#happy ghoapmas!!

[solivagantingrebel]

People You Know Can Hurt You The Most

for: @inkarmatqq happy ghoapmas!! i had a lot of fun while writing the fic (got a wee carried away too), hope you enjoy! :D

ao3 link.

summary: Nothing happened that night. Nothing happened for a long while, nothing happened until he was deployed elsewhere and the no-strings attached conditions got his curiosity evoked. It never led to anywhere, though. No one he met before the task force made him want to be involved in something other than his own life, selfish as it might sound to some, it had taken a long time for him to reach even a semblance of that peace, and he wasn’t ready to part with it yet.

Until Simon Riley walked into his life, and it felt like a series of small, culminating sparks slowly adding to an explosion grander than any he had personally witnessed.

cws: implied/referenced child abuse, childhood trauma, angst with a happy ending.

words: 11.8k

For as long as Soap has been alive, he has faced rejection more than any other obstacle in his life. 

It started off small. His preferences being picked apart when he was younger, his carefree, rowdy nature punished and cautioned against. He was the lad parents looked at and was relieved he wasn’t theirs. He was the one punished the most by the teachers, the class clown, the loud mouth who couldn’t shut up or keep his hands still enough for their liking. He was the one without a survival instinct in his bones, getting into all sorts of trouble to scratch the itch of adrenaline growing stronger each day. 

His parents didn’t entirely approve, though their attempts to shape him to their liking was as successful as teaching a rock to fly. His ma was softer on him, partially because he got a feeling she understood a little. He grew up in the countryside with his grandparents while his parents were settling in the city, an entire childhood full of freedom and the world to explore wasn’t compatible with the muted manners they expected here. But, he tried for his mother. If there was one person’s disappointment he didn’t want to shoulder, it was hers. 

Which meant tethering himself, drawing back the strings of his eagerness, and swallowing the sting of every criticism thrown his way until it numbed down to a duller ache. When they told him to shut up, he did it without question, letting his thoughts run rapid and fill the void left behind by the impact, when he was told to stop, his body fought with him, but he’d prevail over the initial spark of rebellion — see the immediate reward of it in the form of praise or acceptance. He was palatable like this, agreeable, and his family got fewer complaints from his school. 

Growing up wasn’t easy. His situation at home was more or less stable, parents more ‘supportive’ of his recent behaviour, asking him what was wrong when there were days he couldn’t repress himself as much. He understood from a young age who he was as a person did not fit in with his parent’s, or his school’s, or his society’s standards. He was allowed to be himself when no one was looking; the mess in the wake of his destructive tendencies lied away like he was born with a silver tongue, eyes so sincere no one noticed the weight of the cross around his neck — one his grandma gifted him, the only piece of her he had after she passed — growing heavier. 

It was safer like that, though. Easier to lie through his teeth, accept rejection and move on with whatever approval he could garner from his corrected behaviour than linger on the festering wound of every rejection piled on top of each other. He distracted himself whenever the thoughts got too loud, allowed his hands to wonder and loud noise to smother the pull to linger, until it was instinct, coded into him like muscle memory. Once he was a bit older, there were more socially acceptable ways to get steam off. Sports was one. His school’s football team was already packed, so he opted for cricket, found himself liking the intricacies of the field and how much of mind and body involvement it demanded from him. 

It was perfect for him.

Over the years, his focus on the sport more than his studies drew attention. He was winning school-level tournaments and the local club was interested in him. While his parents were proud of him at first, it gradually grew into ‘concern’. Cricket didn’t have a good enough future for them to consider it an option for him, apparently, and they didn’t approve of him moving to England in the future to have a better shot at it. He had such a clever mind, he’d do well furthering his studies and getting into a more scientific field. Something that wouldn’t have him running around for others, taxing his body. But, he couldn’t give up the only source of comfort he had, he refused to.

Pride crumbled into pieces to scratch at the aching gash inside of him. He was good at lying, good at keeping the peace and making sure what he was didn’t disturb those around him, but in his father’s blue eyes, he knew it wasn’t enough. Regardless of how he acted, regardless of what he could achieve if he was allowed a silver of grace. He was convinced it was fate when an older cousin of his found him with bleeding knuckles in the field he practised in, after he ran away from home because of another nagging comment turned into an argument about his future. 

He sat with him, talked to him, and talked about himself when Soap didn’t, his own struggles with finding acceptance from his family and a path in life. He was in the army now, travelling more than he ever thought he would, defending his country and earning an impressive array of medals to show for it. His cousin took him to a restaurant after that, cleaned up his wounds and let him have a feast to make up for the food he’d missed in the family gathering. 

It was the first time someone extended kindness to him after he’d changed so much over the years — convinced he wasn’t enough for his family. Soap wasn’t going to say it was the primary reason he decided to enlist early, but it was a prominent one. He was going to be an SAS soldier, earn his place and force his family to shut up about his future, because surely, they were not going to complain after their country awards his efforts. Basic wasn’t what he expected; it was almost too perfect. He was suited to the military life, and that was the final realisation he needed before he tried for the selection, became the youngest in the Royal Army history to pass with flying colours. 

The name he earned out of it felt like his, too. Military opened up a myriad of opportunity without the additional baggage of what he should be, and the best part was, his aggression was rewarded, allowed an outlet, praised for the way his hands and mind worked in tandem towards the destruction of their enemies and swift execution of missions. He wasn’t told to be more than what he already was, but there was an itch in his brain that craved validation, being the best at what he did was a personal goal. Not an expectation, but there wasn’t anyone to disappoint other than himself — the kind of freedom he wasn’t allowed before this. 

And Christ, if he didn’t relish in the taste of it. He was starting to find out more about himself, no longer forced to be under oppressive eyes; his tendency to improve, impress and obey went beyond the friendly banter between teammates, and lingering looks and touches led him to places he’d never thought he’d grace. He liked men too. The realisation hit him softly when he was cornered and kissed sweetly by a bloke he stayed with in a bar after everyone left to make sure he reached home safely. Maybe it would’ve been more than an ‘ah, that makes sense’ if he was still back home, if the prominence of religion was continued outside his grandmother’s influence. 

Nothing happened that night. Nothing happened for a long while, nothing happened until he was deployed elsewhere and the no-strings attached conditions got his curiosity evoked. It never led to anywhere, though. No one he met before the task force made him want to be involved in something other than his own life, selfish as it might sound to some, it had taken a long time for him to reach even a semblance of that peace, and he wasn’t ready to part with it yet.

Until Simon Riley walked into his life, and it felt like a series of small, culminating sparks slowly adding to an explosion grander than any he had personally witnessed.

He should’ve known something would go wrong. He should’ve known the instinctual urge to be good, show-off and be trusted went beyond surface level assertion of his own ideals when it lasted beyond the first few missions. Ghost made him work for it. Dismissed him at first, but not for who he wasn’t. It was like he didn’t expect anything from Soap apart from following his orders good enough and — That, that was something he could work with, a complete absence of expectation which would’ve been an insult to a proud soldier, was heaven to Soap. 

