it.

“I’m solid, Johnny. On me.” It’s a lie. Soap has to know that- must be able to tell- but he just regards him with sharp eyes, those long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Then sighs and nods.

“On you, LT. Let’s go.”

When Ghost walks out, he knows he is lost. Nothing can save him now. Johnny has him, whether Simon wants it or not. If Johnny asked for a finger, Ghost would saw off his own hand. If he asked for his heart, Ghost would tear open his own chest, break his own ribs, lay himself bare. Bleed himself dry just to please him, to see Johnny’s bronze skin covered in Simon’s own dark red blood, to envelop him entirely in ways that should never be thought about.

Take my heart, Johnny. You can have it. It’s all yours, anyways. This is how my flesh loves you. Please love me back.

He doesn’t say it. Never says it. He steps back into the light of the sinking sun and doesn’t know that Soap’s eyes follow him every step of the way.

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Ghost takes the first shift until exfil. He always does.

And Johnny looks so peaceful as he sleeps that Ghost can’t bring himself to wake him up. Soap gets so tired after missions, crashes from the high of the adrenaline. Especially after close calls like this. Sleeps like Ghost never could, rolled up like a cat, like he has no muscle mass at all, sleeps like a child would. Peacefully, even after tearing out an enemy’s throat with his teeth, even while his tongue still tastes like another man.

Ghost finds himself absurdly wishing, once again, that it was his own blood on Johnny’s tongue. Wants to shake his head to shake the thought, but it keeps coming back: His own blood dripping from Johnny’s mouth as he swallows and swallows what Ghost has to give. Makes him his own. Tastes him like nobody else ever has, and lets it linger. Revels in it almost like worship, and Ghost can imagine it if he just closes his eyes, the feeling of Johnny’s warm lips on his neck, of rough fingers pressing into his own flesh, of Johnny’s smell after battle, like sweat and gunpowder and blood. It should be disgusting, but Ghost wants to bury his face in it. Wants to press his nose into the crook of Johnny’s neck, into the fucking pits of his arms if he gets to, into the apex of his thighs, into his hair, into his-

He stops himself abruptly, forces open his heavy eyelids.

You’re on fucking watch, you dumbass, he scolds himself quietly. Checks his surroundings, gets up and checks again. And again. Carefully avoids the spot by the fire where Soap has curled up and is breathing calmly, his absurd lashes casting long shadows across his freckled cheeks. He is so beautiful Ghost dies a little more each time he looks at him. So pretty not even Simon’s heart knows how to keep beating.

When Ghost settles back down, he allows himself one deep sigh. Johnny stirs, but doesn’t wake up, lashes fluttering for the fraction of a second before he settles back down. Presses his face into Ghost’s sweater that covers Soap’s own pack: one more layer to make him as comfortable as is possible barely outside enemy territory.

I won’t need it, Ghost had said when he gave it to Johnny.

Ye sure, LT? The night is dark and full of terrors-

Shut the fuck up and take the damn sweater, Sergeant. You look like shit.

Aye, ta.

Ghost shakes the memory, forces his eyes to look away. Shoves his mask up his nose to drink some of the coffee that’s gone cold by now, but it’s better than nothing. He has canned beans, too – an atrocity to eat them cold, but what else is new. The hunger in his stomach finally settles a little when he finishes up the can, metal spoon scraping against the empty shell of the can with a noise that makes the soft hair on his arms raise.

Fuck.

Soap stirs, blinks awake, eyes barely open, but already focused on the exposed, scarred skin of Ghost’s face.

“”S-S’mon. Yer… Mmh. Ye look… look like home, LT.” His voice is rough with sleep. He is barely awake, but Ghost’s eyes snap to him, fingers hastily pulling his balaclava back down. Ye look like home, LT.

Something grips Ghost’s heart and squeezes so tight he can’t breathe. It’s his scars, his fucking scars. Home. His Glasgow Smile, etched into his face, never really blending in with his other scars, too pink, too fresh-looking still, even after years have passed. A cruel mockery of the real smile Simon Riley used to have.

Ye look like home, LT.

Ghost looks at Soap’s tired face and rubs his eyes, smears his eyeblack into his mask.

“Go back to sleep, Soap.”

And Johnny listens, goes down so easy when it’s Ghost who is asking, and when he wakes up, he can’t be sure anymore whether this wasn’t all a dream. He doesn't dare ask, but the face he saw never leaves his dreams.

Home.

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It must've been looooove, but it's oooover n-

@ulchabhangorm @purgetrooperfox @captav @gibsalotdoodles @staygoldnimoy @blinca

[ghostlysoaps]

A Minor Annoyance

They’re back at base again and Ghost has been holed up in his office for the majority of the week in an attempt to get back on track with his ever-increasing backlog of paperwork. The knock on his door is therefore welcome, though surprising. He sits up straighter, wincing when several joints pop in protest, calling for them to come in.

Gaz leans himself against the doorframe. He, too, looks exhausted. Exhausted and irritated.

“I need your help wrangling Soap,” he says without preamble or an arduous attempt at small talk.

Ghost blinks at him.

“What?”

“He’s a stubborn bastard who won’t listen to reason,” Gaz shrugs. “And if it comes down to knocking him out in order to get him to rest, I’d rather have help carrying his leaden arse back to his room.”

Ghost blames sleep deprivation for the way he snorts.

“Alright,” he acquiesces, following behind the sergeant with amused wariness dogging his steps.

-

They find Soap outside surrounded by the scent of petrichor and bleary-eyed recruits. A gust of wind weaves around them, its chilling bite unmistakable where it tugs upon their hair and clothes, rustling through the pine-ridden area like an unexpected whisper. Ghost waits for Soap to send the group out on the track before he approaches, brow furrowed in response to the thickness layered over his voice. He'd sounded as if he spoke from deep in his throat, and with an air of a man pretending as if it didn’t pain him to do so. As he draws closer, Ghost allows the gravel beneath his feet to shift deliberately.

Soap jerks, swings his head around when Ghost comes to stand at his side, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes. The tip of his nose is red too, his cheeks a tad puffy, though he carries himself admirably regardless. Straight-backed and refusing to huddle into the oversized jacket he's wearing.

"Lt.? What're y'doing ‘ere?”

“I'm relieving you of your duties. Garrick can take it from here,” he replies, throwing Gaz a look that is met with surreptitious thumbs-up. He'll ask Price to look into leave for him. Soap's not the only one itching to work himself into an early grave by the looks of it.

It must be a cold day in hell, he muses, if I'm the one with the healthiest work-life balance at the moment.

“What?! Get tae and dinnae talk pish! I'm fine. I can work, Sir, I dinnae need–”

“That was an order, Sergeant. You can either leave on your own two feet or slung over my shoulder. Choice is yours.”

Soap's eyes narrow, his shoulders drawing up defensively, lips pulled back in a sneer. “You wouldn't dare.”

Which is about the worst thing he could've possibly said.

All at once Simon is twelve years old again with a defiant Tommy glaring daggers at him from across the stained rug, those fateful words a hiss through clenched teeth. Even the keen knowledge of their mother’s impending disappointment, how she'd give him a hushed dressing down in the aftermath of their scuffle, hadn't curbed his need to lunge for him. It's like the flip of a switch. Three simple words and suddenly Ghost is vibrating with the desire to prove Soap wrong. Some previously dormant code ingrained deep in his DNA flaring to life with all the speed of an oxygen fire.

Those memories carry him forward and the sudden shift in Johnny’s expression, the moment he realises he’s sealed his fate proper, sends a thrill skittering down his spine.

“Wait, Ghost, I–” is about as far as he comes before the words change into an unintelligible blend of Scottish nonsense, voice strained from having his diaphragm compressed. “Put me doon ye clarty bastard! Gaz!”

“Dream come true for you, huh?” Gaz says with a jaunty wave at their retreating backs, mirth etched into the crinkled lines around his eyes.

“I'll fuckin’ kill ye, ye clipe wopper! Lemme doon so ah can wring ‘is bleedin’ neck!” Soap barks, squirming in Ghost's grasp like a recalcitrant eel. It's a blessing that Soap's already running on fumes since, true to his callsign, it's damn near impossible to keep him securely slung over his shoulder.

By his third attempt to claw Ghost's back to shreds, Ghost sighs and pats him firmly on the rump. Soap instantly stills. Flushed to high-heavens if Ghost were to hazard a guess – not that he can see him from this angle. “Settle down, Sergeant, and I might be convinced to let you walk on your own.”

“Hate you,” Johnny wheezes.

Ghost grunts and maneuvers the door open, settling Johnny back on his feet again when it swings shut with a resounding thud. He steadies him when he wobbles on his feet and Johnny lets him with little fuss. Resigned to his fate he shuffles along after Ghost, who detours briefly to score each of them a cuppa. He ladles honey into Johnny’s mug and presses it into his freezing hands. Gets a muttered, unenthusiastic and intentionally mocking “cheers,” for it.

“You're a right cunt when you're sick.”

“Yer a right cunt all o’ the time,” Soap fires back. He's glaring mutinously into his least preferred beverage, cradled close to his chest while he watches Ghost tidy up after them. “Jus’ hate bein’ sick ‘s all. Feel proper boggin’ no matter how many times ah shower an’ my nose is both runny and stuffed as if th’ physics of tha is s'pose to make sense. Could'a powered through it.”

“That's how you end up forcefully strapped to a bed in medical suffering from pneumonia and severe dehydration.”

Johnny pauses. A small smile graces his face and Ghost hastily turns back to wiping down the counters to keep himself from being blinded.

One shouldn't stare directly into the sun after all.

“Speakin’ from experience, sir?”

Ghost doesn't answer, as if that isn't a reply in-and-of-itself, merely nudges Johnny back into moving. He gets him all the way to his door before Soap's brow creases in confusion. His mouth opens, closes, opens again while Ghost trudges inside with little fanfare, door left gaping in silent invitation. Johnny seizes it with both hands after dithering at his threshold a second longer.

He examines the impersonal space with keen interest, slurping obnoxiously at his tea as if to detract from how his hands flutter over scuffed paint and barren walls, his gaze catching over the miniscule signs someone is living there at all.

“Why'ahm I ‘ere, Ghost?” Soap asks when he's done, pinning him in place with the intensity of his stare. It's the same focus he dedicates to a particularly difficult math equation or sketching up blueprints with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. It's a heady feeling to be on the receiving end of it. Heady and terrifying.

“Figured you'd appreciate the en-suite,” Ghost says, violently stamping down on the truth until it comes out in a statement easier to digest. “And someone needs to make sure you stay in place. Bloody flight risk that you are.”

You'd look good in my clothes, in my bed, as a permanent fixture here. This is as much for me as it is for you. A taste of what I can't have.

He hopes Soap doesn't read between the lines this time – always too perceptive for Ghost's questionable sanity.

“An’ where d'ye plan on sleeping?” Johnny smiles, a mote amused and as sweet as the honey lingering on his lips.

“Floor. Or Gaz's room if he doesn't delete those pictures he took.”

Johnny’s eyes go dark as sin.

“Oh, that'll be th’ least of his worries.”

“Sleep, MacTavish. You can come up with your convoluted revenge plot later.”

“Yes sir.” He gives a lazy salute and flops down on Ghost's bed with a grunt – boots and all, the absolute heathen. Ghost watches him rearrange himself into a position more befitting a person who's suffered a recent spinal fracture when Johnny peers up at him again from under thick lashes. “Dinnae think you're exempt from those, Lt. Ah know where ye live now.”

Ghost sighs and tosses the hoodie folded over his chair at Johnny’s face, taking great pleasure in closing the bathroom door in the face of Johnny's indignant name-calling.

-

Prompts via @whumperless-whump-event and @seth-whumps

[hatsbuckets]

Let Me Sleep | Soap

Pairings: Sorta Poly141, can be read whichever way. WC: ~1700 Warnings: Canon-typical violence. Chemical/drug exposure. Loss of consciousness. Brief confusion/delirium. Hallucinations and Soap guilt. Inaccurate medical stuff. Hurt with maybe 0.5 comfort. Soap gets eepy and happy then absolutely sad, then eepy :( dw Ghost likes him alive. Short Vers: Soap gets drugged with something that makes him all delirious. Ghost is keeping him awake as they drive. Soap sees ghosts. He just wants to eep in his bf's arm. Gaz Version!!! peep i'm too lazy to edit pics this time womp womp bless gifmakers

The hallway reeked of burnt plastic and cordite. Broken lights flickered overhead, casting long, stuttering shadows down the empty corridors.

It should’ve been over.

Soap pressed a hand to the wall, steadying himself as the world pitched sideways. His heart stuttered. His boots scraped the concrete wrong, too heavy and too loud. He'd let his rifle hang loose at his side.

“Ghost,” he mumbled, voice thick and strange in his own ears. “D’you ever think about clouds?”

