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olisticks · 4 months ago

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Part 2 of this Ghoap post

Better than doing schoolwork :) silly fluff at the end. tw: not medically sound. not proofread

Soap barely registered the way Nik hauled him into the chopper.

His body gave out the second his boots hit the metal floor, the weight of everything catching up to him all at once. His legs buckled, and he went down hard, his back hitting the cabin wall, his head tipping back against the cold steel.

Didn’t matter. None of it mattered. What mattered was Ghost.

Through the haze creeping into the edges of his vision, he saw Price and Gaz lowering Ghost down, getting him flat on the stretcher already strapped in at the side of the bird.

Ghost barely reacted, his body limp, his head slack against the metal.

Soap’s chest squeezed. He hadn’t seen Ghost this still before. Didn’t like it.

Didn’t want to see it again.

Nik barked something from the cockpit, and then the whole damn helicopter jolted, lifting off fast, banking hard and sharp. The wind outside howled as they pulled away from the ruined town, from the hellhole of a mission gone wrong.

Soap barely felt it. His eyes were locked on Ghost, the way Price was kneeling beside him, hands pressing down firm on his bandages, his jaw tight.

Gaz was talking, his words quick, clipped, too urgent. Soap didn’t hear them.

Didn’t hear anything, really, past the roaring in his own head.

Ghost’s chest rose and fell in uneven, shaky breaths. His hands twitched once, fingers curling weakly like he was trying to grab something that wasn’t there.

Soap swallowed against the dry, aching knot in his throat.

"How bad?" His voice barely worked. Didn’t sound like his own.

Price didn’t look away from Ghost. "He’s holdin' on."

Soap knew deflection when he heard it.

He forced himself to sit up, muscles screaming in protest, dragging himself closer. He could see the blood still leaking sluggishly through the gauze, the way Ghost’s whole body was trembling from shock.

"Shit, Simon—" Soap reached out, his hands hovering, unsure of what to do because he’d already done everything he could.

Gaz clamped a hand on Soap’s shoulder, firm.

"He’s not dyin’ on us," he said, voice steady, like he believed it. "Price’s got ‘im."

Soap nodded, but the movement was jerky, hollow.

Price’s hands never stopped moving, never eased up, pressing onto the wound with the ease of a man who's done it too many times before, his face a storm of something unreadable.

Soap watched. Listened to the rattling hum of the helicopter. To the faint, wheezing breaths Ghost let out. To the way Price muttered something under his breath, too low for anyone to hear.

And Soap sat there, bleeding, exhausted, his head resting against the cold metal and waited. Because there was nothing else he could do.

...

The second the chopper hit the ground, the doors slammed open, and the medics were there, rushing in like a flood.

Soap barely had the strength to stand, but that didn’t stop him. Didn’t even slow him down.

Ghost was lifted onto a stretcher, and Soap followed, his legs screaming, his skull pounding with every step. His whole body felt like it had been through a meat grinder, but he didn’t stop moving. Couldn’t.

He felt Gaz’s arm slip around him, holding him upright when his balance nearly gave out.

"Easy, Tav," Gaz muttered, but there was no stopping him now.

Price was right next to them, his stride solid, steady, his eyes never leaving the stretcher ahead of them. Soap barely even registered where they were—some military base, medical ward, floodlights overhead casting everything in stark, sterile white.

The medics moved fast, too fast, hauling Ghost inside, their hands everywhere, barking orders to one another in clipped, medical jargon that Soap barely understood.

Then one of them reached for Ghost’s mask. Soap saw it before Price did.

The medic’s fingers barely touched the edge of the fabric under neath Ghost's head before Soap’s hand snapped out, grabbing his wrist in a vice grip.

The medic startled, eyes snapping up. "We need to check his airways," he started, half-annoyed, half-rattled.

Soap’s jaw clenched. "Not like that," he said, voice like gravel.

The medic hesitated, eyes flicking between Soap and Ghost before Soap finally let go, his fingers twitching from exhaustion. He moved in, hands shaking as he reached for Ghost’s mask himself.