He should’ve known it was going to get bad when he allowed him to get away with ‘Johnny’ spoken with such casual familiarity. The barest scrapes of leeway Ghost allowed him, and he was already craving more, like a mutt who couldn’t stop wagging his tail after being shown kindness for once in his life. It was humiliating to reflect on, but it made him feel like he mattered. The missions made it worse, so much worse. Las Almas forced both of them on their back legs, and he was allowed a glimpse past the walls Ghost shrouded himself in; the joking, indulgent Lieutenant on the comms far different from the all-business persona he was familiar with at that point. 

They managed to get out of there alive. Quite the team they made, despite the entire city being built like a trap to lure them to their deaths. Ghost waited for him, and that realisation didn’t set in fully until they were driving out of Las Almas, the pain of the open wound on his arm and the ache around his body revitalised as adrenaline wore off his system. There were other things to worry about instead of the growing inch of trust between them, but to hear it out of Ghost’s mouth was completely another, and having him stalk Soap in the safehouse when he tried to slick away with a medkit, to help him clean and stop the bleeding, made it almost difficult to breath. 

In a good way. Great way. Wanting to smother himself in the source of it until his lungs were familiar with the scent, way. The intoxication of allowance and trust enveloping a more instinctual part of him, tugging at him for attention. He was drunk on it, mouth looser than alcohol was capable of making, bolder when he muttered ‘that’s why I love the Ghost’ and worse with his quips in the operation right after. He was told to shut up too — More directly, more than just ‘keep it tactical’ and —

It shouldn’t have made him obey so easily. Shouldn’t have made his body so eager to please, it would’ve been embarrassing if Ghost was there to see it. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered, maybe Ghost was used to his subordinates keeping their mouths shut and following orders, and it was as natural as breathing to him. Soap shouldn’t have found it attractive after years of being in the military. 

Las Almas, Chicago, the reveal of his bonnie face, and how Ghost chose to sit next to him in the bar, his thigh pressed against his when the news broke, contributed to it. The desperate way he said his name when he thought he lost him. Christ, he was over his head, heart pounding like it was the first time he’d genuinely developed a crush, and maybe it was. He couldn’t say the past flings in his life amounted to much aside from nightly enjoyment. Things were different with Ghost. For starters, he didn’t look at his COs that way. It was against regulations, against every self persevering bone in his body that told him to not fuck his spot in the task force up.

He tried to repress it. 

Tried his bloody fucking best to keep his lingering stares to just that, stares. Ghost stood out in most crowds they were in, it wasn’t strange to find his eyes flickering over to his Lieutenant every so often, was it? 

He tried his best to keep it minimum, even when they were alone together and the temptation of seeing that pale, scarred skin again tugged at his neck like a leash. Life was kinder to him, allowing him glimpses of different body parts, occasionally indulging him with the sight of Ghost’s wavy blond hair, practically making his fingers itch with the urge to run them through it. If Ghost noticed, he didn’t say anything. Their banter through the comms got worse, too. More playful, almost flirting, edging towards more than the casual back and forth between mates.

And they were. Good mates, as good as you could be when you were directly under the command of another. Soap didn’t want to jeopardise their relationship, but he wasn’t a man who strayed away from danger. He should’ve known it wouldn’t always work in his favour.

The first time he made a bloody fool of himself was in the middle of combat. He blamed it on the adrenaline, the smell of blood, destruction, and no other thoughts aside from working with his instincts to make sure they get out of there alive. It must’ve been an oversight on his part, something he didn’t immediately catch from his position, but thankfully Ghost was with him, and he noticed the mistake before it was too late. 

He was pulled by his vest and shoved against a wall, his body bracketed by his Lieutenant, who followed him for cover. The bullets wheezed past them, hitting the wall opposite of them. Ghost’s entire bulk was pressing on him, keeping him in place as he reached down for the pistol strapped to his thigh and made quick work of the company waiting for them through the doorway. 

Soap heard him swear, but didn’t catch the words properly, too engrossed in how tightly he was held in place, his senses getting overwhelmed by proximity and the fact that his face was inches away from Ghost’s. His blood was rushing and wires were getting crossed, the look Ghost gave him after softly calling out his name made it too irresistible to not give in, to lean up, closer, as much as he was allowed. For a split second, it looked like Ghost was going to let him close the distance and kiss him, mask in the way be damned. 

But their comms buzzed to life and Ghost stepped back as if he was burned, awareness clearing the lidded haze in his dark brown eyes. The loss of heat was so palpable to Soap, it was the equivalent of throwing a bucket of ice water to his face. Effectively snubbed any semblance of that confidence he felt to take a step forward and take what he has wanted for a long while. It was fine. Soap wasn’t a stranger to rejections. The situation wasn’t ideal, and whatever that might’ve happened would’ve been a mistake anyway. 

If it was ever going to happen, Soap was going to make sure both of them had space to properly discuss it. Even if the ‘discussion’ was a reprimand from Ghost for pushing for something that shouldn’t exist; at least, he’d know on more certain terms, and he could move on. The mission continued without any other issues, albeit things were on the quieter end from his side. He didn’t want to cock it up more than he already had. 

Ghost’s gaze was heavy on the exfil back, not looking away even when Soap stared back, but they didn’t talk about it otherwise. Soap didn’t have an incentive to ask without making his feelings clear as day, and the delicate balance of friendship he’d earn after Las Almas was something he didn’t want to jeopardise. Call him selfish, or maybe coward was more apt, but it was the first time he had felt this much for someone else. He wanted to bask in it for a few more, before what he was inevitably ruined any possibility of indulging it in the future.

He’d ruined his relationship with his family because he couldn’t help it. Who was to say it wouldn’t happen again? 

The tension bleed away after a day or two. They were back to their usual back and forth, new missions and base shenanigans taking the focus, and Soap was relieved, so relieved, that he was sure Ghost noticed too. Though, he didn’t comment on it. Everything was back to normal, except it wasn’t. In the back of Soap’s mind was the knowledge of how it felt to be pressed by Ghost’s warm body, the delicious heat, adding into how naturally he’d protected him, kept him close until the danger was cleared. How bloody fit he looked in the process. 

There were nights where he regretted not ripping the plaster off and kissing him right then and there, consequences be damned. At least, he would’ve known how Simon Riley’s lips would’ve felt like before being kicked out of the task force. Crushing on his commanding officer — a new type of low to reach. It wasn’t like he could help himself. He was like a mutt with a bone, unable to tear himself away after a taste, even if he knew the bone was rotting from the core. 

It was subtle at first. Bare whiffs of consideration; Ghost always saving a seat for him, wee touches that could be brushed off by coincidence or accidents, the growing extent of patience he showed him. Maybe it was a by-product of their closeness, maybe it was just natural for Ghost to be this considerate, but he couldn’t tear his mind away from the increasing number of the mental tally. He didn’t need to, and yet, he did regardless of whether he wanted to impress Soap or not, like being good to him was natural 

His superiors weren’t usually like this. Most noted his talent for the field and kept their praise to just that, never going out of their way to treat him more than an expendable soldier. A very useful expendable soldier, but expendable nonetheless. Ghost treated him like someone worth having around, listened and entertained him beyond work stuff, and while he was pretty private about himself and his thoughts, he’d occasionally chime in and reveal things. Precious things.

