thisisahealthycopingmechanism

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

Жароёб с холодоёбом

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

you surrender your heart, i surrender every dream (〃´-`〃)♡

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

nothing’s new

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

Tactics

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

*141 relaxing at a farm safe house*

Price, watching the boys fuck around: God, I never even wanted kids

Laswell: I know for a fact if you met Ghost as a kid you would’ve been overcome with parental instinct and snatch him right out of the stroller

Price: That is a lie- SIMON! DON’T FUCK WITH THOSE PITCHFORKS YOU’LL HURT YOURSELF

Laswell: *stares*

Price: … shut up

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

Soap: You're really campaigning for bitch of the year, aren't you?

Ghost: As defending champion, are you nervous?

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

pumpkin smell

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

I am getting sick of the idea of Lieutenant Straight-As-A-Stick Riley getting seduced by Soap.

Like, come on!

Ghost started calling Soap "Johnny".

Ghost got worried sick over Soap escaping the Shadows right after the Graves' betrayal instead of thinking only about his own way out.

Ghost cracked the most fucked up jokes to get Soap distracted from the wound and keep him alive.

All Soap had to do was (not so subtly) flirt back.

The more I'm thinking about this the more it feels like it was Ghost who chose Soap first, not the other way round.

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

Ghost is not subtle, atleast, that’s what he thinks. From head to toe, he commits. This lends well to his career, recruiters would kill (literally) for a soldier who lets themself become more tool than person.

So when it occurs to Ghost that one John “Soap” Mactavish is worth knowing, he makes no attempt to conceal his endearment.

Problem is, Ghost is far removed from typical social expectations. And Soap is too accepting (or oblivious).

First is touch. Ghost is less averse to it than most would assume, his perceived distaste for it is intentional. It’s a bubble, anyone who gets to close gets out back in place. It’s a small thing, but that just puts less work on him. People tend to assume things from there out.

So when Soap punches him on the arm, pats him on the back, grabs his shoulder for support, to Ghost it is perfectly clear he is allowing the sergeant.

Then is the jokes, the bickering. Most others would (and have been) snapped at for fucking about on missions. But with Soap, Ghost lets it’s slide, joining in even.

Then there’s sharing: food, weapons, tips, stories, names. And then the mask: self explanatory.

The final is sleep. It evaded all soldiers, falling asleep alone was a luxury, so sleeping in common places was regular. Not for Ghost, who was afforded a single room.

So when Ghost would doze off on exfil, rest his eyes at a bar, plop down on the floor next to where Soap was filling out paperwork, it should’ve been obvious that he was indicating trust.

Too bad obvious affection from the Ghost considered normal human behaviors by most. Specifically one John “Soap” Mactavish.

(Later, on a rare occasion Ghost is not following Soap like an ominous duckling).

Soap: Hey isn’t it funny how Ghost falls asleep on the floor sometimes.

Gaz and/or Price: He only does that with you.

Soap: What?

Gaz and/or Price: That’s like the Ghost-version of a love confession.

Soap tracks him down like a bloodhound, charges Ghost, and breaks his nose on Ghost’s mask. Ghost carries him to medical, throwing the bloody, grinning man over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

In Soap’s bloody, nasally words,

“Worth it.”

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

Gaz: You two were so drunk last night that you finally confessed to each other and said ‘I love you’

Ghost: Fuck off no we didn’t… who did it first?

Gaz: You

Ghost: FUCK

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

comfort.

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

what was worse, shepherd's betrayal or this

(ko-fi requests are open!)

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

tired.

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

ghostsoap that gets married. johnny that hasn’t even considered changing last names for either of them. simon that wants to become a mactavish because he’s never had the last name of someone that’s loved him before.

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

The Note

Dear Simon Riley,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. Dead or missing. Or maybe you have some other reason to be snooping through my things.

In any case, I hope finding this brings you some peace.

You can rest assured that at the moment I am writing this note, I have never been happier and I am not sure I ever could be.

You are my family, and my greatest friend.

If you go looking for something after this, let it be good tea, nice smiles, small animals. Don’t go looking for me, you already hold my heart and you always will.

I love you.

- Johnny

The clean, white paper, covered in Johnny’s meticulously perfect penmanship was thoroughly burned into the inside of Simon’s eyes. Eyes he wasn’t quite sure he could force to open.

His arms were chained behind him, tight enough, for long enough that he couldn’t quite feel his hands. He could feel his bare shoulders though, they cried out in pain every time he moved.

Johnny had gone MIA nearly two eeks earlier. Simon had been on overwatch, far from the field. He’d been on his own plane home when the decision was made to leave without Soap. He hadn’t made it to exfil. They’d looked, they’d called, they’d waited, and he didn’t come.

Simon had held it together for nearly two days, thinking somehow he might show up, that they might spot him. That third night, he’d locked himself in Soap’s room, determined to calm himself down. It wasn’t over. Someone had called his family, but it wasn’t over. And before they came to box up and send home Soap’s things, Simon needed a moment as close to Johnny as he could get.