Ghost’s head snapped around, rifle coming up for just a moment, then easing.

Soap laughed, low and dazed. “Like, really think about ‘em?”

He grinned wide, lopsided. His eyes were glassy.

Ghost didn’t answer. He moved fast, closing the distance, hand grabbing Soap’s vest just as his knees buckled. Soap sagged into him with a soft huff, all the fight draining out of his frame.

Christ. He was burning up. Heat rolling off him like steam.

Ghost locked a gloved hand behind Soap’s neck, tilting his face up into the flickering light. His skin was flushed red, sweat beading at his hairline, pupils blown wide.

“Fuck,” Ghost muttered under his breath. “Johnny, what happened?”

Soap blinked at him, slow and heavy-lidded. A lazy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“‘M fine,” he slurred. “Feels nice. Warm.”

Ghost shook him once, sharp. “Focus.”

Soap just laughed again, giddy and distant.

Price’s voice cracked through the comms, low and urgent. “Ghost. Report.”

“Soap’s hit with something,” Ghost bit out. “Unknown chem. Bad.”

There was a pause, long enough for Soap to sway again and Ghost to shove him up. 

“We’re moving. Now.” Price’s voice was backed by gunfire rattling in the distance. Too close.

Ghost hauled Soap upright. He stumbled, tried to push away half-heartedly.

“C’mon, mate,” Soap whined. “Just a minute. Just wanna sit down…”

“No chance,” Ghost growled, slinging one of Soap’s arms over his shoulder. “Move your feet.”

They staggered through the ruined halls, Ghost half-carrying him when Soap’s legs refused to cooperate. His head kept dropping against Ghost’s shoulder, eyes fluttering like he was seconds from slipping under.

Price was already forcing open a side door, eyes sweeping the alley.

They moved forward along the cracked asphalt lot toward two rusting civilian trucks abandoned near a crumbling fence line.

Gunfire barked again, closer this time. Shouts. Boots pounding.

They were out of time.

“Ghost! Truck. Now.” Price barked, already sprinting for the closest vehicle.

Ghost didn’t waste breath answering. He dragged Soap with him, shoved open the battered rear door, and all but threw him inside.

Soap slumped sideways instantly, eyes slipping closed.

Ghost slapped his cheek hard enough to sting. “Stay awake!”

Soap whined, batting weakly at his hand like a drunk fighting off a moth. “Quit it… jus’ a nap, mate…”

The engine roared to life under Price’s hands. Tires screeched as he tore out of the lot, bullets sparking against the rear fender.

Ghost climbed into the back beside Soap, one arm locked around his chest to hold him upright.

Soap sighed contentedly. Tucked his head against Ghost’s shoulder.

Very softly, he murmured, “Comfiest cloud I ever did see…”

Ghost squeezed his eyes shut for half a second. Exhaled through his teeth. “Focus Johnny.”

The truck jolted hard over a curb, tires screaming against cracked pavement. Price didn’t bother staying subtle, he floored it, weaving between half-collapsed barriers and shattered road signs like a man with no intention of stopping for anything.

Soap groaned at the motion, rolling against Ghost in the back seat like a sack of bricks.

Ghost grunted, catching him before he could slide right off the bench.

“Sit up, Johnny,” Ghost barked, giving him a shake. “Stay with us.”

Soap whined low in his throat, hands fumbling blindly. He found Ghost’s plate carrier, gripped it with both fists, and tucked himself against Ghost’s side like a clingy, overgrown kid.

“Gonna nap right here, yeah?” he slurred, voice thick and sticky-sweet.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Ghost hauled him upright again. “No napping. You’re on watch.”

Soap’s head lolled back, hitting Ghost’s shoulder with a soft thump. His mouth tugged into a crooked little smile.

“M’watchin’,” he mumbled. “Watchin’ you breathe. ‘S nice.”

Ghost shot a look at the rearview mirror. Price caught it. His jaw tightened, hands flexing around the steering wheel.

The truck fishtailed around a corner. Soap barely reacted—just clung harder, legs tangling with Ghost’s. His forehead pressed into Ghost’s chest, breath hot and uneven through the fabric.

Ghost kept him upright by sheer force. One arm locked around his shoulders, the other gripping his wrist to keep his hands from going slack.

“You hear me?” Ghost muttered, keeping his voice steady. “Need you to stay alive.”

Soap giggled. Actually fucking giggled.

“Not dead. Sleepin’.”

“You don’t wake up from this kind of sleep, Soap.”

Another jolt in the road sent them bouncing. Ghost tightened his hold. Soap whimpered quietly but didn’t fight, he didn’t try to pull away, didn’t even lift his head.

Price’s voice crackled through the cab, tight and clipped. “Fifteen minutes out. Then safehouse.”

Ghost nodded once, even though Price couldn’t see him.

Fifteen minutes. They just had to keep him awake fifteen more minutes.

“Where’s Kyle?” Soap slurred.

“At the safehouse.”

“Mmm,” Soap hummed. “Miss ‘im.”

Soap shifted, murmuring something into Ghost’s chest. Words too soft to catch. His hands fisted tighter into the front of Ghost’s gear, like he knew, on some rattled level, that letting go would mean falling.

Ghost looked down, held on tighter

“Stay with me, Johnny,” he said again, voice quieter this time.

Soap didn’t answer, but his fingers twitched into the smallest thumbs up.

…

The world blurred outside the windows, black smears of old city. None of it seemed to matter anymore.

Soap’s head stayed tucked against Ghost’s chest, his breathing shallow and uneven. His body slumped heavier by the minute, like gravity was winning a slow, inevitable war.

Ghost tapped his cheek again… gloves pulled off, softer now, just a nudge, a little reminder. He’d pulled off Soap’s head gear, got him at least settled comfortably sitting up against him.

“C’mon, Johnny. Stay with me.”

Soap mumbled something, too slurred to catch, and shifted, head tilting just enough to look across the cab.

At the empty seat beside him.

His face lit up, sudden and bright.

“There you are,” he whispered.

Ghost stiffened and followed his gaze to the empty space behind Price.

“Though’ we lost ya,” Soap murmured, voice hitching into a soft, wet laugh. “Knew you’d find your way back. Always said you would, didn’t you?”

Ghost’s stomach twisted.

Soap reached out, fingers grasping at empty air. His hand dropped limp again after a second, settling on Ghost’s thigh.

“You came back,” he breathed, so quietly it may have been a prayer.

Ghost didn’t say anything. He just pulled Soap in closer, wrapping an arm fully around his shoulders like he could hold him together through sheer force.

The truck bumped over something, a curb, maybe, and Soap whimpered at the jolt. His fingers clutched tighter, nails scraping weakly against the fabric of Ghost’s pants.

“It’s my fault,” Soap said, voice cracking wide open.

Ghost blinked down at him. “What?”

Soap’s eyes stayed locked on the empty seat, glassy and distant.

“I didn’t cover ‘im right. Shoulda—shoulda seen it. Shoulda been faster. He was just a kid. Younger than Gaz...” His throat worked around the words, like they hurt coming out.

“I was supposed to watch him. I promised him.” He spat the words through gritted teeth.

Ghost felt a sharp, ugly punch in his chest.

Price glanced into the mirror again, met Ghost’s for a brief, sharp moment, but said nothing. His hands stayed tight on the wheel.

Soap shuddered against Ghost’s side. Tears welled in his eyes and spilled over, sliding down his flushed cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Over and over. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Ghost tucked his chin down, resting it lightly against the top of Soap’s head. He didn’t tell him it wasn’t his fault, Soap wouldn’t have heard him anyway.

All he could do was hold on, keep him breathing.

“Come on, Johnny, we’ve got ya.” Ghost said, voice low and steady against the ragged sound of the tires on the broken road. “I’m right here.”

Soap whimpered again, small and broken, and clung tighter.

…

The truck screeched to a halt outside a battered safehouse on the edge of the city. Half the windows were boarded, but it was clear, Price had made sure of that.

Ghost moved. He shoved the door open, yanking Soap with him.

Soap barely stirred. His head lolled against Ghost’s shoulder, breath shallow and warm against his collarbone. His legs dragged uselessly across the gravel.

“I’ve got ya, Johnny,” Ghost muttered, more to himself than anything. He swept him up fully, one arm under his knees, the other around his back. Soap’s body was a furnace, heat seeping through Ghost’s clothes like fire.

Soap mumbled something against his chest. Words lost.

Inside, the house smelled like dust. Gaz was already there, moving fast, clearing space, tossing a battered mattress down on the floor near the fireplace. His eyes widened when he saw them.

“Jesus,” Gaz breathed. “What happened?”

“Drug or chemicals,” Price answered shortly, right behind Ghost. “Unknown. Med team’s en route.”

Gaz nodded, jaw tight, but his hands were steady. He dropped to his knees by the mattress, spreading out blankets and water bottles in quick, efficient motions.

Soap stirred again when they crossed the threshold.

His head lifted weakly. His hazy gaze found Gaz, and a lopsided, drunken smile pulled at his mouth.

“Kyle,” he slurred, voice soft and fond like a secret. “Knew you’d beat us ‘ere…”

Gaz’s throat worked around a response he couldn’t give. He just reached out, steadying Soap’s shoulder as Ghost knelt down.

Ghost tried to ease him onto the mattress. Tried.

Soap clutched his jacket in both fists, sudden and desperate, like a drowning man grabbing for a rope.

“Stay,” Soap breathed, voice cracking. “Please… just—stay.”

Ghost froze and for a heartbeat, he thought about lying. Thought about telling him he'd just be a second. Thought about pulling away.

He couldn’t do it.

Ghost shifted, lowering Soap gently onto the mattress without breaking his grip. Soap’s fingers stayed tangled in the heavy fabric of his jacket sleeve, the other hooked around his vest, even as his body sagged.

Ghost sat down beside him and stayed close. He stayed close enough that Soap could feel the weight of him, close enough that if Soap’s hands loosened, they would still brush against him. Practically keeping Soap in his lap.

Price moved around the room, barking orders into his radio. Gaz crouched nearby, wiping Soap’s face down with a damp cloth, checking his pulse every few seconds.

Ghost didn’t move or say a word. He just stayed.

Soap’s breathing hitched once, a broken little sound, and then finally evened out, slow, shallow, but steady.

The medic would be there soon. They’d done what they could.

Ghost reached down and covered Soap’s hand with his own, squeezing once.

“You’re alright, Johnny,” he murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. “Not going anywhere.”

…

The medic burst through the door less than two minutes later, gear clattering, voice sharp and professional as he rattled. Gaz answered him in quick, clipped replies. Price kept his rifle slung across his chest, standing guard by the door, jaw tight.

Ghost didn’t move.

He stayed when the medic knelt by Soap’s side. He stayed when a gloved hands brushed his shoulder, murmuring, "We’ll take it from here, mate."

Soap’s fingers twitched, clinging tighter, so Ghost stayed.

The medic didn’t mind, he worked quickly, checking vitals, running a line, administering something to counter the chemical still eating through Soap’s system. He mumbled his frustration about not knowing what, but made his greatest, educated guess based on what Gaz had told him. Soap barely reacted. He mumbled a few broken words under his breath, names, maybe, more apologies. Ghost couldn't catch them all.

Finally, the medic pulled back, nodding.

“He’s stable,” he said. “Out of the woods. Should sleep it off now.”

Ghost exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Soap’s fingers relaxed at last, still tangled in the heavy folds of Ghost’s jacket.

His body sagged fully into the mattress, breath slow and even now.

Ghost shifted closer. Just enough to lay a steady hand across Soap’s chest, feeling the slow rise and fall.

“You can sleep now, Johnny,” he said, voice low.

Soap gave him a little smile, eyes closed, lips twitching, then relaxing completely.

[foap-enjoyer]

AleRudy drabble (Wolf-Shifter AU)

It's been a while since I fed this fandom. Hey again. I made cookies. They're underbaked (aka it's just a drabble, it's not finished/clean) but they're still cookies.

Wolf-shifter AU because I've barely tried my hand at it, and also I imagined Rudy wearing a cute little K9 harness with patches on and my heart melted.

Summary: - Wolf-shifters Soap + Rudy - Angst/hurt/action, with a smidge of good old comfort towards the end. It's not a finished drabble, but it has a happy ending. - Stereotypical mission-gone-awry setting. Rudy (and Soap) are ambushed during a recon mission, and Alejandro comes to the rescue. The rest of the 141 are here, although background characters within this drabble. Minor/hinted Ghoap, but it's VERY small. Legit just one sentence.

Word count: ~3000

TWs: I suppose animal abuse? Anything to do with animals being hurt. Cause there's a lot of that. I mean it's a wolf-shifter fic.