Preferences. Tidbits of stories from his childhood. Once, when they were out drinking in a pub near base, Ghost even pushed for details about Soap’s sorry love life by offering a story of a relationship before he joined basic. Some bloke who worked the same job as him in a butchery, the kind of sweet sixteen love, broken off when he needed to move away for deployment. Soap was too focused on the ‘bloke’ part that he didn’t notice Ghost’s unblinking, curious stare at his silence, cheeks flushing warm. He was going to blame it on the whisky.

“Nah,” Soap murmured. “Had a fling or two, but nothin’ that lasted. Didn’t feel like I needed to be in one, if m’gonna be honest.”

Not until you. 

Soap downed the rest of the beer in his glass, refusing to look at the one person who was making him reconsider everything he wanted out of life.

“Makes sense,” Ghost said. Soap didn’t look at him until he was leaning away, gesturing for another round of drinks, and the warm, glistening gaze of his bourbon eyes when he returned the stare almost melted him. Almost. Soap wasn’t drunk enough to start blabbering yet, but the night was far from done, and he remembered the sting of Ghost’s ‘no, Johnny’ despite the amount of liquor in him. 

It was on the walk back to base, he was sure. Ghost was close enough to touch, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to feel him again, more purposefully than what happened in enemy territory, with more intent than the casual brushes that came with existing around another person. His hand shot out before he thought better of it, grabbing Ghost’s arm, and they stopped dead in their tracks. 

Ghost didn’t shake him off, didn’t flinch away nor say anything, the silence would’ve made sober Soap reconsider his actions, but it only emboldened him as he was, alcohol clouding his usually sound judgement. He couldn’t pinpoint it, but there was a sense of anticipation, a careful observation of what he’d do behind those dark eyes studying him. He had to do it. He had to step closer, invade the space standing between them and invite himself over to Ghost’s. His body language made it more obvious; the arch of his neck, the subtle shift of his weight from the balls of his feet to his tiptoe; his lips were parted, eyes dazed, focused and adoring — or so, he hoped — and he was willing to defy the line between them for a chance.

It was reckless. He was bloody swaying on his feet, nerves and alcohol finally setting in, and right when he was about to kiss him through the cotton balaclava, the world spun. His visions blurred for a second, and his back was pushed against a hard surface. A concrete wall, he realised. There was a hand on his neck, heavy and hot, his jaw held tight by rough fingers. Despite how angry and stern the hold on him felt, Ghost’s voice was anything but. 

“No, Johnny,” he said it in a whisper, a soft and low dip in his usual gruff accent that made him sound almost… sad. It didn’t take away from the impact of it, a heavy-handed cold crystallising in Soap’s chest at the firm answer to his question. He was fine, had to be, it wasn’t his first rejection nor would it be his last, but there was something about a first love that stung more than it should. The closeness lasted longer than he expected, though it could just be his skewed sense of time. 

He woke up with a hangover after that night, vague memories of what happened outside the moment of rejection lingering with him. He was in his room, in his bed, his jacket neatly folded on the foot of his bed and shoes placed aside — Ghost must’ve helped him get back. 

It took painkillers, lots of water and some breakfast to feel remotely like himself again. He stumbled upon Ghost in the break room, getting the usual greeting for the morning. The sight of him languidly relaxing on the sofa, perfect and handsome despite being covered from head to toe made his chest tighten, almost painfully. He was already nursing a cup of tea, and Soap shuffled over to make his cup of coffee, only to find a freshly brewed one waiting for him. 

“Thought you might need it,” Ghost murmured.

How am I supposed to not love this ma — 

Ah. Right.

He loved Ghost. Why the revelation flew past his head earlier, when it was obvious, clearer than day, when he wanted what he was feeling to be reciprocated so bad it was starting to hurt. 

Soap coughed, embarrassed about his line of thinking when the man was right in front of him. “Thank ye, L.t. Always lookin’ out for me.”

Ghost hummed, rolling his mask up to his ear to take a sip. No indication of wanting to confront him about what happened last night — he’d sigh in relief if he didn’t feel slightly disappointed. 

Soap tried very hard not to stare at his scarred lips. Pretend he was more interested in three second glances and not memorising his entire face to sketch him later. 

“Think I deserve somethin’ for that.”

“Aye?” Soap said in a daze, distracting himself by taking a sip of his own. Would do anything you’d ask, he didn’t say.

“Take over for me.” Ghost gestured towards the window leading out to the training grounds. 

Soap contemplated for a pause, but the expectant, easy look in those brown eyes got him to nod just as easily. His Lieutenant had a chokehold on his heart, and there was nothing to indicate he knew beyond his clumsy attempts at trying to kiss him. 

It was better that way. They were good mates, weren’t they? Soap didn’t want things to take a turn for the worst. 

He didn’t care if it felt like a full body ache, it was for the greater good. 

-

Despite Soap’s clumsy attempts, they got closer after that incident. 

Others might say it’d be natural to, considering the amount of time they spent in each other’s company. In-between the time spent training, eating and looking out for each other, camaraderie was natural, easy, the kind of brotherhood between men who dealt with the worst of the worst. But, he knew it wasn’t naturally for Ghost. There were walls and barbed wires around the closeness he allowed Soap to glimpse, and a quick glance between his interactions with others gave him the idea that what he allowed him was special. 

There was some leeway with Price, the Captain was ‘trustworthy’ enough for Ghost to obey his orders without question, but the night from Las Almas flashed in his mind whenever he contemplated further. ‘Be careful who you trust, Sergeant. People you know can hurt you the most.’ He trusted Ghost. Without question, without thought. Did that mean he shouldn’t? Though, if Ghost decided to hurt him, he’d wager that he deserved it. Ghost was a good man, even if he didn’t believe he was; Soap knew he tried his best, regardless of their circumstance. He was there for him when no one else was, and the way he sounded, in that fucking skyscraper in Chicago when he didn’t respond back. 

On the verge of death, he sounded like Soap meant everything to him.

Or, at least, enough to be devastated by the possibility of losing him. Different from how he treated his other subordinates, different from how he treated the rest of the task force.

His delusions, probably.

Soap wanted more, but it was fine as it was. 

It was natural for them to find each other after ops. Either to drink, smoke or talk away the exhaustion from their bodies. They didn’t acknowledge it directly, but it became a ritual of sorts. Sometimes they were too tired to do much except get a drink from the break room and head to their rooms, although one of them would make sure the other knew. 

Over the years, Soap started realising that Ghost needed more R&R whenever it was festive season. More on December than November. It got worse around Christmas. They never explicitly talked about it, but there was mention of family during one of their conversations, when Soap was bitching about how they’re gonna blow up his phone for another missed Christmas with his phone in one hand and a cigarette in another. Ghost mentioned he didn’t like celebrating it either. Soap tried to inquire without pushing him, and all he got was ‘don’t have anyone to celebrate with, Johnny’ and that was that. 

This Christmas, he wanted to change that. 