He’d stood near the door for a moment, the soft light from the lamp he’d clicked on illuminating the exact way Soap had left his things. Most of it was put away, he was tidy, but he’d left the t-shirt he’d slept in on his unmade bed. He was tidy, but he liked feeling human.

Simon picked it up and held it to his face, breathing in the smell of his soap and laundry detergent. So familiar, and so like a bullet in the gut. He sat on the edge of the bed and opened the drawer in the small table beside it. There wasn’t much inside, a few personal items, and a worn copy of ‘Of Mice and Men’. Simon picked it up and flipped through the pages. He was surprised, when he got near the middle, to find a small, folded piece of paper. On the outside of it was his name. Simon.

Hs hands had been steady up to that point, but they shook as he pulled it out and unfolded it. He was glad no one could see him, his whole body shook as he read it, and then he was angry. White hot, blind rage at whoever left Johnny behind. At Johnny for leaving him. And he ripped the page in half and then into fourths and then he was only angry at himself.

He’d carefully picked up the damaged pieces, so lovingly thought out and out to paper by Soap’s ever-steady hands, and tucked them back between the pages of the book. He’d ducked out of Johnny’s room and gone back to his own and wondered if he’d ever really sleep again.

A few days later, they were following up on another tip, possible civilian captives, and they hoped the raid might save them while providing intel. He’d pulled one of the shredded pieces of the note from the pages of the book and tucked it in a pocket of his tac vest.

- Johnny

Simon was on overwatch again, and he’d been compromised before anyone knew what had happened. They’d found nothing but his bloody gear on the ground where he was supposed to be hiding. So he didn’t know, that in the basement of the compound they were searching below, they’d found a dehydrated, broken, but bright eyed Johnny Mactavish.

He was all the way back into the infirmary, an IV in his arm, when someone finally answered the question he hadn’t stopped asking.

Simon wasn’t there. He wouldn’t be coming back with the others.

Simon had been questioned mercilessly since they took him. They’d spotted his rank when they stripped him and done their best to squeeze anything they could from him. So far, they’d failed, and they’d begun to resort to more traditional methods of torture. Blood dripped from broken fingernails, cigarette burns littered his chest and neck.

He had nothing to say. No torture could match the memories playing as loud as a movie in his mind. Johnny’s laugh, Johnny’s serious voice, Johnny’s jokes through comms. The words in his fucking note. The thought that he was happy. Was.

Simon lost track of days and nights and his hunger and whatever lies he’d made up to keep his captors busy. There was no tea there, no smiles, so he held onto Johnny’s heart. The last whole piece of himself.

--

It wasn’t but a week later, Soap still weak, still ordered to rest, but sitting in Price’s office as he received a message from another group stationed farther north. A spy they had amongst enemy ranks had informed them of a possible British captive, and had a general location.

Soap had known Simon wasn’t dead. The bits of himself that lived in Simon must still be alive, or else he wouldn’t have such fight in him. And he’d found the book missing from his bedside table.

He hadn’t had it in him to go to Simon’s room. To rifle through his things. There’d been no family to call. He was just glad to know Simon had those words.

When they returned with him, barely conscious, they’d had to all but hold Soap back. Price had tried telling Simon when they found him that Soap was alive, that he was waiting, but he was disoriented and it fell on aching, confused ears.

It wasn’t until he was stabilized, cleaned up, and they let Soap go to him that he finally understood.

“I’m dead.” He stated.

Soap chuckled, reaching for his bandaged hand. “You’re not.”

“But you’re here.” He frowned.

“That’s right, Simon.” Soap turned his hand gently over in both of his. “I’m here.”

“Johnny?” He closed his eyes. The words were still there, but not like torture.

“Yeah.”

“I read your note.” He wrapped his hand around Soap’s. “You’ll have to write a new one for next time.”

Soap chuckled again, like beautiful music. “You won’t have to wait until I’m dead for the next one.”

Little notes started finding their way to Simon quite often. On his pillow, in the pocket of his pants, tucked into his notebook. And he always read them, and he always tore off his favorite pieces to carry close to his heart.

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

After Mexico, Johnny makes a habit of asking Simon about his heart

Johnny: You have a heart? Simon: A cold one

Johnny: You have a heart? Simon: Not this time

Johnny: You have a heart? Simon: Dead and buried

Johnny: You have a heart? Simon: I wish I didn't

Johnny: You have a heart? Simon: Achy today

Johnny: You have a heart? Simon: You ought to know, Sergeant. It's yours.

[thisisahealthycopingmechanism]

Soap: You know I was thinking...what if I unpack here? Ghost: Then all your stuff would be here. Soap: Well...what if all my stuff was here? Ghost: *frowning* Then you'd be going back and forth all the time. It doesn't make any sense.

Soap smiles. He knows Simon doesn't expect it, that maybe he doesn't quite grasp how ready he is to never leave his side. He knows the idea of being wanted that way is so foreign to him, it doesn't even cross his mind.

Soap: Okay. What if we lived together and you understand what I'm saying? Ghost turns quickly, surprised. Ghost: Live together? There have been no signs for that. Soap: *grinning again* Well me asking is kind of a sign.