—

The informant hadn’t given much, just a rough grid and a whisper about movement in the hills. Possibly El Sin Nombre loyalists regrouping. It was vague, but for Alejandro, anything to do with El Sin Nombre was worth checking out. This patch of land wasn’t cartel-owned anymore, last he checked, but that didn’t stop anyone from using it as they pleased.

Dry hills and old farmland, scattered with scrub and thorn trees. There were a few small abandoned trailers here and there, but what instantly came to his mind was the old rickety ranch, left to dust since before even he was born. A decayed mess, perfectly hidden within the trees. A perfect spot for cartel looking to lay low and regroup.

Its location made things slightly difficult, however. Given it was well-hidden behind piles of tight-knit foliage, with only a single, semi-abandoned passing road beside it, a full surprise-ambush from Los Vaqueros would be seen from miles away, if there truly were high-ranking criminals gathered inside. It just wasn’t ideal for a full-team deployment, given the specifics. 

But it was suitable for K9-deployment. The thick, dense grass of the abandoned fields was more than enough cover for a dog to slip by unnoticed, and, once they hit the dense foliage of the woods, they’d be able to maneuver through it far better than a team of humans ever could.

Rodolfo had volunteered for the job before they’d even finished planning. However Alejandro wasn’t sending him in alone, simple recon or not. Over his dead body. 

That was why he’d contacted 141, and asked for a hand. Or a paw, more specifically. Soap had been more than willing to take a detour to help out.

And so had the rest of them, apparently.

Four up high on overwatch, two down low, on recon. In-and-out, sniff for any signs of life, and leave unnoticed.

That was the plan, anyway.

—

Price was stationed just east of his own position. He could just barely see the man, belly-down against the rough outcrop of stone that scattered the lower portions of the hillside. On either side of him lay two furrier, smaller figures, pressed just as close to the earth as he was.

 He watched as Price’s scope surveyed the fields. “No movement.” Came the Captain’s crackly voice through the comm line. “Alejandro?”

“No movement.” He confirmed, angling the scope of his weapon slightly, “Soap, Rudy, proceed as planned.”

The two wolves slinked forward in an instant, leaving behind the Captain to begin their trek down the rest of the hillside. 

They were as stealthy as they were fast, for in a blink of an eye, Alejandro had almost lost them as they hit the dry grass below. Had it not been for their K9 harnesses, he probably wouldn’t have been able to relocate them. The harnesses themselves were black in colour, in typical military-issued style, but it was the colours of the flags stitched onto the back of them that stood out. Soap’s bright Union Jack, and Rudy’s colourful México flag, respectively. He used those to train his scope onto, following the duo as they maneuvered through the fields.

Soap led the way, his mottled, light brown fur blending in seamlessly with the dry, dead grass. Rudy stood out a little more as he followed close behind, his fur being a deep, rich black. From this distance, however, he looked as if he could be Soap’s shadow, rather than a whole other wolf.

“There’s a small clearing up ahead.” Price murmured into the comms. “Head left, Soap. Rudy, follow. Best to avoid it.”

There was a puff of air blown through the mic as Soap huffed. He adjusted course, and his shadow followed.

From this new position of theirs, Alejandro could make out other patches stitched onto the harnesses. Rudy’s little Fuerzas Especiales tag was much smaller than his México tag, but it was there, near his flank, its bright blue a stark contrast against black fur. Soap had a tag on this side, too, but its white writing was small, and hard to read against the glare of the sun. He’d gotten a look at it earlier, however, before the mission had begun. It wasn’t anything militarized– it’d read something along the lines of ‘Squirrel Patrol’. Whatever that was supposed to mean. Soap had told him Gaz had bought it for ‘shits and giggles’.

Rudy had grinned and said it looked ridiculous.

“Hold on.” Ghost’s voice cracked in through the comm line. In an instant, the wolves stopped, bellies hitting the dirt. “Vehicle passing through. Stand-by.”

He couldn’t see anything, from his own viewpoint. Ghost and Gaz were positioned west, on the other side of the thick forest foliage. From their viewpoint, however, Alejandro knew they could see pieces of the road that trekked through this part of the countryside.

“It looks civilian.” Gaz spoke next, “Big-ass campervan.”

“There’s a caravan campsite not too far from here.” He pipes up. He hears Rudy grunt down the mic in some semblance of confirmation. “Most likely heading there. Wait for them to pass.”

“Affirm.” Ghost hums, “Johnny, you copy?”

Soap lets out a snort.

“Taking that as a yes, then, Sergeant. Hang tight.”

The comms settle back into a soft quiet. The vehicle moves on without a hitch. If he listens closely through his earpiece, he can hear the engine purring from what he assumes is either Rodolfo’s or MacTavish’s line.

There’s a few seconds pause before Ghost murmurs a quiet; “You’re clear to move up to the building. Remember that you have no overwatch during this bit, lads. You’re on your own.”

Soap padded forward slowly, Rudy hot on his heels as the pair broke through into the dense foliage, disappearing beneath its thick cover.

“The one thing I hate about recons like these.” Gaz’s voice mutters, “The wait.”

“I can second that.” Price sighed, before turning his attention back to the task at hand. “Remember you two: do not engage. You see anything fishy, you bail. Do I make myself clear?”

Soap lets out a little puff of air. Rudy’s silent, but it's clear the pair understand the message. Besides, if Alejandro expected one of them to break formation and attack, it wouldn’t be Rudy, so Soap’s confirmation means a whole lot more over his.

He listened intently to the comm line. Each crackle of a leaf under paws, each brush of fur against bushes and grass. The soft grunts and tiny yips of the pair as they communicated in the only way they could, weaving through who-knows-what as they near the ranch.

He can tell the moment they’ve reached the house, purely because what was once the loud sound of plants and life breaks away into silence once more. He assumes that now they must be in the clearing of where the old ranch is built. It’s small, from what his memory serves, but there’s plenty of places to hide. Old furniture, abandoned logs and piles of trash. 

He tries to picture it– what they must be doing. Soap, going one way, Rudy another, the pair scouring the outskirts of the yard before beginning to slowly move closer, and closer, using the rusted materials around them for cover. He wonders if they’ve scented anything yet, or even seen someone. He’ll only know once they’re back, he supposes.

There’s a soft creak. One of them huffs at the other, hesitant. The other responds in tow with a more confident puff, and a few more creaks of what sounds like a weight being pressed against old wooden floorboards.

“Unless you see it absolutely fit, do not enter that house, Soap.” Price clearly knows his Sergeant well. The creaking halts, and Soap lets out another puff. “One of you stays outside if you’re going to check it out.”

“There’s two buildings, from what I remember.” He speaks into his own mic, “The main ranch and a stable just south of it.”

“Johnny can handle the house, then. Rudy, mind checking out the stables?”

There’s a quiet huff of air, and the sound of paws hitting dirt as Rudy no doubt heads over towards the stable doors. The creaking of the ranch’s floorboards come back as Soap continues his trek further. Alejandro can hear him sniffing at whatever’s inside.

Rudy’s comm picks up the soft, slow creak of an unlatched door being nudged open. It must be somewhat dusty inside, because Rudy sneezes, the sound embarrassingly loud across the line. Alejandro can’t help but smile at it.

Soap’s mic picks back up again. He’s snuffling, more intense now. The sounds of his nose working overdrive are low and fast. There’s no creaking of floorboards– had he found something? Not a person, obviously, for he lets out a sharp grunt, clipped and frustrated. Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound fresh enough for Soap’s satisfaction.

There’s the sound of claws hitting more sturdy wood. A sniff or two. From which wolf this time, he’s uncertain. Then one of them–

A growl. Low, rough, and guttural.

It’s neither of theirs.

Wood splinters, and there’s a bark– loud. Panicked. The sound of claws scraping violently against wood, and then a terrible, agonising, gut-wrenching squeal tears from one of their throats.

Alejandro’s whole body jolts. His heart stops. He knows that sound. He’d only heard it once before but he knows that sound.

His voice is barely breath as it escapes him, "Rodolfo."

Then he’s moving.

He doesn’t think- he just runs. Bursting up from his perch with his rifle slung across his chest, legs pumping, tearing through dry grass and scattered stone like a man possessed.

“Alejandro, stand down!” Price barks through the comm, already scrambling to react. “Repeat– stand down!”

But he doesn’t hear them. All he’s focused on is the sounds in his ears. The warbled, animalistic wails. All he hears is Rudy. That horrible sound- raw and high and all wrong. 

He nearly trips as he crests the slope, boots skidding on loose dirt. His breath saws out of him. The radio howls in his ear.

“Gaz,” Price growls, “get eyes on them, now!”

“I’m tryin’!” comes the sharp reply, “Trees’re too thick, can’t get a good spot–”

“Rodolfo!” Alejandro pants into his mic, not caring how desperate he sounds. The cries haven’t stopped- if anything, they’re only getting louder. Getting worse. Rudy sounds more animal than man now. “Rudy!”

He gets nothing in return.

Then, Soap’s mic flares.

A flurry of new noise– gravelly snarls, claws on wood, high-pitched yips and growls. There’s a loud, jarring thud as something slams hard against a wall. A pained whine is drawn from Soap’s throat.

“Johnny!” Ghost barks, “Shit– Gaz, cover me!”

“Gotcha!”

He’s close enough now that he can hear the sounds of the fight without his earpiece. Rudy’s screams -he can’t call them anything else- stab into his skull, but they’re drowned out by the cacophony of growls, yelps, and snapping jaws. The air itself feels sick with it.

Alejandro vaults the fence and barrels through the brush, rifle ready.

Then he hits the clearing.

And for a second, the world simply stops.

A mass of bodies writhes in the center of the ruined stableyard. Dozens of limbs, matted, twisted, smeared with blood, tangle over one another in a frenzied, fluid mess. At first glance, one could mistake them for snakes.

But they weren’t. They were wolves. Feral, rabid wolves.

The creatures roll and snap and claw, indistinguishable from each other in the churned-up, gore-soaked dirt. They're so thoroughly coated in blood that their natural colors have vanished beneath red and mud. Only when one head lifts, its eyes catching the light, mouth peeled back in a foaming snarl, does he realize there’s something beneath them. Something alive.

Then he sees the harness. Ripped. Bloodstained. Barely clinging to fur that was once a dark, sleek black. The blue patch is almost torn off entirely.

Rudy.

His body is pinned, his limbs twisted in angles that make Alejandro nauseous to look at. The muscles in his side jerk as he kicks feebly, his mouth open in his own blood-foamed snarl. Every sound he makes is pure, raw agony– high, keening cries punched out of a crushed, folded ribcage. His paws batters uselessly against the dirt as the creatures above him chew mercilessly into his flesh.

Alejandro stumbles forward– then stops.

Another figure, away from the hoard. Another wolf. A little larger. Battered, coated in just as much blood. It’s limping, front-heavy. Its back left leg barely lifts from the ground, its ribs heave with effort. But it charges forward regardless, fangs bared in a hoarse, wheezing snarl. It seizes one of the attacking wolves by the scruff and yanks, claws digging into the ground for leverage.

It’s not until the wolf turns its head, revealing one blood-shot blue eye behind a soaked, torn ear that Alejandro realises just who that is.

“Soap–!” Alejandro snaps to action, raising his rifle- but there’s no shot he can take. They’re too tangled, too intertwined with one another. He grits his teeth. “Pull it further!”

Soap responds with a guttural growl, bracing himself. His injured leg buckles, but he uses the momentum to drag the attacking wolf sideways. It turns on him now, spitting blood. It doesn’t even get to breathe the same air as Soap before Alejandro fires.

Crack.

The bullet slams through its skull from the side. It drops in an instant, its legs stiffening mid-motion. It then crumples with a heavy thud, blood fountaining from its snout. Soap lets out a noise that he can only assume is a thank you.

Only for the sound to turn into a shriek as another one from the pile glances up, seeing Soap, and, without further warning, lunges.

It hurls into him with teeth bared, jaws snapping down on Soap’s already-injured haunch. A pained wail bursts out of him, raw and instinctual. The force of the impact knocks him onto his side, into the dirt.

Soap twists like a demon, writhing underneath the beast’s grip. He rolls with the momentum of the push, grabbing hold of the wolf’s neck with his own teeth. They roll together, tumbling across the dirt until Soap is positioned on top instead, claws pressing the wolf into the ground, raking down its flank and shredding fur from skin. The feral thing lets out its own shriek, trying with renewed rigor to throw Soap off. It manages to push Soap away from it with its back legs, exposing its face to his gun.

Alejandro takes the opening.

The second bullet is louder than the first. The round punches through the wolf’s neck, and it lets out a gurgled wail, the fight draining out of its body as fast as the blood pooling out from its arteries. It falls limp.

Soap is staggering now. His back leg is completely slack, bearing no weight as he stumbles, his face slick with blood and dust. But despite it, he doesn’t stop moving. He throws himself into the fray again, heading right back toward Rudy, snarling like a man possessed.