They were in London, arriving a few days before Christmas, when intel revealed possible movement around the city, and they were settled in a nearby base to ‘train’ the recruits while MI6 figured out whether they needed to be on the field. They were stuck in base, allowed to get their energy up and relax as much as they could as they waited for the ball to drop. Ghost was more tensed up, something about him buzzed with a kind of energy Soap would usually get after a botched mission — something you can’t stop blaming yourself for. 

He preferred not to speculate, but he could try to make it better for him, couldn’t he? Soap wanted his CO to relax, it was only natural for him to extend the invitation to spar. It was only natural he let Ghost take his frustration out on him. Ghost was still a decent man, but between the agitation building up and the fact that he usually dominated with a 2-1 average, he didn’t notice the subtle slips Soap worked in their usual routine. It was a few more bruises to add to his body, one on his outer thigh, one on his chest and one on his shoulder. The closest he will ever get to having Ghost’s claim on him. He was fine with that, had to be. He wasn’t the focus, either. 

But, he selfishly wanted to be. 

“Go out drinkin’ with me. On the 24th.”

He’d managed to blurt it when he was pinned down by Ghost, gathering the courage as he was winding down from the controlled adrenaline high. Soap knew his plan had worked; he felt the broad, sturdy frame of his Lieutenant relax more through the spar, felt each blow lessen the tightly coiled tension, and there was a look over his eyes, pupils slightly blown but hazy, his guard was finally down. 

Before Soap spoke up, of course. 

Ghost tilted his head ever-so-slightly, shifting his weight on top of Soap and considering his request with more thought than he expected. 

There was a chance of rejection. Soap was bracing himself for it, and tried to keep his feelings at bay, because it wasn’t about him. Whatever hang up Ghost had with Christmas was obviously private, family-related, and yet, he didn’t want him to be alone during it. He knew Ghost could handle himself, but — 

Was it selfish to want to help him the best as he could?

The grip on Soap’s hands loosened, gloved thumb gently pressing against his pulse point, lingering for a second more before he spoke. 

“Alright,” Ghost agreed, moving off him. 

Soap took a few moments to collect himself before pushing himself up from the mats, staring at his Lieutenant with wide eyes. He was sure if he had a tail, it’d be wagging furiously, hiding his excitement by only a margin of what must’ve been showing on his face. He was never really good at hiding it when he felt things. 

“Serious?”

Ghost’s lashes shuddered, the corners of his eyes crinkling in what Soap recognised as a masked smile. “Planned somethin’ for it, Sergeant?”

“No,” Soap muttered. “But I can, if you like.”

“Do your worst, Johnny.” 

Soap grinned. “Solid copy, sir.”

When it was Christmas Eve, Soap didn’t catch a glimpse of Ghost. Unable to find him in his room or any of the communal spaces. He shot a text to him with the location of the pub, just in case, since he was going to be busy preparing the not-date outing, with his gift needing to be wrapped. He got it shipped early, an entire set he was convinced Ghost would find some humour in, even if he didn’t like it. 

Daytime passed within a blink. Soap was busy sitting on his bed, painting little white skulls on the black wrapping paper. A single glance would make the contents of the gift obvious, but he knew he could get that extra reaction with the set he’d managed to find in Ghost’s size. The material was nice too. Pure cotton, something that would last for a while. Maybe he could get him another set if Ghost liked it, he has always wondered about what went on in his Lieutenant’s spooky closet, and contributing to the pile seemed fun. 

The closest he would get to putting a claim on him.

Not that Ghost would know. Not that he felt any guilt in fostering the possessive desire, knowing nothing was going to come out of it. To finish the gift, he used a silver ribbon and tied a knot on the top. He checked his phone. Still nothing. There wasn’t a ‘read’ function in the messages they used, so he had no idea if Ghost saw it. It was a matter of trust, hope Ghost kept to his word. Soap planned the evening to start with drinking and end with roaming the streets of Soho, giving Ghost the opportunity to buy him something in turn. If he wanted to. He wasn’t expecting anything in return, company alone was enough for him. 

The festive decoration and alcohol warming their blood should be enough to distract both of them from less than pleasant thoughts. He went ahead and made sure the pub they were going to had good bourbon too. Something to try together, make new memories over. A clumsy attempt at trying to make Ghost feel better, maybe, but the spar worked, didn’t it? Who was to say their not-date wouldn’t either? 

It might not mean anything for Ghost, but it would be a cherished memory for him. 

That was enough. 

Had to be, Soap reminded himself, pushing himself up from the bed to move in front of his closet. He was going to wear something nice today. A nice button-up with fancier pants than his usual jeans and fatigues, leather shoes, a coat and a scarf. Which he may or may not bought, in addition to his gift, unable to resist trying on a new look for his —

For Ghost. 

Mostly to see his reaction, if there was any. Just because he liked men didn’t exactly mean he liked Soap, though he hoped Ghost wasn’t as indifferent to him as he thought he was. He wasn’t bad to look at, if the stares he got whenever he went on a night out said anything, and he could clean up pretty well. Simple white, black, brown and beige outfit, with face cream, aftershave, deodorant and some gel to slick back his hair. Looking in a mirror in his room, he would go as far as to say he looked fit.

Dressed adequately for a night out. 

He checked his phone again, nothing. Soap sent him another text. A simple ‘omw, will save yer seat, sir’ and hoped for the best. Christmas Eve, Christmas miracles, yeah? Not like he believed in any of it, but he believed in Ghost. That had to be enough. 

He took the scenic route, taking a walk through the streets of London to reach his destination and enjoying the decorations displayed in the process. It was snowing lightly, the Christmas atmosphere blessed by the rare snowfall in the city, and it added onto his belief that the day was special. If he could get a glimpse of Ghost with snowflakes stuck in his hair, he’d consider his wishes for the day and year fulfilled. The occasion to see his Lieutenant without the mask hiding away his handsome face was something he cherished, and the rarity only made it exceptional. Like the rest of him was. 

The opportunity to know Simon Riley was special in itself. 

He arrived to the pub fairly early. Soap didn’t notice his excitement making his strides longer, faster. He checked the time and his messages again when he walked in through the door, finding the place to be occupied but not fully packed. A quick glance around the place revealed no hulking, brooding blond lurking the corners. He decided to play nice for the evening, choose a table that would fit the big bastard. No need to cram his thick thighs in a tiny booth. 

He was being a good friend.

Nothing more than that. 

To pass the time, he ordered a pint of beer. There wasn’t a ‘right’ way to start the night. Something to ease the nerves was good, though. He checked his phone again. No updates. Just like their intel. The beer was a warm company to his shimmering thoughts, calmed him down enough to enjoy the rare moments of peace he was allowed. They were technically on a break through the New Years, duty resuming a few days into January since the bomb threats turned out to be less than credible. He could’ve visited home, actually bothered to show up for one Christmas after his deployment.

But he still remembered the face of disgust his father made when he returned home on his first break from deployment. 

His mother had tried to be supportive, in a way, and yet, her disapproval was apparent in the way she spoke to him about his work. They did an ‘intervention’ for him, telling him they didn’t approve of the unnecessary risk Soap was taking, they didn’t want their son to return to them in a casket one day. There was more talk about how smart he was, and he’d be better off using his brain to get a degree or three — a respectable profession and not the madness he was chasing. They had the audacity to bring up his interest in chemistry as a point, too.