He didn’t lift it all the way. Didn’t pull it off. Didn’t expose him.

Instead, Soap dragged it up just enough from his chin—just over Ghost’s mouth and nose, leaving the top half of his face covered.

A small, unspoken line in the sand. Soap's knuckles grazed the uncovered skin of Ghosts cheek, just for a moment.

The medic stared for a beat, then exhaled sharply through his nose. "Fine," he muttered. "Just let us do our damn jobs."

Soap stepped back, his legs nearly giving out again, but Gaz’s grip tightened at his side, holding him upright.

The three of them—Soap, Gaz, and Price—stood there like a damn honor guard, watching as Ghost was rushed further inside, the medics working over him like a hive of movement.

They didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Not until someone stepped right in front of them.

A woman, barely five foot five, dressed in military scrubs, her dark hair pulled tight into a bun. She had no rank, no weapons, nothing that should have made three armed, disheveled military men stop in their tracks.

And yet.

She planted her feet, arms crossed, eyes blazing, and said, "Sit."

Soap blinked. "Wha—"

"You." She jabbed a finger into his chest. "Are concussed."

Soap’s jaw tightened. "I’m—"

She stepped in closer, her presence an immovable force. "Sit. Down. Now."

Gaz snorted, half a laugh, half surprised at the sheer audacity of it. Price arched a brow but said nothing, probably amused at someone other than him barking orders at them.

Soap grumbled, but his body was too fucking done to argue.

With all the grace of a sack of bricks, he let himself drop onto the nearest gurney, his head throbbing in protest.

The medic gave a sharp nod. "Good. Now stay there." She turned on Gaz, giving him the same look. "You—you're next."

Gaz held up his hands, grinning. "Hey, I’m just the one carrying this idiot around."

She gave him a once-over, eyes sharp, then pointed a finger at Price. "And you. You’re next if I find so much as a scratch on you."

Price just gave her a dry smirk, arms crossed over his chest. "Wouldn’t dream of it, love."

She let out a long-suffering sigh, muttering something under her breath before storming off.

Soap let his head tip back against the wall, exhaling hard. His eyes flicked toward the doors where they’d taken Ghost.

Still working on him. Still moving. Still alive.

...

It was over an hour before they let them in.

Soap had lost track of time—not that he’d ever had a grip on it in the first place. Between the exhaustion, the concussion, and the adrenaline crash that had hit him like a sledgehammer, everything felt blurry, stretched too thin.

But he’d waited. All of them had.

Gaz, arms crossed, pacing like a caged animal. Price, sitting stiff-backed in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, watching the hallway like a hawk, waiting. Soap himself had tried to rest... tried... but every time he closed his eyes; he saw Ghost bleeding out in the dirt.

So, he stayed awake. Waited.

And finally, the door cracked open, and a nurse poked her head out.

"You can go in now," she said, voice clipped but not unkind.

Soap was on his feet before she finished speaking, head still pounding, vision still a little too bright at the edges, but fuck that, he was going in.

Gaz and Price were right behind him, filing into the dimly lit room. The sharp smell of antiseptic hung in the air, the steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor the only sound besides the quiet hum of the ventilation system.

And there, in the hospital bed, looking pale as death but alive, was Ghost.

Soap barely got a second to process that before Ghost moved. His hand dragged at the oxygen mask strapped over his face, fingers curling under the plastic, tugging—

"Oh, for fuck’s sake."

Soap moved on instinct, crossing the room fast, grabbing Ghost’s wrist before he could rip the damn thing off his face.

"Would you quit it?" Soap snapped, his voice sharper than he meant. "Jesus Christ, Lt., you’ve got more tubes in you than a bloody science experiment—leave them be!"

Ghost barely reacted, blinking up at Soap with that too-glazed, too drugged-up look that said he wasn’t fully aware of what was happening.

Didn’t matter. Soap wasn’t having it.

Ghost’s other hand moved next, fingers grasping weakly at the IV in his arm—

"I swear to God—" Soap muttered, pressing both hands down against Ghost’s shoulders, keeping him firmly in place.