There’s only one wolf now, anchored to Rudy’s flank like some sort of disgusting parasite. Its whole head is buried in his side, jaws locked, as if it were trying to dig inside of him. Rudy thrashes beneath its weight, his movements weaker now, his fight drained. His snarls are quickly turning once more into garbled wails. 

Alejandro lifts the rifle, but Soap is faster.

He slams into the creature at full force. It’s bigger than him, much more so, but Soap moves like he doesn’t notice. With a brutal lurch, he clamps his jaws onto the base of its skull and shakes. The sound is horrific. A crack, a wet pop. The beast lets out a high, horrible squeal. It spasms like nothing he’s ever seen before, its eyes wide and mouth agape, before it falls limp, twitching in the dust.

And suddenly, like the air being sucked from the world– it’s over.

Alejandro’s moving before his brain even registers it.

He drops down onto his knees, smearing his trousers in blood as they scrape along the dirtied ground. He doesn’t care– his eyes are on Rudy and Rudy alone. Rudy, who even now still wails softly. Rudy, who even after the fight is finished is still desperate to crawl away from an unseen foe, paws moving lethargically against the dust.

“Easy, Rudy, easy-” He starts, pressing a hand onto his partner’s shoulder. His voice is meant to soothe, to calm, but Rudy’s useless fight is renewed with vigor. He presses firmer, easily rooting the wolf to the ground with just one palm. The thought makes him feel violently ill. Rudy shouldn’t be easy to subdue. Rudy was strong, he was powerful. Alejandro had seen what he was capable of in this form of his. He shouldn’t be like this- reduced to… to…

His face crumples. His hand, still pressing down, rubs circles across lines of untouched fur. There’s little of it, but it seemed as if Rudy’s harness had protected him somewhat. Slowed the teeth and claws, even if just for a little while. Small mercies. “Rodolfo.” He tries once more, “Lie still, okay?”

But Rudy does not listen. He squirms and writhes beneath his grip, those heartwrenching cries of pain mixing in with aggressive, panicked snarls. His muscles twitch and pulse with each desperate attempt to get up. To flee. To fight back.

He leans closer. Presses his free hand to the back of Rudy’s head. Firm, yet soft. He cups it, gently, fingers intertwining with matted fur, curling behind the base of his flattened ears. "Shh, no te muevas, Rudy.” He murmurs to him, voice a soothing, steady rumble. At least, he hopes it is. “Quédate quieto." 

Rudy’s ears flicker, swiveling slightly. A breathy, confused whine ripples from his throat.

“Aquí estoy,” He continues, scrubbing his fingers gently through his fur. He leans closer, pressing a kiss to the little inch of fur on his cheek, unmarred by blood or dirt. “No me voy a ir, ¿sí?”

Recognition returned some life to Rudy’s soulless, hazy brown eyes. Alejandro couldn’t help but smile wetly as he felt a tail weakly thump against his thigh. "Así, así…” He pressed another kiss to his cheek, “shh."

There’s a soft thud, nearby.

Alejandro glances up to find Soap, just a mere metre away, collapsed onto the floor beside them. His breathing is rough, ragged and heavy, but his eyes are open and wide, alert, more so than Rudy, at least. He’s conscious, and aware.

“Thank you.” He rasps out to Soap. Soap simply blinks back at him. “God, thank you.”

—

This is my first fic back in what feels like eons. Sad to say you shouldn't expect more, though I've got an interest in finishing/cleaning this up/having a whole little mini recovery set of drabbles of the aftermath, but it's deep in the works/a sideline project.

It (in its current state) involves a lot of cute cuddles, medical care, hurt/comfort and other dope shi, very nice, very cool. But very, very unfinished.

[gaybirdnerd]

Medical Attention

Note: this is 2009 Ghoap inspired by a conversation with @spottlessspectre. I think it’s fitting I listened to El Tango De Roxanne during the angsty bits :3

It was supposed to be easy. The mission was meant to be easy.

Captain Mactavish and Lieutenant Riley were meant to get in, get information, maybe plant a bomb or two, and get out.

They got in perfectly fine but found that their intel on the base they were infiltrating may be a slight bit wrong when presented with the tens of guards and plenty of weapons that the base had. Something they severely underestimated.

They made a mistake going in there.

They were in a snowy climate, dressed as heavily as possible yet still able to comfortably wear their tac vests and necessary equipment and be able to move around, thermals helping wonderfully with that.

Getting in was easy, getting to the main room of the warehouse and seeing approximately 50 more people than they were expecting nearly gave Captain Mactavish an aneurysm right then and there.

In the act of trying to leave and calling the mission a bust, the two got discovered and a shout was given before bullets were flying.

Riley and Mactavish tried to give themselves an opportunity to retreat, killing those behind and to the sides, making a break for it at every chance they can, hiding behind crates of unknown materials.

They’re almost at the door to the hallway out before it goes tits up.

Mactavish runs towards the door as Riley covers him, then takes shelter to cover Riley’s retreat.

They don’t notice the grenade thrown before it goes off.

It pushes Riley closer to the doorway, taking his breath but seemingly not touching him as he bounces up from where he was thrown and hightails it, grabbing Mactavish and pushing him in front of him.

The corridor is filled with footsteps cutting off their escape route, around a bend they need to pass to get out the door and to the RV site.

With a quick breath and a whispered “in here” Mactavish drags a heaving Riley into a small supply closet barely big enough to fit them.

Hushing Riley and purposefully calming his own heavy breaths, Mactavish listens as those that were chasing them and those that had been coming towards them meet in the middle and debate where he and his lieutenant went. One suggests their supply closet only to be berated by at least five others who tell him it’s stupid to go into a supply closet barely fit to handle the brooms and mops they had shoved in there.

To his relief, none of them choose to check the closet and instead split off to check the warehouse top to bottom, debating who goes where long enough for his adrenaline to lower itself and his breath to calm remarkably.

Once those outside of the closet retreat to go check, Mactavish turns around to tell Riley they should leave only to be met with a pale, shaking, and still heavily breathing lieutenant.

“Mate, are you ok?” His concern rises when Riley meets his eyes and gasps “I’m sorry” only to collapse forward into his captain’s arms, shaking and gasping out repetitive “I didn’t realize”s.

”Riley? What’s wrong? Lieutenant?” His panic rises as he maneuvers them to sitting in the stuffed closet against the door, pulling the string for the light as he pulls Riley onto his lap.

“My back” is all that’s muttered between gasps as Riley lets himself collapse into his captain, trusting him to help.

Losing his words and getting Riley to bring his arms around his neck, Mactavish looks over Riley’s shoulder to what of his back he can see. He’s confronted with a slowly spreading red spot on Riley’s jacket and a rather large piece of wood from the blown up crates from earlier on his lower back, thankfully missing the spine.

“We have to take off your vest, I can’t see well past it. Your jacket too, there’s a rather large piece of wood. Can you do that for me? Help me take your vest and jacket off?”

His words are met with a couple of gasps of pain and a nod against his shoulder.

He gets Riley up, helping him position his hands on Mactavish’s shoulders for stability. Looking at him up close, Mactavish concludes that he’s far too pale, but not enough for significant blood loss yet.

Unclipping the tac vest and taking it off is the easy part, it doesn’t take much moving on Riley’s part. The jacket becomes a problem as soon as Mactavish unzips it and tries to get it off of his lieutenant’s shoulders.

Trying to be as helpful as possible, Riley tries to move his shoulders downwards to make it easier to relieve him of his jacket, only to be met with pain flooding through his already tired body from the movement.

With a whimper of pain, Riley collapses against Mactavish’s shoulder and nearly blacks out, tiny whimpers joining the now heavy gasps as his captain cradles his head and shushes him, apologizing for the pain.

After Riley catches his breath and stops making such painful noises, Mactavish tells him not to move and just let him do it. Getting the jacket off his shoulders is hard to do without him moving, but they get through it without tweaking the injury again until it comes to getting the jacket off from around the shrapnel.

Mactavish grabs the small but packed first aid kit Riley stores in his vest and grabs scissors, apologizing for ruining the jacket before he cuts around the shrapnel.

Once the jacket is away from Riley, Mactavish gets him to put his arms around his neck again by pulling them up towards where they were earlier. Riley goes with no complaint or comment, to the concern of Mactavish who also notes his shakes turning into shivers of cold quickly due to the lack of his jacket.

“I’m going to feel it, see if it’s safe to pull out so we can patch it up, yeah?”

It’s a simple whisper and said right next to Riley’s ear. It causes him to bury his head between his own arm and Mactavish’s neck, nodding.

Prodding the wound and seeing what he can of it from his position while cursing the size of the closet, he determines it to be safe to pull. Relief pulses through Mactavish at this because a wound like this would have been hell to try to get Riley out with. And he would be getting him out no matter what.

Mactavish tells Riley what he’s doing as he prepares to pull the wood and prepares gauze to pack the wound until they can get out far enough for what stitches may be necessary.

Giving his last warning, Mactavish pulls the wood as quickly but softly as he can, making sure it doesn’t tug too painfully. Easy enough with the blood soaking it to his chagrin.

As he pulls, Riley buries gasps and whimpers of pain into his neck, instinctively pushing his body closer to Mactavish’s to try to escape the pain, only to find nowhere to go.

Once the shrapnel is cleared, Mactavish takes what smaller pieces out that he can see from his position with sterilized tweezers, ignoring the tears sliding down his neck and tickling his chest and back as they pool under his shirt from Riley’s position buried deep to keep himself quiet.

He shushes him every once in a while with assurances that it’ll be ok.

After getting what he could see, Mactavish packs the wound, cleaning up what blood he can see around the wound and packing more gauze above the skin to keep a thick layer between the wound and the air, Mactavish grabs bandages. He has Riley put his hands on his shoulders again and starts wrapping them around Riley’s torso to keep the gauze in place, ignoring how badly he’s shaking and the redness of his eyes beyond the mask.

Once he’s done with that, Mactavish packs up and lets Riley pull himself together, helping him put his torn jacket and tac vest back on. Mactavish pulls a stim out of his own vest and holds it up for Riley to see. At a nod from the now composed man, he injects it into his right thigh and drags them both into a standing position to wait for it to kick in fully.

Hearing nothing right outside the door and determining it to be safe to move, Riley back to his old self with his gun in his hands, ready to go as the stim hits him, Mactavish gestures for them to leave, turning off the closet light right before they exit it.

To their relief, they make it to the RV point with no more sightings of those from the warehouse and get a medic to take a look at Riley. The medic chooses to pack the wound again and fix it properly at the hospital back on base.

They get their information two weeks later when they take more people in and demolish the forces within the warehouse, taking the information freely then blowing up the place to cover their tracks.

[beepbeepsan]

WIP Wednesday

Injuries are unavoidable in their career. Ghost has seen the shine of Soap's blood and the mottling of his skin more times than he can count, even occasionally heard the snap of his bones and the wet sound of tearing flesh; yet still not enough to numb him. He doesn't think pain will ever cease to gnaw at his raw nerves, not when it belongs to this sergeant.

Soap twitches. He hasn't said a word since the fifth round of electrocution. Ghost hasn't said a word since before they were tossed in here, but silence is significantly more worrying from Soap.

Drawing in a careful breath, slow and easy to combat his rage, Ghost considers speaking. He has no guarantee they won't be overheard—even amateurs can set up a microphone—but it could be worth the risk, to see how Soap is coping. To coax his lovely voice out to play, hoarse though it may be from the screaming. Selfishly, hearing him would ease the vise twisted around Ghost's lungs. But what Ghost wants doesn't matter. Shouldn't matter.

As though he can hear this internal battle, Soap lifts his head halfway.

“‘m alright,” he mutters before Ghost can say a word. His eyes are closed; the edges of his words softened by exhaustion. “Jus’ need a minute.”

Ghost gives him the minute. Then another. Soap gradually sags deeper into his restraints while Ghost bites his tongue against the impotent fury crackling up his throat.

[solivagantingrebel]

I'm putting Ghoap through the worst torture for my sick pleasure like clockwork, babyy

[bmtillerbabe]

Ooo, would you be interested in writing some super whumpy Ghoap where one of them is captured (maybe by Graves?) and the other one is forced to watch in person or sees over a live feed until they can break them out?

Oooooooo yes!! This sounds fun! 😍

Hope you enjoy, dear 😘

✨

CW : People getting beat up, some torture, blood, hitting, kicking, Angst, Ghost is gonna have Hella revenge..... 🫢

Take care of your mental health! I tried to keep it descriptive, yet vague - because torture is one of my triggers and I typically get so pissed at the character inflicting it!

But rest assured - Ghost is gonna kick this mother fucker's ASS off! ❤️

---------------------------

Ghost rattled the chains that bound his fists behind his back, thrashing against the metal that locked him in place.