That was the point he snapped. Minor arguments and disagreements leading to Soap needing some space away from his home had happened before, but he hadn’t stood his ground and defended himself with his teeth bared and anger lashing out of his throat before. Because there was a respectable ‘profession’ he wanted to pursue, and he didn’t because his parents couldn’t just be happy for him and support him for once. He was tired of the constant criticism and arguments he got into around them. He woke up the next day and left before anyone could stop him. 

He hasn’t returned home since that day. 

It was something he didn’t talk about in detail, shit was too sad to drag anyone or the atmosphere down with him. Soap was fine with it. Mostly because it was nice not feeling constantly judged and criticised and pressured to be someone he wasn’t, forcing himself to endure in the name of family. As if they’d ever cared to actually know him. 

Every family holiday came with a lick of envy, a voice in his ear reminding him he will never have the picturesque celebration. He did not let it corrupt his enjoyment of the said holidays or festivities, but it ate away at his psyche. A bitter reminder of things he will never get to enjoy. 

Luck has never particularly been on his side. He was great on the field, some close calls being too close for his liking, and yet, there was a stubborn beast forcing his hands to work faster, be better, because if he was allowed to, he was going to take back control of his life. Which included rewriting the tragedy of his sorry existence.

So, Soap waited for the one man he wanted in his life more than everything in his life. The unexpected perk of joining the SAS. Ordered a plate of chips and another pint of beer to keep him company, eyes trained on the door, every shadow drawing his attention until he realised it didn’t fit the Ghost mould. It would’ve been pathetic if Ghost hadn’t almost promised. If they weren’t good mates. He could wait — his Lieutenant wasn’t a man to be late for no reason. He wouldn’t leave him stranded, right?

Right?

Good three hours in his wait did he realise it wasn’t the case. No update from his phone, no response to his messages or the one call he decided to make when the server kept looking at him and his gift pitifully. Ghost wasn’t coming. 

And it shouldn’t have physically hurt. The stab in his heart feeling real, almost heavy, like he was bleeding from the inside out, his throat closing thick, made worse by the sweet heat of the alcohol. Spite spoke in his voice, logic presenting an argument tight enough to bury him underneath it. After all, why should Ghost come there? Just to waste time with him? Didn’t he remember the last time they were drunk, how blatantly Ghost rejected him? How wrong it was that he felt anything for him? Did he want to jeopardise everything for a glimmer of nothing that badly?

He should know better than to want something he couldn’t have. 

Green was an ugly colour on him, and envy could dip him lower than any of his other emotions did. The fact of the matter was, regardless of how much he desired or craved something, he wasn’t destined to get it, and he was better off accepting this fact than getting hurt each time it happened. Life, God, whatever else was in the universe dictating fate and destinies had been loud and clear with him. Easier to move on if he understood, fundamentally, that he has never deserved it, right?

It was hilarious, really. How the human spirit was stubborn enough to persist despite everything. How his blood ran hot and livid instead of cold and calm, sick and tired and ready to sink his teeth in and make the things that hurt him bleed. Only problem was…

It was the people he knew. 

The folks he loved, even if he tried to not linger in the sentiment. Like the rest of himself, he couldn’t help the love he had for his parents, for his job, for his Lieutenant. It was there; bruised, broken and buried, but there nonetheless, and he couldn’t imagine a world where he shouldered the burden of bridging the gap created by circumstance and deliberate inability to communicate. He would’ve been fine if Ghost texted him about not making it for one way or the other. It would’ve stung, but he wasn’t a bairn anymore, he’d get over it.

Except Ghost hadn’t. Soap was left alone in a pub, looking at the door like it could bring him his salvation, enough that he was pretty sure the server felt bad for him. When the one who was taking his order came around his table to ask if he was done, he decided to indulge in what he was there for, other than his Lieutenant. A glass of bourbon. Imported from the States. The kind of Ghost would’ve loved.

It was too fucking bad only Soap was going to experience the delight.

He ordered. It wasn’t bad, and it certainly didn’t taste like dog piss. The flavour was rich, smoky, with hints of vanilla and oak, strong enough to down his sorrows in. He found himself smacking his lips when he was done, wondering if it was how Ghost tasted that night in Chicago, not that the bourbon in that place was of the Kentucky variety, but it must’ve been somewhat close. He wasn’t tipsy yet, so he figured he could go for another, his brain providing distracting images instead of the awareness of the sorry sight he made alone in that pub. There were men, and women, looking at him with interest, and none that caught his. 

Heartbroken wasn’t the type people usually went for. It was Christmas Eve, less time to stick around, while liquor did most of the work of making him forget. The third glass of bourbon did it. He was drunk, a wee off-centre, his brain was warm and mushy, and he took it as a sign to end the night. Not a single fucking word from his bastard of a Lieutenant, but he was tired of the day, and people, to care too much. He paid his tab and went on his merry way, the gift tucked underneath his arm because fuck, if Ghost didn’t want it, he was going to keep it. 

Wasn’t his style, really, but he could use the set as jammies. He could return it when he was feeling better, the day after, maybe. Or he could burn it. Start his journey of getting over Ghost, regardless of whether he thought it was possible or not. Maybe it was going to be a lifelong journey — the options were plenty. He refused to let the sting of, everything technically, draw him away from enjoying his walk back. The snow was good. The cold distracted him, and his body ran hotter with the alcohol in his system.

The bright, burning flame in his mind’s eye was more enticing, elaborate plans of making a ritual out of the burning, maybe throwing in an explosion or two to spice things up. There was nothing a good ol’ explosion couldn’t fix. Especially in terms of eliminating things out of his sight and mind, and he was already coming up with a chemical concoction that would be perfect for the occasion. He mused all the way from the streets of Soho to the base they were temporarily staying at, so deep in thought — intoxicated too — that he ignored the vibrating buzz of his phone buried deep in his pockets. It was a call. 

Probably from Ghost. Maybe, if Soap allowed himself to hope for more, as if he wasn’t already tired of the possibility of more rejection to deal with. The feeling was good for a minute, ignoring Ghost like he ignored him without giving him a heads-up, but as the call died down, the bitterness was too heavy on his tongue to ignore. 

He barely made it to his room, swaying on his feet to the point he dropped the gift as he fished for the keys from his pockets. He stared at the thing — crudely painted, expertly wrapped, and felt a prick in his eyes, moisture gathering to compensate for the pain he refused to name. 

And he was going to keep refusing to say it because it wasn’t a confession, there was no sin committed wanting to be there for someone else. Intentions, thoughts, whatever the Church deemed wrong, be damned. 

“Fuckin’ cunt,” Soap murmured, both at his feeling and the complicated mess his life was turning out to be. 

He decided to leave the thing there. Deal with it in the morning, it wasn’t like anyone was going to be frequenting his room anytime soon. Not until midday, at least. He had enough of a headache for the evening. 

Soap went to sleep with a heavy heart and clear intentions. 