Ghost’s breathing hitched, his body tense under Soap’s grip.

"Simon," Price’s voice was calm but firm from the doorway. "You’re in a hospital bed for a reason. Don’t make ‘em tie you down, son."

Ghost huffed weakly, but his body relaxed just slightly, just enough for Soap to loosen his hold a fraction.

But Ghost’s fingers still twitched, his hands still restless, still itching to pull everything off.

Soap shook his head, sighing hard. "Fucking. Stop."

Ghost blinked sluggishly, his gaze slowly drifting over Soap’s face. His mask was still up—not all the way off, just barely pulled past his nose, his jawline visible beneath the dim overhead lights. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but then he squinted.

"You look like shit, Johnny," he muttered, hand coming up to pat against Soap's face, voice rough as sandpaper.

Soap barked out a surprised laugh, caught between relief and pure exhaustion. "Yeah? Well, you look worse."

Ghost’s mouth twitched, just a little, before his eyes fluttered shut again.

Soap didn’t let go until he was sure Ghost wasn’t gonna start ripping things out again. Didn’t move until the steady beep-beep-beep of the monitor settled into something normal, something even.

...

Soap had been waiting for it.

The second Ghost was conscious enough to be stubborn, he’d start acting like he wasn’t damn near dead on arrival just a few hours ago. And sure enough.

"You don't 'ave t' stay," Ghost muttered, voice still hoarse from whatever nightmare cocktail of pain meds and exhaustion was running through his system. "’m fine."

Soap stopped mid-pour, the plastic cup of water in his hand hovering as he turned to look at him.

Ghost had propped himself up—barely—struggling to sit upright, clearly fighting through the ache in his ribs, acting like the IV in his arm wasn’t literally keeping him alive.

Soap blinked. Then, slowly, deliberately, he set the cup down on the table beside the bed. He crossed his arms.

And then he just stared beams into Ghost. Not a teasing smirk, not the playful jab, but the full you’re a fucking idiot and I will physically restrain you if I have to, Simon stare.

Ghost blinked at him. "What?"

Soap tilted his head, just slightly, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "You just say your fine?"

Ghost hesitated. "I—"

Soap stepped closer, his arms still crossed. "You can’t even sit up alone, you fuckin' idiot."

Ghost froze, his fingers twitching slightly where they had been gripping the blankets, like he was debating his next move.

Soap lifted his brows. Go on. I dare you. Say some dumb shit.

Ghost slowly, carefully, lowered himself back down, his arms relaxing against the mattress.

"That’s what I thought," Soap muttered, reaching for the water again and shoving it toward him. "Drink."

Ghost just stared at him.

Soap’s eyes narrowed. "Simon."

Ghost took the cup. He didn’t drink it right away, just held it, fingers curled loosely around the plastic, like he was mulling over whether or not he was actually going to argue.

Soap sat down on the edge of the chair beside the bed, watching him with mild but very present threat energy.

Ghost huffed a small breath of amusement. "You gonna sit there and watch me drink, Johnny?"

Soap shrugged. "Until I know you’re not gonna pass out mid-sip? Aye."

Ghost rolled his eyes, but he drank.

Soap nodded, satisfied, and leaned back in his chair.

Ghost sighed, shifting slightly under the blankets, blinking slow and tired.

"…knew you'd get me out," he muttered after a beat, voice quieter.

Soap blinked. "Course I did."

Ghost didn’t respond.

Didn’t say thank you, didn’t acknowledge it outright, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a little, like the fact that Soap was still there, still watching, was enough.

Soap sighed. "Go to sleep, ya stubborn bastard."

Ghost exhaled, barely there, and closed his eyes.

...

Soap had one job.

One.

Price had told him. One. Keep an eye on Ghost, make sure he didn’t do anything stupid before they rolled out for medical transport back home.

Should’ve been easy, right? Fucking wrong.

Because the second Soap stepped out of the damn room—just for a minute, literally sixty goddamn seconds—he came back to find Ghost doing exactly what he shouldn’t be doing.