He growled loudly, pulling his arms with every bit of strength he could muster - screaming, yelling, crying out as he tried to break free, but to no use.

His jeans were filthy and his knees ached, strained from the Heft of his weight being on them for so many hours; mud and shit and sludge caked into his denim and the patches of skin that poked through the holes torn from the concrete beneath him.

Distant sounds of creaking and groaning gave him no clues as to where he was currently being held, and the room itself was dome-shaped and dark with no windows and no views of the outside world.

If he even was outside.

It was dark, dirty, damp and disgusting - meant to isolate and incite panic.

Meant to.

Ghost cussed himself with a grunt, trying to concentrate on getting at least one of his wrists free, (debating on how stupid is would be for him to break his wrist or a couple fingers to slip free....), instead of counting each steady drip-drip-drip of the leak overhead.

He should have known better than to hesitate when he and Soap got to the Exfil location, and nothing was there. He'd sensed something was wrong in his gut right then, but ignored it; choosing to be ever the obedient solder instead of following his gut.

And now he was paying the price for it.

He'd been in situations like this before, sure. He'd been trained on how to remain calm, and trained in hundreds of ways to break free of traps and bonds. He'd been trained to keep his mind cool, and his breathing in check.

He'd been trained not to fear for his life.

..... But it wasn't his own life he feared for, now.

It was Johnny's.

And he hadn't been trained for that.

Ghost yelled in anguish, pain evident in his voice, eyed locked onto the staticky, cracked screen on the curved wall above of him.

And Johnny - his Johnny - was on it.

And it was his fault.

"Soap!" Ghost screamed at the top of his lungs, wondering, hoping that maybe, just maybe, their rooms were close enough for the to hear the other. "Johnny!"

But the Scot didn't move, his eyes darting around, taking in his surroundings and struggling against his bonds much like his Lieutenant.

Ghost was left helpless, angled in such a way that he was forced to watch Soap breath heavily and anger flash over his features.

He could see the fire in his Sargeant's eyes, could see his mind racing with plans of his escape, and taking in anything he could about his surroundings.

Any other day, Ghost would have beamed with pride at seeing just how far the Scot had come in the short time he'd been enlisted.

But today was not the day.

Ghost was just about to make the decision that a broken wrist could heal eventually - when the flourescant green light of the room, and the TV screen, suddenly shut down.

He froze his movements, going still and quiet in the shadows.

Drip..... Drip..... Drip....

A power play, no doubt, he knew. Just reminding him who was really in charge, and that it wasn't him.

Several seconds later, only the TV flicked back on, fuzzy feedback whistling and crackling through the empty space. Ghost's eyes were locked to the screen, and he felt his face flush with rage when he saw another face appear as it adjusted the angle of the camera and came into focus.

"Well, lookie here."

Ghost would recognize that nasty, southern drawl anywhere.

"Seems I've managed to catch both the Ghost and his little guard dog."

Graves.

Ghost released a heavy, throaty growl at the mere sight of the blonde traitor who flashed a crooked grin at the screen, yanking against his chains like a rabid beast ready to maul him to shreds. He wasnt sure if the American could hear him, so he didn't speak.

But it didn't take long for Grave's twisted lilt to fill the space.

The man loved to hear himself talk.

"Now. I bet you're wonderin' why I got you both tied up an' bound like this." Graves proclaimed, almost proudly, sauntering over towards Soap. The Scot eyed him with pure disdain, his face twisted in a putrid scowl as the man neared.

Ghost watched through the screen as Graves went over and gripped Soap's chin, tilting it side to side, up and down, like he was inspecting goods.

"Well, see..... We caught you snoopin' round where you shouldn't be." Graves smirked as he leaned near Soap's face with a devilish grin, knowing damn well that Johnny could do absolutely nothing with his hands chained to the ground behind his back.

He could spit though.

Making a sound as he did so, Johnny reared back and spit a huge glob into Grave's eye, glaring at him. Graves reared back in shock, but once he processed what happened, his brow furrowed and he reached down to give Johnny a good slap across the cheek - hard enough that spit flew from his mouth.

Ghost yelled as he watched the impact from his side of the screen, his eyes wide and pained, trying again to break free of these damned chains---!

"Is that all ye got, ye pussy?" Johnny managed to chuckle darkly, shaking his head and spitting out a good bit of blood. He stared Graves down without an ounce of fear. "I've had new recruits hit harder than tha'."

Graves shook his head, but returned the smile to the Scot before facing the camera - facing Ghost.

"See the disrespect in this one?" he shook his head. "Should've kept this dog on a tighter leash, there, Ghost."

Ghost couldn't help but bite out an angry yell at the screen, though he knew it was probably useless. "Graves, I'll fucking kill you!"

Johnny kept his eyes trained on Graves as the man circled him, his breathing heavy and lip oozing a tiny trickle of blood. The American stopped and stooped down to Soap's eye level and clicked his tongue.

"Now, lookie here, Soap, the way I see it, we got two options."

Soap didn't respond.

Graves continued.

"We can either do this the easy way, and you tell me just where that laptop yall stole from that K-27 base is...... Or I can just rip the answer right from your throat. Quite literally."

Ghost was breathing heavily, watching the crappy screen helplessly, knowing exactly what Soap was about to say. His heart ached and time seemed to stop around him. He watched Johnny lean in to Graves and utter,

"Go ta hell."

Graves let out a barking laugh, licking his lips as he stood up full height.

The without warning, reared his leg back and kicked Soap right in the gut with what looked like his full strength.

Ghost screamed in the dark silence, willing the chains to break free so he could get out and punch that fucker face through the back of his skull - might even wear it over his balaclava after - eyes locked onto the screen, unable to do much else but watch.

Graves walked behind Soap as he was catching his breath, gripping his mohawk and ripping it back to Soap was now looking directly at the screen.

"See, we thought you might choose the hard way." Graves drawled with a grin, patting him on the cheek several times. "And that's why we're making your buddy there, watch...... And why I'm gonna have a lot of fun with this."

Soap didn't even have time to prepare or react before Graves was in front of him and punching his jaw, landing blow after blow on the bound man.

Ghost had done his fair share of torture. Hell, he was typically the one that most people feared based on reputation alone. He himself could withstand any amount of pain inflicted upon his body, or mind. Had the years-honed ability to dissociate, even welcome the pain.

But never had he been subject to a torture like this - - being forced to watch his Sargeant, his best friend - his lover - take the wounds that should be going to him instead.

It was his job to make sure this didn't happen, it was his job to make sure that his team and his men got home safe and alive. And yet, here we was, yelling angrily at the expanse as he was forced to watch Graves pummel into Johnny.

It pulled his heartstrings when Soap, already beaten bloody, spit out what looked like a tooth, and eyed the man before him.

"All this time, and ye still fight like a bloody girl."

Graves seemed to have had enough and landed another series of blows across his face and chest. Gripping Soap's cheeks, he forced him to face the screen again.

"You about ready to talk yet?" He drawled with a pant.

Ghost knew he wasn't talking to Soap.

Graves was talking to him.

When no answer came through, Graves just shook his head and sighed, turning back to Johnny.

"Sounds like your friend there don't much mind if you die in here."

Soap glared at him through a swelling eye already turning purple, thrashing against his chains. Graves merely chuckled and looked into the camera again.

"You just let us know if you decide his life is worth that laptop of yours."

Soap coughed up blood when Graves kicked him again, no doubt having broken a rib.

"N-no! Ghost! Simon! Don't listen to him! I can take it, I can---!" He ended with a kick to the gut before Graves walked over to a shadow in the background and soft clinking sounded through the fuzzy speakers. He pushed over a small cart full of different knives and..... Tools..... Lifting each on in the air to inspect them.

Ghost couldn't remember the last time he cried.

Hell he couldn't even remember the last time he even felt sadness.

But this sight damn near broke him in two - a single tear slipping through his long, blonde lashes, obsorbing into the balaclava.

The cries and screams of pain from his friend - his Johnny - kept his eyes glued to the screen, forcing himself to watch; taking a mental note of each and every injury Graves inflicted onto Soap :

Because not only was he going to get himself and Johnny of here alive - he planned to inflict every wound back to that fucker tenfold

.

.

. Hope yall enjoyed, reblogs and comments and hearts are SO appreciated - always! ❤️

[meowmeowriley]

The Only Thing We Share is the Same Last Name

Tell ,e about the whump pretty pretty please 🥹🥹🥹

Eheh eheheheheheh okie dokie.

After hearing of his brothers death in Mexico Thomas Riley joins the army. He wants to be more like his brother was, wants to be a better person. He passes selections, gets into the SAS, he's on the right track. Why the fuck does Lieutenant Ghost of the 141 look like he's about to fucking murder him?

Here's the opening 😁

***

Tom held the receiver to his ear and listened to it ring. He could see the man tasked with listening in out of the corner of his eye. They wouldn't recognize this number, maybe they wouldn't answer. He'd just leave a message, but truly he wished-

"Hello?" It was Beth.

"Hey Lov- er, HI, Beth." He wasn't sure where they stood.

"Tom?"

"Yeah."

"Oh thank heavens." Rustling on the other end. Tom could easily imagine she'd just slumped over the kitchen island. The same kitchen island she'd found him slumped against half conscious He'd seen her do it so many times, any time someone on the other end of the phone gave her news that offered relief. So she'd wanted to hear from him? "It's been almost six months, Tom." She sounded tired. She had two young boys to care for, she had a right to be tired.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know." He could've called five months ago. He could've called three months ago. He could've called last week. He had two minutes. "I, er, I've been busy. Been training. Practicin' the CQB. Selections is today. In a few minutes, in fact." He swallowed. His throat was so dry, Beth could probably hear it through the line.

"The SAS, then?"

"Yeah."

"Hmmm."

The clock ticking on the wall was maddening. One minute. Nut up, Riley.

"H-how's Mum?" A frog could've said it clearer.

"She's... oh, y'know... she's coping." Right. Coping. 'The damn army is gonna take both my sons from me! Queen and country, what about your poor mother!?" He wondered if anyone patched the hole in the wall, or replaced the lamp. "Just popped down to the shop with Jo," Beth continued. "'S just me 'n Si-"

"I'm gonna have to hop off, here." He scrambled to stop her sentence. "Gotta... gotta do this." The plastic of the phone groaned under the pressure of him white knuckling it. Beth could probably hear that too.

"Hey." Tom closed his eyes. He deserved whatever tongue lashing he got, but he wished she'd yell. It would be easier. "Y'know, the way we left things..." she sighed. "I miss you. I'm sorry." It would be so much easier if she'd just yell.

"Joseph doesn't deserve a father like that. Not some j-.... The boys, they deserve a father they can be proud of. Not the man I was. But the man I'm becoming." A man like him.

"The man you are, Thomas." Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he'd be damned if he didn't try. "I'm proud of you.... He would be too."

Tom exhaled slowly, desperately grasping at the last of his composure. "Wish me luck." Far from steady, but at least his voice hadn't cracked.

"You don't need me to. You'll do fine."

"If, er, if things go to plan, and I get in, I should still be on track to have some leave. Three weeks."

"You'll come home?" The hope in her voice is what broke him.

"If you'll have me?" There was still an out. She could still send him away. He'd understand if she did.

"Please."

***

Just a lil taste 😋

[galacticgraffiti]

A Borrowing of Bones (7)

This work is a collaboration with my most beloved artist and friend of all time Blumi: Story by me, art by Blumi ♡

Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish Rating: Mature (for heavy themes) Chapter Wordcount: 3.5k

MCD, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat// Heed also the Masterlist for general warnings. CW: sparring, pining, passing out from oxygen deprivation

A/N: Blumi's artworks are added at the end of each chapter, please leave them some love!

Read on AO3 ✧ Taglist Signup for this fic ✧ Fic Masterlist

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Seven: Interlude in Violence

Ten months earlier.

“The fuck are you doin’, Fletcher? Get that arm up and cover yourself!”

The familiar voice, deep and sweet, settles down Soap’s spine. He would know that voice anywhere: yelling through a shitty mic, from the other side of the world, from the seat right next to him or whispering his name in the dead of night.

A hand hits his shoulder, hard, but expected. Pressing down right on the bruise hidden under the thin material of Soap’s shirt. A bruise this very same hand left on their last mission: strong, gloved fingers pulling Soap to cover just before a grenade exploded next to them. Now, Ghost’s fingers slot themselves into the fingertip-shaped bruises as if he remembers exactly where he left them.

“The bloody hell are ya teachin’ these recruits, MacTavish?”

Last names? Och, he is angry alright. Fuck.

“Nothin’ ye couldnae be teachin’ ‘em better if ye deigned tae show up on time, LT.”

If the Lieutenant is already angry, might be best to get it all out now in one swift go. Wind up and release all at once.