He was too tired to register the softest patter of footsteps coming to visit him late at night, lingering, a familiar, solid presence that vanished, alongside his gift in the morning. 

-

“So, you’re avoidin’ Ghost.” 

Gaz was staring at him like he was a dafty, and yeah, he probably was. Ignoring a problem wasn’t anywhere close to productive, but he didn’t want to confront it either. Whatever ‘it’ was. For his credit, Ghost was avoiding him too. So he wasn’t the only unreasonable one in their not-couple’s argument. 

“Do we have to talk about this?” Soap whispered. They were at the New Year’s Eve party to have a good time, not rehash the horrible way he spent Christmas — half in rejection and half in a hangover. 

Gaz raised an eyebrow at him. “You two have been inseparable for years, mate. This wasn’t the relationship update I was expecting, yeah? Give me a crumb here.” Gaz assessed him from head to toe, or waist, since they were seated at a table; slightly slouched shoulders, hand gripping the edge of his glass, and probably clocking the distracted haze in his eyes for what it was. His brown eyes went a little wide with realisation. “Don’t tell me. You confessed, and he didn’t take it well?”

Soap nearly spit out a mouthful of beer he was in the process of downing. He leaned back, coughing, trying to not choke as blood rushed to his face. Embarrassed, and caught entirely red-handed. 

Gaz shook his head at him, looking amused. He let Soap come down from his nearly-choking-on-his-drink-after-having-his-feelings-read moment, countering his anger glare with a tilt of his chin, a challenge to say otherwise. Of course, he couldn’t.

“Fuckin’ Christ. No. I’m not that much of an idiot,” Soap hissed. “He just didn’t…”

How was he supposed to explain it without sounding entirely oblivious?

“Didn’t what?” Gaz asked, putting his elbow on the table to lean closer. Not giving him the out this time. The party was just getting to the good part; they were in a restaurant with a pretty view of the Big Ben, a somewhat bougie place with good food and liquor, and they would have a clear view of the fireworks when the clock strikes midnight. The lads at the base they were staying at inviting the whole of 141 there for the party, and Soap had jumped at the opportunity, knowing if not anyone else, Gaz and Price was going to be there. 

If Ghost came, he could blend in the work, or get drunk enough to have his mistakes forgiven again. Whatever worked best. 

His team — Gaz and Price, at least, arrive pretty late. It was almost 2330 when Soap got dragged by Gaz to a booth while Price made rounds around, talking with officers more important than them. No sight of Ghost yet. It was almost reminiscent of that night, so he tried to not linger in it. The best he could, before his fellow Sergeant found him, of course.

Gaz was still staring at him. 

Soap sighed, relenting in the name of their friendship. He didn’t have anyone else to talk about it anyway, better to get it off his chest and start anew — the kind of nonsense folks sprouted around this time of the year. 

“We had a thing planned. He said he’d show up, but he didn’t. Left me hangin’ and lookin’ pathetically alone drinking by myself on Christmas Eve.” Soap stared at his own beer to give himself an excuse to not look at Gaz’s eyes. It wasn’t a date. Yet, it hurt like he got stood up on one. Made worse by the fact that he had deluded himself into thinking he was close, and mattered, to Ghost. “Went as far as to buy a gift for that big bastard. Couldn’t find and burn it in the mornin’ either.”

“Jesus Christ, Soap,” Gaz said. “It’s worse than I thought. So, he ghosted you. You’re not in speaking terms now?”

“Would speak to him if he showed his face. Haven’t seen him since that day. Maybe he’s out ‘o town, having more fun than we are,” Soap replied bitterly, finishing his drink. He was going for another pint. Needed to replace the taste in his mouth with something better. 

There was a commotion behind him. Soap had learned from his mistakes, took a seat opposite of the entrance to not repeat the pathetic performance. It wasn’t his circus, nor his clowns. 

“Speak for yourself, mate,” Gaz murmured, arching his neck to the side to get a better look past Soap’s shoulder. “L.t’s here.”

Well.

Fuck. 

“And it looks like he’s in trouble,” Gaz added, the final killing blow delivered with a dashing smirk. Soap pitied the man, or woman, who’d end up with him in the future. Who could say no to him when he smiled like that? 

At least, with Ghost, the man had the decency to keep his face hidden for the most part. Soap could figure out, and vividly imagine what he’d look like when he smiled, but that was far beside the point. The fact was, his CO was in trouble. Soap refused to sit around and do nothing about it. He was too conditioned, too devoted — to his detriment. 

He got up from his seat, glass in hand. An excuse, if he needed an out of a conversation, and turned around with heavy feet. The problem was obvious from sight. Ghost, in his 6’4 brooding glory, was standing at the entrance, staring down a much shorter security detail. He wasn’t wearing his balaclava. Yet, with his hood up and a normal mask obscuring half of his face, it didn’t matter much. Suspicious enough, no other company beside him, and the rest of the base too deep in the ‘party’ to notice.  

Other than Soap and Gaz. 

The moment he moved, Ghost caught his gaze. Sniper-trained instincts clocking him through the crowd, forcing Soap to suppress a shiver and ignore the goosebumps sprouting on his skin underneath his coat. Same outfit from that day, too. He wasn’t going to waste it on a sorry evening. There was nothing to read in those dark eyes, as far as they were from each other, but he could see wisps of his blond curls peak out of the hoodie, a familiar ache crawling in his veins. 

He started walking towards him, nearly stumbling into a bloke who neatly slotted himself between Soap and his goal. He was ready to murmur a sorry and move on when the man placed his hand on his arm, caressing. That bold move got his attention. Soap looked up to see frost-blue eyes drinking him in, auburn hair and decently built physic. He must’ve drank more than he thought because he didn’t immediately move away, aware of the growing weight of his Lieutenant’s gaze on him. 

“Let me get that for you,” he said softly, northern accent slipping through as he reached for Soap’s glass. What was equally surprising as that Soap let him, a bit dazed because he wasn’t expecting company, or be flirted with so openly. “Beer, yeah?”

“Aye, thanks.” Soap nodded, eyes flickering towards the man’s shoulder. He wasn’t tall enough to obscure his sight completely, not even close to Ghost’s bulk by any means, but having someone to distract him sounded nice for a change. Especially if he was allowed to think about other things than the dangerously obsessive feelings he had for his CO. Speaking of Ghost — ��Give me a minute, I’ll be there.”

He saw the agitation clear in Ghost’s gaze when he walked closer, and for the briefest second, that look transferred over his shoulder. Away from him. To his new company, probably. It didn’t take long for Ghost to find him again, focused on him, dismissive, the irritation disappearing to a colder, sterner look. It hurt, because — yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have flirted with someone instead of getting him out of the situation sooner, and yet, he didn’t seem affected beyond that. Delusions, the lot in his head.

“He’s with us,” Soap declared when he was in earshot. The bouncer turned to him once, noted the sincerity of his face, and well, he added more to speed the process, “Lieutenant.” 

Tension melted when he stepped out of Ghost’s way. Soap chanced a glimpse of his face as he turned to lead the way towards the party; any trace of irritation was sorely missing, replaced by an indistinguishable intensity with which he stared back at Soap, the sort he was used to both on duty and sometimes outside. His initial impression of it was something closer to annoyance, but the closer he got to him, the more he realised it was similar to interest. 