Standing.

Or, well—trying to.

The idiot had dragged himself upright, one hand gripping the side of the bed, the other reaching for the chair next to it, moving slow like he thought that would make it less obvious.

Soap froze in the doorway, staring. Ghost did not see him.

Didn’t even have the fucking awareness to look up, too busy gritting his teeth and trying to pull his IV right the fuck out of his arm.

Soap’s jaw ticked. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped inside and shut the door.

Hard.

Ghost flinched, his head snapping up, mask slightly askew, eyes wide like a kid caught sneaking out after curfew.

Soap just stood there, arms crossed.

Ghost blinked.

"Sergeant," he started, voice raspy, like he was going to argue, going to order Soap out.

Soap took two very deliberate steps forward.

Ghost sat back down immediately.

Soap didn’t stop.

Ghost tried to fix his mask, adjust his posture, look less like someone who had just been caught committing a crime. "Johnny—"

Soap got right up in his space and put both hands on Ghost’s shoulders, shoving him back against the bed.

Ghost let out a soft grunt as his back hit the mattress, his hands grabbing at Soap’s wrists, but not pushing him away.

Soap leaned down, staring him dead in the eyes.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Ghost huffed, half a laugh, but Soap could see it—the exhaustion deep in his posture, the way his fingers trembled slightly at his wrist.

"I’m fine, Johnny," Ghost muttered.

Soap’s grip tightened.

"You—" Soap exhaled sharply, visibly restraining himself from shaking him. "You are quite literally the opposite of fine, you absolute muppet."

Ghost tilted his head, eyes half-lidded, looking so smug it made Soap’s blood pressure spike.

"You callin’ me a muppet now, Johnny?"

Soap growled, pressing down harder, making sure Ghost stayed put.

"I swear to Christ, Simon, if you try that again, I am gonna have the nurses tie you to the fucking bed."

Ghost sighed, long and slow, shifting slightly like he was getting comfortable.

Soap was not comforted.

He leaned in closer. "And before you get any bright ideas—I will tell Price, and he'll make you take a long ass fucking leave."

Ghost froze. His smug expression faltered.

Soap narrowed his eyes. "Aye. Thought so."

He started to lean away, still hovering, watching as Ghost finally let himself relax against the mattress again, still holding Soap's wrist, still looking like he wanted to argue but wasn’t quite willing to risk Price’s wrath.

Soap huffed. "Now please stay the fuck down, Simon."

Ghost huffed back, but this time, instead of listening like a normal human being, he moved his head forward.

Before Soap could even process it, Ghost leaned up, pulled Soap's arm just a bit, just enough to catch him off guard—

And kissed him.

Soap froze.

The kiss was lazy, slow, the kind of self-satisfied, smug bastard kiss. A see? I’m fine kiss. A you’re cute when you’re mad kiss.

Ghost pulled back just a fraction, his face close, his lips barely parted. And Soap finally breathed again.

"Jesus fuck, Simon," Soap gritted out, his hands still fisted at Ghost’s shoulders, glaring at him. "Are you actually trying to give me a fucking stroke?"

Ghost’s eyes were heavy, still drugged-up, still half-lidded, and worse—smirking.

"Just provin’ a point," he murmured, his voice rough as hell but smug as sin. "'m fine."

Soap stared at him.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he shoved Ghost back against the mattress, not gently.

Ghost let out a soft oof, the smirk faltering for just a second before it came back in full force.

Soap pulled back, pointed at him like he was scolding a dog. "Lie the fuck down."

Ghost tilted his head, lips quirking just slightly.

Soap exhaled hard, dragging his hands down his face. "I swear to God—"

But Ghost was already closing his eyes again, settling deeper against the bed, looking too satisfied with himself for someone who had nearly died yesterday.

Soap sat back in his chair and kept an eye on him.

Because clearly, if he left Ghost alone for even a second, the idiot would get himself killed again.

And apparently, he’d try to kiss his way out of consequences.

Unbelievable.

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