The hand on Soap’s shoulder squeezes harder; so hard Soap scrunches his face from the dulcet pain. He presses his lips together so nobody might notice his breaths are coming heavier, like oxygen is not enough to satiate him. And he refuses to turn his head, refuses to look at Ghost who is looming beside him, fully covered up as always.

“Captain called me in,” is Ghost’s only response to Soap’s teasing insubordination. 

They stay quiet for a second, Ghost’s hand finally dropping from Soap’s shoulder, leaving a pulsing imprint within the bruise. Soap immediately misses those cold, gloved fingers. His skin is tingling.

Come back, Ghost. Touch me again.

He doesn't say it. Never says it.

“What’d Price want then, eh?” he asks eventually, just to say something. 

“If he wanted you to know, he woulda called you too, don'tcha think?” Ghost’s accent grows stronger in turn with Soap’s own, settling low in his throat in a way that makes Soap’s cheeks burn. He clears his throat, buys himself some time to pretend he is totally not affected. Because he isn’t. He can’t be.

“Aye, jus’ thought ye might be more talkative than the captain, Sir. Ye ken, since I’m yer favourite?” 

Shut the fuck up, MacTavish, bleedin’ Jesus. That way lies only disappointment, ye absolute fuckin’ bawbag.

But he can’t seem to leave it. Soap never could just leave it.

Ghost’s masked face turns towards him then, away from the weak blows of those mediocre recruits that are still sparring on the sweaty gym mats. His eyes are barely visible in the low light of the room, but Soap swears he can see Ghost’s lips twitch beneath the fabric. “When have I ever been talkative, Soap?” Ghost doesn’t even have to say it. Soap sighs and pouts.

“I thought ye liked me by now, LT? Saved yer life often enough-”

“Thorsson, cover your side or god help you-” Ghost barks abruptly, then turns his attention back to Soap. Soap has to breathe for a second when brown eyes meet his own with an intensity he still has not gotten used to. “You were saying, Sergeant?”

“Ach, nothing.” Soap waves him off, puts on his most dazzling smile. Can’t just leave it. “Jus’ tha’, ye ken, I reckoned ye might betray the captain’s trust since ye like me so much… regular stuff.”

“Mmmhm. Committing treason on your behalf? That’ll be the day.” Ghost grunts, shifting on his feet. “One of these times you’ll fall flat on your face with that big mouth of yours, Johnny.”

“Ye don’t like mah big mouth, ye can always stuff it,” Soap mumbles under his breath, quiet enough that Ghost can’t possibly hear him.

A muscle in Ghost’s cheek twitches, shifting shadows on the fabric of the mask, but he doesn’t say anything. Can’t have heard anything. Soap exhales a shuddering breath. Ghost is right, he has to get his fuckin’ mouth under control, especially around his lieutenant. One of these days he will hear him, and it won’t be pretty.

“Fletcher, did ye nae hear wha’ the Lieutenant jus’ told ye? Are ye actively tryin’ tae make me look bad?” he barks, a little louder than necessary, trying to get rid of the flush in his cheeks, trying to squash down the thoughts of Ghost stuffing his mouth, trying to be normal, so fucking normal, because it is normal, isn’t it? It’s normal to think about your commanding officer pushing you to your knees and-

“Fuckin’ hopeless shite,” he murmurs to himself.

“For once I won’t argue with you,” Ghost agrees quietly.

Soap flinches, thinks for a second that he voiced his thoughts out loud – would serve him right, being as stupid as he is for Ghost – but then, Ghost goes on.

“Don’t know what the fucking recruitment office thought letting that tosser pass physical. Not an ounce of fighter in that one.”

The words are said low, spilling from the darkness of Ghost’s mask as he watches the spar between Fletcher and Thorsson with sharp eyes. His attention is so focused that, just for a second, Soap allows himself to watch him: to observe the sharp angle of his nose beneath the soft fabric of his balaclava, to search for the rise of his cheekbones, the flutter of white lashes when he blinks. Beautiful. 

Soap pinches himself, hard, when Ghost’s eyes flick back to him.

“Take a picture, Johnny, it’ll last ya longer.” His voice is so dry that Soap bristles, opening his mouth to defend himself – how, he doesn’t even know – but Ghost has already turned away again, raising his voice to the recruits still beating each other around the mat.

“Come on then, wrap it up!” 

The small crowd groans, but one look from Ghost shuts them all up. Something akin to pride stirs in Soap’s chest.

They all think he’s so scary.

And he is- Ghost is scary in the way a fighting dog is scary when you meet him in the dead of night. All teeth, no soft edges. No collar and no leash to yank on, not for most people. Most people will be dead before they get close enough to even look for it. But Soap has seen that leash, has found it, has not yanked it, never yanked it. Afraid he might lose it entirely if he does. But he knows it’s there- he has seen the softness in Ghost’s eyes when he dresses a wound: bloody, gloved hands pressed to Johnny’s side as he tries to keep all the blood where it belongs with the sheer power of his will.

Soap had almost expected his blood to listen, back then.

Ghost’s sandpaper voice rips him away from the memory of gloved hands on tan skin and back to reality, where a dozen recruits are gathering their belongings.

“Go on then, you lot are obviously not gettin’ any better tonight. Be back tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be a better instructor to you than your little Sergeant over here.”

Ghost’s shoulder bumps into Soap’s, who is lost again to Ghost’s careless words. Your little sergeant. Soap is not little, has never been little in his life, but something about Ghost saying it like that… makes him want to be. Want to be his little Sergeant, and only his.

Keep it fuckin’ tactical, MacTavish, come tae fuck on.

“Ya with me, lad?” Ghost’s dark eyes, framed in white lashes, stare down at him, arms crossed over his absurdly broad chest, a brow raised.

Lad. He has to know. Has to know how devastating his voice sounds when he says it, how it dips and crawls underneath Soap’s skin to wrap around his heart, so tight that its steady beat stumbles.

“Aye, with ye, LT.” Soap’s voice is rough – is wrecked from the mere thought of Ghost. Soap coughs, plays it off as something else. Catches a glimpse of Ghost’s throat when he lifts his balaclava to scratch the stubble on his neck, and loses himself in the sight of him all over again. 

Ghost cocks his head, stares at him. Eternally staring. Impenetrable as always, a fortress of black cloth and silence.

“Anythin’ ye need, Sir?” Johnny tries his hardest not to shrink under Ghost’s gaze as the recruits file out of the training room, giving the two of them a wide berth. The last one shuts the door behind him, and suddenly, it’s really and truly silent in the room.

Ghost stays quiet for a moment longer, just enough for it to get uncomfortable, just enough to make Johnny squirm a little. His eyes flick up and down Soap’s frame, catching on all the exposed skin- catching on the rumpled fabric of Soap’s tee, right where he left the bruise, marking Soap’s skin with his hand- but surely, Soap is just imagining it. He can’t know. He wouldn’t remember, and the blood-swollen skin is hidden beneath a layer of fabric. God, Soap is going insane and it's all Ghost’s fault.

The training rooms don’t have air conditioning, always smell of sweat and blood and used air, and they get hot as all fuck. Soap has always preferred his workout clothes short and short-sleeved. Ghost knows that. Ghost has seen him a dozen times around base in various states of undress. This is nothing unusual–

“You up for a spar then, Johnny?”

What?

“Fuckin’ hell, LT,” Johnny breathes, has to catch himself for a moment. “Do nae need tae rub it in, aye? Got it the first time. Everyone knows ye cannae be beaten a’ hand tae hand. Doesnae mean yer a better instructor than I am, tho. Ye’ve no patience.”

“Don’t I?” Ghost’s eyes look… amused, though his tone remains frustratingly neutral.

Soap thinks back to all the missions they have run together: thinks of Ghost’s unwavering, steady hands and of the endless endurance with which he sees them through gigantic shitshows, and of his meticulous plans and his straight shots and how he never ever gets impatient with him; and amends his statement.

“Don’t have any fuckin’ patience when it comes tae teachin’ people.”

“Not when they’re fuckin’ stupid, innit? Not when they don’t take instructions well,” Ghost mutters.

I take instructions well, Soap wants to say, but that would be a flatout lie. Even though he knows he could if he wanted to- could be so good for Ghost. Could listen so well if it was Ghost who asked, Ghost who was the reward for obeying. But he can’t say that. So he takes a leaf out of his lieutenant’s book and does what Ghost usually does: he stays silent. For once in his life he stays fucking silent. Better that way.

Ghost’s elbow bumps his shoulder.

“Come on, Soap. I’m not doing this to prove anything. I’m doing this because you’ll be a challenge. Been too long.”

“Thanks fer the vote of confidence, LT. Didnae think ye had it in ye tae admit tha’.”

“Oh, I’ll win,” Ghost says easily, and Soap’s jaws snap shut incredulously. “Just think the fight might last more than a couple seconds if it’s you.”

Shut up shut up shu-

“Too many jokes I wanna make aboot ye lastin’ more than a couple ah seconds.” Soap’s muttered response earns him a dry snort from Ghost, and a short burst of joy explodes in his heart. He wants to make Ghost laugh more often- wants to make him laugh properly, to hear what he sounds like when his whole chest shakes with it–

“Aye, fine. I’m in,” is what he settles for instead. “Jus’ don’ destroy mah pretty face, aye?”

“Not in a fight, I won’t.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Ghost?

“Wh-”

“Shut the fuck up and get in the ring, MacTavish.”

And Soap scrambles, because it’s still his commanding officer giving instructions, and because it’s Ghost and that fucking voice of his, and because he will fight him on a lot, but getting to wrap his arms around the man – even if it is in a brawl and not for love (although - isn't it?) – is not one of those things.

When he gets in the ring and turns around, though, the air is punched from his lungs. Not in a physical way, not by a fist to the stomach or a kick to his chest. But no less violent: by the sight of Ghost shedding his hoodie.

He is pulling it over his head so nonchalantly as if he has done this a million times, and Soap supposes he has, but never in front of Johnny. Never. The most Soap has ever seen of Ghost is the pale skin of his throat, a few times even glimpses of his jaw as he smokes, and the side of his stomach as he slowly almost bleeds out beneath Johnny’s tanned hands. One time, notably, his cheeks, scarred and beautiful, though whenever he thinks about that time too long, he decides it must have been a dream. He looked too perfect, lit by the glow of a fire, shadows dancing across his scarred smile, catching on the perfectly misaligned crook of his nose. It must have been a dream. Must have, because if it was not, then Johnny is well and truly lost.

Never, in all this time, never has Johnny seen Ghost’s arms, his shoulders, his chest- bleedin’ Jesus, his chest- never the planes of his back that ripple as he sheds the hoodie entirely.

Steamin’ hell, LT.

Soap blinks way too fast. And casts his eyes down at the worn out mat beneath his feet before Ghost can catch him staring, pretends to stretch, looks anywhere but at the hulking figure of his lieutenant approaching.

“Alright?”

“Aye, ge’ on with it, then.” Soap is proud his voice comes out normal. “Try yer fuckin’ be-”

Ghost’s gloved fist hits him square in the jaw.

“Fuck! Oh ye fuckin’ cunt-”

Ghost assumes a defensive stance, dancing around Soap in a way that should be entirely impossible for a man of his stature.

“Told you, you talk too much, Johnny.” His insult is laced with something else, something Soap can’t quite put his finger on.

He grumbles to himself and prepares, determined not to let that first – and, frankly, unfair – hit throw him off his game. Hands raised, bent on not leaving his left side open as he is prone to do – Soap knows his own failings – he decides that attacking may just be his best defence.

Two high, one low, each faster than the other, but Ghost blocks them all seemingly without effort. Soap grunts in frustration, while Ghost makes no noise at all. Again.

One low, one high, a kick for good measure- and Soap lands flat on his arse when Ghost catches his foot midair, easy as plucking a ripe apple from a tree. Strong fingers close around his socked foot and pull and that’s it.

“Gonna have to try harder than that, Johnny.” Soap can hear the grin Ghost is wearing, and it makes his heart beat faster. Adrenaline from the fight, of course. Of course.

Soap squints, gets up, calms his breathing. He wills himself to assess the situation, rationally, analytically. Usually, he is better at this. Usually, he is smart. Something about Ghost just makes him dumb as hell, all his neurons ceasing fire at once when he looks at that stupidly handsome face – is he even handsome? Johnny thinks he must be – Ghost has told him as much – that stupidly handsome face behind a stupidly sexy mask.

Focus, MacTavish. Keep it tactical. 

When Soap attacks again, it’s with more precision, registering every tiny move, every shift in Ghost’s stance, every flicker of his eyes. It’s like a dance, well-practised – better than it should be, really, given they have barely ever sparred together. 