He could be feeling sorry for leaving you alone, an unhelpful voice provided, so fucking hopeful despite the reality of everything. He moved on from the sentiment before it planted equally useless seeds in his head. It was going to be a new year soon, he was supposed to start it right — abandon the longing for something he could actually have. 

“Johnny.”

Soap swallowed down the bitterness trying to crawl up his throat. He couldn’t do this when he was right there. Ghost knew him. Too much for his thoughts to not be apparent if he looked at him. He needed to keep his cool, not fuck up his spot in the team. As selfish as it was to still want to be near Ghost, he couldn’t handle losing what he carefully built, and he had lived for so long pretending everything was alright. He could do it for a day more.

“The lads are near the bar ‘n balcony,” Soap said in a measured tone, making his way towards where he assumed Price was. They were close, right? He could deal with Ghost. “Let me know if you want a drink or a quieter place to sit. They’ll get loud when the time comes.”

Ghost was walking right behind him, so close that Soap could smell him, a fresh note of mint and spice and the shampoo he used. It was familiar, reassuring, borderline addicting. He switched to breathing with his mouth because fucking fuck that, he didn’t need his heid spinning on top of everything. 

“Johnny.” Insistent, commanding, breathing on Soap’s bloody neck as he clasped his arm — the same one the ginger from earlier had — hard enough to bruise. Mad, then. He stopped walking, causing Ghost’s grip to loosen, his voice softer than he’d ever heard it. “We need to talk.”

He understood what he meant. 

Ghost was right, they really did need to talk. 

“Alright,” Soap agreed, too tired to deny it any longer. 

He changed their course from the balcony to the stairs at the corner of the restaurant, the one leading towards the roof. It was his refuge when he needed a quiet moment away from the gathering, before he got a text from Gaz that they were close, and from how quiet it was, he assumed it wasn’t the part the guests were supposed to access. Most of the staff was busy tending to the people drinking and eating, though, and barely noticed two people missing from the crowd. Except Gaz, of course. 

The roof was a quiet, dark place, the standard brick and railing design, except they were a few storeys high, above the balcony where most people were at, which meant the Westminster bridge and the Thames was in full view. The scenery had kept him company a few hours ago, now the beauty of the evening was reaching its hands around his neck, ready to choke him with the reminder that it, and Ghost, wasn’t his. Laughable to think he was entitled to anything, really. This talk could’ve happened over text. Quick, easy, simple, keep it fucking tactical, Sergeant. 

Ghost was quiet, usually so. He walked over to the railing when Soap stopped a few steps away and did not stop until his hip was pressed lightly against the metal, too tall for the safety aspects to make a difference, but the height was hardly a thing of concern. He was focused on the sights, on the massive clock tower that said it was five minutes before midnight struck. 

Soap joined him, because. Of course. It was his place — not the one he hoped for, but close enough for now. Ghost turned towards him when he did. The roof was dark, but the street lights provided a crystal clear view when they were a few steps away from crashing into each other. Ghost was… 

Simon Riley was as handsome as ever. 

His masks hardly made a difference. Ghost’s lips were one of his favourite things about him, more if he got to see him smile or smirk, which was twice so far. Rare. But, his eyes. God himself must’ve been involved in making Simon Riley painfully beautiful; big brown eyes the shade of oak, bourbon, blood and gold, long pale lashes framing them, equally fragile and exquisite, face ragged, scarred, strong and angular, deadly in the right ways, and hair soft, wavy and blond, begging for Soap to run his fingers through them. 

Ghost’s eyes shuddered when he glanced down to them again, catching him in the act, as if he was aware of what he was thinking about. Maybe he was. He did not speak of it for the sake of what they had between them — considerate to him. He had done nothing to deserve it. 

“Johnny,” Ghost murmured, voice low and soft, like silk to Soap’s ears. His brows were scrunched, adorably so, a moment of hesitation present. Then, Ghost shook his head like a dog, the hood slide off, and he ripped the mask from his face. 

Soap bit his lips to prevent his mouth from falling wide open. Hard. He tasted blood, the pain and metallic taste of it grounding him into reality. He could imagine it, word for word, the questions, the accusation, wondering why it mattered to him at all when things could be normal if Soap acted rational, thought about those around him for once instead of being selfish.

He could imagine the disappointment in his mother’s face, the exact minute expression if he ever had the courage to retell what was going to happen tonight to her. Risking everything he painstakingly built just to put his feelings on priority again. 

Ghost’s lips parted, ready to say the words and shatter his entire heart. 

“Just tell me no,” Soap said, interrupting before he could speak. “Reject me outright. Here. I’ll get over it, new year, new me, yeah?” Lying through his teeth. He wasn’t sure if he would ever feel as deeply and intensely as he did for anyone else, but he wasn’t putting the burden of ‘the love of my life’ on someone who was preparing to put him down gently. “Everything will go back to how it was if you give me some time, promise. No need for things to change, if you don’t want it to, sir.”

Jesus Christ, he did it.

Years of wishing, yearning and suppressing the urge to spill his insides out resulting to this. Begging to be rejected swift and easy, anything to ease the bite of the pain. A headshot to erase his suffering. Except it was never going to be that easy for him, was it?

Soap did not have the level of audacity others often attributed to him, not as much as his feelings demanded, and yet, there was a special reserve of courage for moments when he said hell to it. He met Ghost’s eyes, expecting a lot. Anger, betrayal, distrust, etc, the list went on and on, his thoughts providing a colourful commentary. 

What he hadn’t expected was Ghost’s eyes to be as wide as it could be. 

Pure, unadulterated shock colouring the depth of his gaze, his face was frozen, like time itself stopped, and Soap was convinced that if he waved his hand in front of him, Ghost would be staring at him without even noticing. 

There were a few beats of silence, nothing happening for some awkward seconds, and then Ghost moved, blinking slowly, causing Soap to suppress a flinch, not used to the gentle weight of his gaze. It wasn’t… unpleasant.

The opposite, actually.

“Johnny,” Ghost started, taking a step forward. He was smothering him with his closeness, a few inches away from crashing into him completely. He could throw Soap down to the balcony easily, if he wanted. The corner of his lips twitched. A ghost of a smile. “What if I wanted things to change?”

What.

“You don’t — You’ve never —” Soap found himself stammering, unable to think. The air was suddenly colder, biting, heat rushing to his face, and he could feel him in his lungs. Obvious, he was so bloody obvious. Ghost hadn’t said no. “You’ve done it before, aye? I’m not…”

Not enough.

Not worth it. Not, not anything, to anyone, ever. Never meant to be anything, never meant to be precious like Ghost was. 

“You remember,” Ghost muttered underneath his breath. He was unfocused for a second, mind drifting away to that night no doubt, before returning to the present with a glint in his eyes. It flickered to Soap’s lips, and stayed there. Wanting. Very obviously so. “Didn’t want to kiss you when couldn’t remember it.”