All Johnny knows is how Ghost fights in the field. All he knows is the efficiency and the cold, detached slice of his knives through the flesh of their enemies, the silent violence of his hand around a throat. The way his deep breath sounds before he fires a shot when he’s sniping, his voice when he’s on overwatch a steady companion in Soap’s ear, teasing, mocking, praising.

And, as Soap finds out, that is all it takes.

Well- not all it takes. He can’t win. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how sharp his focus, he can’t seem to overwhelm Ghost. But Ghost doesn’t get in more hits than Johnny, really. He just hits harder when he does, faster, strikes like a snake, less pure muscle than one would expect from someone of his build. He is methodical as he is with everything else, just as if this were real combat, eyes shining behind the mask whenever they get close enough for Soap to see, white lashes casting shadows darker than the smudged black greasepaint around his eyes.

When they break apart, both of them are panting, sweat staining their shirts, dripping from Soap’s forehead and matting his hair. Indignantly, he pushes some damp strands out his face, then drops his hand to massage the bruise on his shoulder. It’s giving him grief now that he is moving, nothing bad, just pinching uncomfortably. 

Ghost’s eyes follow the movement of Soap’s hand, the rest of his face hidden underneath black fabric, sweat staining it darker in places, the eye region askew on Ghost’s face.

“Oy, LT!” Soap calls, lips twitching. “Ye ever take tha’ thing off? Must be hot as balls under there, aye?”

“You would know,” Ghost shoots back. “Been that close to many balls in your life, Johnny?”

“More than you’d think,” Johnny mumbles before he can hold his stupid fucking tongue. Haud yer weesht, MacTavish, fuckin’ numpty ye are.

But Ghost just huffs and pulls his mask back into place.

“Another round,” he orders.

Five minutes later, Soap is wrapped around Ghost, trying to choke him from behind, when he gets distracted. He gets distracted because he is finally close enough to see them: light freckles, spattered across Ghost’s shoulders, down his arms, down his chest-

Soap gets an elbow to the face, and his tooth goes crack. Bitter blood fills his mouth, and he curses, but it’s not enough to make him let go, never enough to make him let go of Ghost, who is so close, whose skin is damp beneath Soap’s palms, scarred and soft and freckled, and Soap wants to lick it and-

Ghost drops on his back, drops himself on Soap with all his weight until the air is pressed from his lungs and he feels like he is being crushed.

Drunken on violence and the smell of Ghost, Soap can only think that it’d be a good way to go, holding Ghost so close he can count the freckles on his shoulders. Dark spots start to dance in his vision as he gasps for oxygen and gets none. The world flickers at the edges, goes dark for just a moment.

Freckles like stars behind closed eyelids.

Then, all of a sudden, the weight lifts from his chest. Soap’s lungs fill with air and when he opens his eyes again, Ghost is staring down at him with raised brows.

“You ever heard of tappin’ out, Johnny? Fuckin’ hell.”

I fuckin’ passed out?

“Be too easy, wouldn’ it?” Soap shakes it off with a laugh and a grin, lets Ghost help him up from the dirty floor. He holds his hand a little longer than strictly necessary, under the pretence of having to find his footing again. Maybe not just pretence. “Don’ worry yer bonnie little heid aboot me, LT, I’ll be jus’ fine.”

“My ‘pretty little head’, huh?” Ghost shakes his head. “I think I should take you to medical, Sergeant. Seems you have a concussion in addition to being a massive fuckin’ loser.”

“I- oy!”

Hm. Very intelligent comeback.

Ghost is still staring at him with that unsettling intensity. As if to make sure Johnny is really alright.

Soap lets go of his hand.

“I’ll be fine, LT,” he says gruffly. He knew this wasn’t a fight he was gonna win, but a tiny part of him had still hoped he might. Hoped he might at least do good enough to impress Ghost.

“Uh-huh. See that you are.” Finally, Ghost turns around, wanders over to the pile of his hoodie and pulls it over his head. He looks back over his shoulder, hood still up so Soap can’t read the expression in his eyes at all when he says,

“Well done today, Johnny.”

And just like that, he is gone. Soap is left alone on the mat, where the air still smells like Ghost’s sweat, and when he closes his eyes to breathe, freckles dance like stars behind his eyelids.

Johnny presses his own fingers into the bruises that Ghost left, and hopes the pain will linger for weeks to come.

_____________________

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── Previous Chapter ← ⋆ → Next Chapter

This was my favourite chapter to write out of all of them I can't even lie.

@ulchabhangorm @purgetrooperfox @captav @gibsalotdoodles @staygoldnimoy @blinca @therestroubletakinplace-blog

[ghostlysoaps]

Emergency First Aid

He finds Ghost in the bathroom, needle and thread in crimson-stained hands. 

White porcelain muddled with grime and blood, smeared across the cubicle glass. A bottle of something see-through sitting on the lip of the tub – the label near illegible by the fingerprints wrapped around it. Every detail pointing towards it being a scene from some B-list horror flick. Except it can't be. Because Johnny’s nails dig into the palms of his hands and pain has no presence in dreams.

Ghost's skin is almost as pale as the cradle he sits in. Johnny can see the stark blue of his veins through the fragile skin of his wrists. A far more flattering colour on him than red, it's why he pretends he doesn’t know where his favourite henley ended up.

"Get out of my fucking room, Soap."

Johnny nods and then proceeds further into the room, careful to avoid the droplets of blood staining the tiles in a fucked-up breadcrumb trail.

Ghost levels him with an unamused glare, a non-verbal "go away," ringing louder than if he'd said it outright. 

He ignores that too.

The stitching is neither crude nor neat when he leans in for a closer look. Serviceable. Bound to scar. It might have regardless, medical ain't miracle workers, but it might, might have left a thinner mark.

"Soap?"

Ghost's eyes are brown as jasper, doe-wide, extruding exhaustion and warmth – in spite of how much effort he puts into burying that bleeding heart of his. They track Johnny’s progress warily. Glides over him when he wraps his own fingers around the bottle, fingers a good half-inch shorter than the red stains already there. Johnny knows all this despite not looking. Because they've been here before. Too often for his liking. 

He sets about cleaning the tacky trails of blood from Ghost’s skin. 

"Johnny?"

Why are his hands shaking? They're not supposed to do that he doesn't think.

"It's just a scratch, I've had worse."

His tongue unsticks from where it lies dead and heavy in his mouth. "I fuckin' know. 'M not blind."

Warm, calloused hands envelop his own. They stop him from digging deeper welts into his own skin. Massages gently until Johnny, against his will, unclenches and unfolds like a flowering bloom at the first hint of sunlight.

"This won't be what kills me–"

"Haud yer wheesht! Whit this shoddy excuse fer sutures anything's–"

"–because I've no intention of leaving you yet," Ghost– Simon continues, as if Johnny hadn't interrupted him at all. "I've clawed myself back from the edge of hell more times than I care to count." He knocks their heads together, one hand moving to thread fingers though Johnny’s hair. "It's much easier now that I have something to come back to."

Johnny takes a moment to process and sift through the wreckage those words leave behind.

"Take yer damn mask off an' say tha' to my face," he growls.

And Simon doesn't hesitate for a second. He peels the mask off, his second skin, as if it's easier than breathing. As if Johnny’s words were the decree of a higher power he's helpless to obey. Scarred skin and chapped lips and dark circles blending into greasepaint greets him – a sight no longer unfamiliar, but a privilege to behold nonetheless. 

"I-" is as far as Simon comes before Johnny is surging forward to take his bottom lip between his teeth. He kisses him like something feral and starved. As if he could crawl into Simon's mouth if he tried hard enough. Push through muscle, bone and sinew to make space for himself in the hollow of his ribcage.

He doesn't like the anger with which he devours him – the ever-present companion snarling in his chest – but he needs him to understand. Thinks that if he tries hard enough Simon might taste the words lodged firmly behind his molars. I can't stand to lose you. It scares me to the point of losing my breath. I love you. I love you. I love you. 

For all his rage, for all the fiery passion with which he lashes out, in the end it all stems from fear.

"Could've at least gone to medical, ye absolute weapon," he bites out, one hand stressing over the skin right beneath Simon's wound.

"Couldn't stand the thought of anyone touching me," Simon murmurs, catching Johnny’s wrist the moment he goes to pull away as if burnt. "'S better now. I'd have told you to fuck off proper if I didn't–" he cuts himself off, the tips of his ears going pink.

Johnny fills in the blanks, eyes falling shut for the fraction of a second.

"Dinnae deep down wan' me to be here."

Simon shrugs.

Johnny exhales, leans forward and rests his forehead to Simon's shoulder, kisses him sweetly right after.

"Let me help you."

"Please." 

He's glad to be looking at Simon now because Simon, whenever Ghost has fled his visage, is an open book. And the way he's looking at Johnny? It's as if he'd taken every soft, sweet thing Johnny feels for him and is reflecting it right back.

With another steadying breath, Johnny gets to work. Gauze and adhesive tape, as quick as he dares so as to not prolong the pain. And when he's done he brushes his lips over the white bandaging, looking up through his lashes when the simple gesture of affection causes Simon's breath to hitch. Keeps to his knees despite the ache in them.

"You come to me next time," Johnny says, a plea more so than the demand he'd hoped for.

Simon reaches for him, cups his stubbled cheek in hand, thumb rubbing in broad strokes across a near imperceptible scar there – his next words ringing with the gravity of church bells and promises spoken within. 

"Alright, Johnny."

---

Prompts via @whumperless-whump-event and @seth-whumps

[aussiepineapple1st]

Slowly Recovering

Ghost waits with Soap every second he can when not on an Op. he lets Soap listen to music, listen to movies and calls when Price and Gaz call to see how he’s coming along.

He massages his limbs and neck to keep the muscles from tightening up and moves them every day to keep his joints from ceasing.

Simon loves his Scottsman very much.

[ashtronomyys]

Our Future Days

Cover Art by @tamdrry

A John "Soap" MacTavish / Simon "Ghost Riley TheLastofUsAu

// General Warnings for Graphic Depictions of Violence, Zombies, Apocalypse Setting, Nightmares, Side Character Death, Family Member Death, Grief, and Body Horror(There's a Happy Ending I swear lol)

With so little knowledge to go on, he could really be riding into anything, a pack of runners, clickers, refugees seeking shelter, or a band of marauders ready to kill all that stand in their way. A bit of wishful thinking tells him that it really could just be nothing, and that this surveying of the area is all for naught. The practical side of his brain screams at him that this is a bad idea, screams that the scars lining his body ought to serve as a reminder for him of the dangers lingering out there, waiting for him… Simon shudders. Whatever it is that he'll be rushing into, he'll need to remain vigilant, keep an eye on his surroundings and stay light on his feet. There’s no telling what sort of monsters he could be coming up against. ************ “Hmm... Got any fours?" Alex clicks his tongue, giving him a look of pity. "Afraid not my friend. Go fish.” “Ahh, come ON! Yer kidding me!? Agaain?!”

-Explicit

-Longfic, Slowburn, Angst w/ a happy ending, It gets real dark before it gets real better

(Very) Sporadic Updates coming to Tumblr, Twitter, and eventually Ao3!

OFD Masterlist:

Ao3 link here (To be added later)

Chapters - Section by Section

Chapter 1 - When Hurricanes and Cyclones Raged 

Chapter 2 - TBA

[storeecbrcod]

Whump Drabble/fic where Soap suffers realistic trauma from MWIII (though we’ll put a bandaid over his ultimate fate lol).

TW: explicit medical injuries and treatments, angst with a bittersweet ending, will likely be inaccurate in some way seeing as I’m not a medical professional nor a trauma doctor/nurse (I’m just a girl fr), Ghoap✨

Ghost had been wrangling with this worm of guilt that chewed at his heart, something that he thought he had grown accustom to over his life but was now back with a vengeance. When he wasn’t clawing his skin from his bone to try and find the fucker, he was with Johnny.

He had thought the hardest part of this would be overcoming that guilt, but he quickly realised the coma was much worse.

He’d followed soldiers after they’d suffered significant GSW trauma before, of course he had. He’d caused many himself, knew how to engineer one that would guarantee a kill, knew how impossible it seemed yet possible it was to survive a shot to the temple, nearly point blank. He knew what recovery entailed.

Yet, he didn’t know what recovery entailed when it made the soft birdsong in his life silent and still.

He was a sniper and a stealth operative, he was used to sitting in one place during recon, unmoving and hyperaware for hours on end, days or weeks or even months at a time.

Yet, he wasn’t used to searching for a heartbeat and willing it to keep going rather than aiming to stop it.

He’d never felt so restless in his life, cataloguing every detail of the man on the bed in front of him every day. He watched as bandages turned red, watched as the side of his head swelled and bruised and went so black it was like staring into space. He read the words ‘Pressure relief DO NOT TOUCH’ scribbled on the vacuum-sealed, open wound on the back of a window in his skull over and over and over until swelling bowed the dressing and the words didn’t make sense.

He watched air be pumped through tubes down his throat when his brain couldn’t do it for him, and saw urine pool in a bag next to the bed. He watched nurses exercise his body, watched the shut door as they cleaned him up with sponge baths. He’d watched the codes be called and watched from outside the room as ribs were broken in the frail, pale body that was a fifth of the size it used to be and void of the usual tan.

He watched it all. He watched everything.

Just watched.

He knew people in comas could often hear what’s going on around them, he’d learnt that when he rushed Tommy to the hospital after a particularly bad overdose. But it was like his lips were fused together, vocal cords totally lax and frozen. He couldn’t speak, wouldn’t speak, scared of what would tumble from his tongue and leave in the open when Johnny couldn’t even respond.

Spontaneity was a common tactic on the field, as much as they tried to negate it. It wasn’t very often a plan went totally right. Damage control and problem solving were heavily exercised skills that Ghost possessed.

But he couldn’t solve this. He could wish death on Makarov as much as he did before, he could research the best trauma surgeons and doctors and nurses and therapists in the UK, he could monitor Johnny’s condition obsessively all he wants, but he can’t fix it. He can’t heal the snapped neurons, he can’t dig into Johnny’s veins and fish out the blood clots that continued to threaten his life or limbs. He couldn’t crawl into John’s skin and nest there in his warmth, protect him and feel protected. He couldn’t.

Helplessness wasn’t something he’d felt in a long time, but he’d much rather be clawing out of his own grave as ravens cawed again than have to put John in one, still and unable to dig to join Simon.

So when Soap eventually does wake, it felt like an endless tunnel came to an abrupt end with blinding lights and trees, waiting for birds to call their greeting.

He made his own greeting, his imposing yet solid presence next to the bed as tubes were removed and the body was propped up and assurances were given. He was eager, after 4 months of pure silence about to be filled with music again.

But it was off key.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital, Johnny.”

A furrowed brow.

“Who th’ fuck ah you?”

Simon thought that the worst part of all this was the coma, the silence, but he was wrong. It was the recovery.

Simon had learnt that the temple was the perfect place to locate the parts of the brain responsible to speech, decision making and rationalisation, and memory. He’d learnt how irritating it could be re-explaining the same thing over and over every few minutes could be, he learnt of the shame that followed the irritation knowing that Soap couldn’t help it. He learnt how much it hurt to be escorted out of the room for routine check-ups because the once unrelenting trust between him and Johnny had relented to the shadow of unknown.

He had learnt that nothing is permanent.

His visits became less and less. Unsurprisingly, John (not Johnny; only his family calls him that) didn’t want a mountain of a man, full of angst and anger and sadness, haunting the corners of his hospital room. He only wanted his ma and pa, and as much as it hurt Ghost, he respected his wishes.

For months, Ghost isolated himself, got lost in his work. For months, John worked at recovery, regaining his smart mouth and witty remarks, slowly relearning his impulse control that wasn’t really as much control as it was pure will power to restrain himself.

For months, Ghost sought birdcall in the gurgles of his enemies’ throats, revelling in the garbled melodies that never matched the one he remembered, but breaking off just the same.

Beware the mockingbird, Johnny would say.

Yet here he was, searching for a blue jay’s song among the mouths of the unknown and wicked.

He got so used to the warped record that he often found himself forgetting what the original chords sounded like when they reverberated through his chest, right to his heart. Was it sweet, like the pull of a blade through supple skin? Was it explosive, like the crack of body armour in the gap between Kevlar plates? Was it deafening, like the rounds discharged that aimed for his heart?

Was it quiet, like an unmonitored heartbeat over nighttime?

Was it gentle, like the lingering touches left on his waist that still burned his skin months later?

Was it still there?

“Simon.”

Ghost blinked, looking up to Price. He hadn’t realised that he’d let his gaze wander, his mind even further.

“You need to go see him.”

There’s a cry of a broken-winged dove in his ears, overshadowed by the croon of a raven. Stability and chaos, broken and mended in one.

It hurt his head.

“He asked me to leave,” Ghost reasoned.

“When he first woke up, yes,” Price conceded. “Back when you honoured your callsign very proficiently, mind you.”

A scoff erupted from Ghost’s chest, under his crossed arms.

“Look, Simon,” Price sighed, leaning back against his desk, blue eyes of cobalt melting the sulphurous gleam of Ghost’s brown ones. “He remembers, now. Remembered Gaz in a matter of moments, recognised me soon after.”

There was a pause, pregnant and heavy as Ghost kept his mouth shut, luring Price to continue. Daring him to try and push past the raven’s sharp talons to help the dove.

A hand reaches towards the nest.

“It might be time for you to try again.”

The raven hesitates.

“The hospital staff spoke to us about how helping Soap’s brain reconnect the broken neural pathways from the trauma could help him recover faster.”

The dove coos.

“Please, Simon.”

Outstretched fingers.

“Fuck, I can’t watch two of my men crumble at the same time.”

A flurry of feathers, the screeching of breath through gravel, rubber on road, nails on chalkboard. It’s overwhelming, sending his heart into overdrive and rationality to the wind.

“Fuck you, Price.”

Yeah, the recovery hurt the most.

Looking in the mirror during recovery, specifically, hurt like a bitch. Scars that pulled over once unmarred skin, hollow cheeks where laughter and smiles once grew, gnarled soul and memories where purity reigned. It was all thrown back at you, as insistent as a murder of crows at your doorstep.

He could see the way John, not Johnny, sifted through his memory like a locked filing cabinet while trying to place Ghost, desperately searching through the unlocked drawers over and over for the file he needed, all while the closed drawers taunted him with kept knowledge. It was all right there, yet he couldn’t access it.

“Ghost, aye?”

It’s met with a grunt. Silence stretches out, black feathers shielding the delicate white ones.

“And ye were my… lieutenant?”

He was going off of information fed to him, his brow furrowed in concentration, still trying to place Ghost. He couldn’t tell where the darkness around him ended and Ghost started, obscured by inky blackness.

He doesn’t sound right. It’s not the same teasing, playful lilt that danced in the air. It’s not pronounced the same, not said the same, it’s not the same.

It’s some… imposter. Something that looks the same and smells the same and tastes the fucking same, but it’s different.

A cuckoo’s egg in a nest.

“Price ‘nd Kyle were telling me some stories about ye,” John noted with a small smile. “You’re quite the stunner out field, ‘pparently.”

It’s an olive branch, a bridge built half way. An offering to meet in the middle, to talk and revere and remember.

But Ghost didn’t remember, and neither did John.

Recovery never ends, you know. It goes on and on and on, haunting your nerves and your wits for the rest of your life. You’ll always have some sort of ache or pain, a reminder of what happened to you.

John never ended up recovering fully. He was medically discharged, left to nurse a broken cage and a silent heart. He did well, considering; it wasn’t hard when you didn’t remember the song that beat with the rhythm of your heart.

He still joined the team on outings sometimes, staying in a local hotel when everyone was back at base. They’d have a meal, or go to a pub, catch up. Re-establish connections once lost.

Ghost rarely joined them, to save his own torment.

But of course, he had to honour the dove occasionally. Just as he was now, sitting across the table from the lively Scot and with his two other teammates, Gaz and Price. Beers had been served, a single glass of warm whiskey for cold hands. The table was lively, fun, rambunctious in all the best ways.

The cuckoo had hatched in earnest, Ghost found.

It was easy to see the progress John had made, loud and bright and cheeky like he used to be. Demanding of attention, hungry for every scrap of past he could swallow to try and heal old wounds. Listening to stories about himself and his old crew when they were all together, as if it was another version of him. The right version of him.

And by god, were the scraps from Simon the most nourishing of all.

John’s mouth felt desert dry, cactus dust caking his tongue as he bit desperately into every glimpse of Ghost’s bare face, lips wrapped around glass and breath smelling of potent, liquid gold with every word. It hurt, it tasted awful, and it was impossible to rid himself from. It hurt so good, feeling his heart pull and swell in ways he didn’t understand anymore.

He felt like glass, he felt like the air, he felt like expensive liquor, he felt like it was meant to be him in their places, held and touched and breathed and consumed. It was overwhelming, leaving him starstruck and staring, a flutter in his chest reawakened.

Ghost’s own nest was erupting with displaced wind, white wings desperate to spread and carry it away, escape the raven’s hold. Right now, meeting Johnny’s eyes, he realised that the time spent captive in the nest had only lent to the dove’s healing. It was stronger now, bigger and fiercer and so, so hopeful.

The cuckoo cackled, loud and leering. Mockingbirds whistled and cawed, off key and haunting. The raven keened, shaken and damning.

The white dove flew.

The blue jay sang above the bramble.

And the two nested together, among the dappled branches of a birchwood tree, cool and calm and surrounded by colour year round. Above the bramble of the past.

Ghost had learnt one thing over everything else; a lesson that was recurrent in his life, stubborn and overwhelming. It swallowed him in waves, crashing him into the sand bank below.

Nothing is ever, ever permanent.

Admittedly, his retirement had gone well. The down payment was easy, the renovations smooth, moving in a sigh of relief. They’d have their harder days, where getting out of bed and walking without aid was difficult for Johnny, but they’d have their good days, too. They’d have their days where they’d go for walks across the countryside, watch as their service dog bounced around through tall grass, tongue lolling from her mouth.

They’d have quiet days, relaxing days. They’d have loud days, rough days.

But they were all days where the sun would rise and then set.

They were all days when the blue jay sang.

Simon had forgotten silence. His life was filled with sound, and love, and content.

Maybe… maybe the worst part of it all was loss.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the unmoving body, still warm.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the frantic screams that drowned out the silence.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the silence.

Silence.

A/N: bandaids don’t last forever

Idk if this is coherent or cohesive or any other co-words meaning readable and enjoyable. Maybe I’ll rewrite it, who knows. Probably not, I can’t post consistently as it is lmao

[sherashalala]

“Bravo 0-7 this is Bravo 0-6, give me a sitrep.”

“Bravo 0-7 what’s your status?”

“Ghost, do you copy?”

“Solid.” Ghost grunts out an answer, yet his voice has long since been left raw. He leaves it low, leaves it strong and solid with no signs of what happened here.

“Almost gave me a heart attack,” Price says lightheartedly, and Ghost knows not to blame him for it. Knows that this situation is not a moment for laughter or anything of the sort. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. “Give me a sitrep.” His Captain tells him. 

“Mission accomplished.” Is all Ghost could manage to say. He’s out of breath, 

“Fuckin’ sweet.” Price says. “Exfil in five. Get you and Soap out of there. Don’t want any more hostels on your tails”

He’s trying. He’s trying. Ghost makes sure that he doesn’t slip off his shoulders, makes sure that he keeps the man’s torso right on top of his back with his weight on the entirety of his back. He is leaned forward, making sure the weight is evenly spread so he could trek faster. The sooner he is out of there, the sooner he could put his attention to it. To Soap.

Ghost has stopped talking. Stopped calling for his Sergeant’s attention because he knows that it’d fall on unhearing ears. He doesn’t think. Not when the consequences of thinking could just as easily lead him towards spiraling. Ghost can’t have that right now. He can’t afford it. 

Still, he misses the noise. Yearns desperately for even the slightest bit of it. A sound. Anything. Please. 

He hisses when his foot hits a slope, and he slips. It twists his ankle at an awful angle but Ghost has walked off worse. Still, the weight on his shoulders is heavy and it makes it hurt worse. But he won’t let him go. Won’t ever even think of it. 

Ghost swallows something in his throat, but it stays lodged. 

“Soap.” he begs. “Johnny,” he calls. “Wake up, you bastard.” He growls under his breath, but it breaks. “Please.”

There’s no answer from behind him. Not even a twitch or a flinch. 

“We never talked about it.” Ghost says. “You never had a lass at home, didya? Or a lad. Never had the chance to tell me about it.” He talks. Johnny always had that effect. Ghost had been a lot more talkative since he’d come into his life. Ghost knew, though. He knew that he had a chance, more than a chance with him. “I’d try harder if– when you wake up.” Ghost begs.

He is still heavy on Simon’s shoulders, and still limp. 

Ghost makes sure that Soap is still on his shoulders when he reaches for his communication device, opening up the channel between him and Price. “Bravo 0-7 to Bravo 0-6,” Ghost opens. “Requesting medical on exfil.”

“You hurt?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

“Ghost. Who is hurt.”

“I couldn’t do anything, Price.” Ghost tells him. “He–” Ghost swallows, and he’s not sure if the dampness of his mask is because of his sweat or because of something else. 

The acceptance is hitting him far sooner than he’d wanted it. “He died alone.”

[salemlinnet]

guess who's got a brand new chapter, it's the fanfic from hell. watch the tags. chs 19 and 20 are out for patrons atm as is the first 16 pages of domesticated ch5.