Good lord.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Wasn’t that also just a confession —

A misplaced sort of confirmation, something that shouldn’t have happened to someone like him. Things didn’t fall in place neatly for John MacTavish, he had to grit his teeth and be fine with the hand life dealt him, even in places he fought to be in. Dismiss it, repress it, throw it out of his mind before the bitterness decided to poison his body with the kind of rage he couldn’t help but redirect towards himself.

Better that way.

“No, no,” Soap whispered, because he couldn’t. It was too good, some fantasy coming true of how he actually read the signs correctly and his fucking commanding officer was in love with him, willing to reciprocate his feelings. “Fuck, L.t. Don’t know who told ya to pull this on me, but I’m being serious —”

“ — as am I,” Ghost interrupted him, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t believe me.”

No shit, he didn’t.

He left him alone, rejected any advances and well —

Who would want him?

Soap snapped his jaw shut, unable to think, unable to say anything that wouldn’t make Ghost want to take back what he said, sullying the good impression he had of him. If any, at all. Ghost was right. He was waiting for the shoe to drop, for a camera to come out from somewhere, for him to wake up because there is no world where Simon Riley wanted to be his. 

Instead, Ghost reached for his hand. 

The one he almost bruised earlier, softer in his approach this time, like he was giving Soap the option to pull away if he wanted to. He didn’t. Ghost held his wrist with an ease of a practised hand, tugging it downwards, pushing the flat of his palm above his waist. Soap froze, hands and arms and neck heating up embarrassingly, and he could hear the beat of his heart in his ear, so loud he was delirious enough to entertain a thought that everyone in the building could hear it. 

Ghost was letting him touch, inviting Soap into his space.

His hand was yanked under Ghost’s hoodie, guided up from his stomach to his chest, nothing but a t-shirt with an odd texture separating him from the delicious muscle and fat hidden underneath the piece of fabric. Wait, Soap thought, flexing his fingers to trace more of the texture, the pattern. It was familiar, fucking — 

“Somethin’ came up, last second. Hadn’t meant to ditch you. It’s… I’ll tell you later, if you like.”

The Christmas gift he got for him. The stupid, over-the-top skull face t-shirt with a Santa hat on it, with matching boxer briefs and socks that had the print of a pink soap on it. Soap looked down at his feet, expecting to see a glimpse of those socks, but Ghost was wearing boots and there was nothing to look at except his trousers. He was wearing it? Underneath his kit?

“Ghost…” 

Soap raised his gaze, and found Ghost staring at him with a glint of amusement in his eyes, hints of… affection too. Fondness. He circled a thumb on top of Soap’s hand, giving him a second before tugging it up to his chest, pressed over his heart. 

“Johnny,” he started, pushing his palm harder against his chest. Soap felt the beat of his heart, a steadily climbing rhythm moving in time with his breaths. “Took everythin’ to stop myself from keepin’ you against a wall that day.” 

The proof that Ghost wasn’t unaffected was literally in his hand. 

His heart kept beating faster, eyes flickering to Soap’s mouth and back up, silently asking for permission. The world was rushing in his ears, the crowd was loud, incomprehensible, lights from the streets turned blinding, and yet, the only thing he cared about was standing in front of him. 

Ghost was offering his entire heart to him. 

How could anything else matter?

“What’s stopping you now?” Soap asked, knowing his own heart was matching the pace underneath his fingertips. 

“No wall,” Ghost replied.

The smile on his face was as breathtaking as it was mischievous, completely different from the serious, stoic Lieutenant he was used to. Ghost released his hand to hold his face, thumb pressing underneath his jaw as he leaned down. He didn’t move from his spot. Proximity made his heart continue with the rhythm, a couple of inches apart — so close to getting what he wanted. 

A noise interrupted them, a loud, bonging noise from the distance, and Soap eyes flickered over Ghost’s shoulder, barely catching the first sparks before fireworks exploded in the skies. Sparks of red, gold, white and blue coloured the previously listless London sky, the cheer from below and around and within the city almost deafening. 

It was a miracle he heard Ghost speak, some words he couldn’t catch, drawing his attention back to him.

“Happy New Year, Johnny,” Ghost said, his lips pressed against his jaw. 

Soap’s heart erupted as Ghost kissed him along the stretch of his jaw, feeling like a volcano from the inside out, and he wasn’t sure how his legs hadn’t stopped working when he found his lips. His hand slipped to Soap’s hip, and Ghost pulled him in all at once. He kissed him like he was trying to merge with him, lips and body baring down, sweet, needy and hot against it; it was like the sky was a celebration for this moment, the jolts of electricity running through Soap’s body reviving him, reminding he was alive, needed and loved. 

So unbelievably and utterly loved. 

He pushed back, kissing him just as hard, feeling his heart skip beats underneath his hand. Soap hadn’t moved it away, and it was strange how the deafening fireworks and screaming of the crowd had done nothing to alter the rhythm, but when he nipped his lower lip, licked and pulled until he was allowed to taste him, it exploded. Wild and frantic for him.

Like Simon Riley wouldn’t have cared if the entire world collapsed underneath their feet, if it meant he was still holding Soap.

His head was light, floating in the clouds, unable to grasp the concept of anything that wasn’t Ghost, and he was sure he was drifting overhead, presented salvation in the taste of a man who wanted him just as much. Soap loved him. He wanted Ghost to know it; whatever they had, went beyond want and need. It was in his veins; in his ribs, in his skin and meat, pulsing through his blood, overwhelmed by the possibility of finally having. After years and years of nothing. 

It took a while to spell out the letters, index finger digging into Ghost’s chest. Slow because he was busy melting in the slow, passionate way Ghost devoured him, taking as much as he was given. There was an I, then L-O-V-E, and the moment he spelled Y-O-U, he felt that skip of beat again. Ghost smiled within the kiss, pace shimmering to a heart aching softness before he pulled away an inch, a moment to catch his breath.

Another to whisper the same.

“Love you too, Johnny.”

Soap had a matching smile on his lips when Ghost leaned down for a second kiss. 

Maybe things were going to fall into place for him this new year.

After all, Ghost was his. 

[questforgalas]

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life

For @daredaredoodles!! Happy Ghoapmas!!! Here is some very oblivious and very yearny Ghost for you!! Oh, did I mention lots of fluff? :) I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!

Thank you @forsaire for hosting!!!!

Ao3 link

Summary: It was supposed to be a holiday season like all of the others - nights filled with reports, and a base haunted by a Ghost while everyone wandered home. Three knocks on Simon's door change those plans entirely.

Words: 5K

No CWs, just tooth-rotting fluff and Gaz so done with these two

It was supposed to be quiet tonight. An intimate date between Simon, the desk in his room, and the pile of reports that magically remain the same height regardless of how many hours are put towards them (a detail Captain Price never misses). Does Simon happen to write a little slower to aid that magical spell so that he has a proper excuse when Price inevitably comes knocking on his door and asks why he hasn’t filed for leave again this December? Possibly, but that little detail belongs between Simon and the twenty minutes during which he contemplates which words to use instead of “infiltrate” and “detonation”. 

He should have known nothing ever goes according to plan. Three familiar knocks rapping against the door certainly proved that right.

Cut to Soap MacTavish standing on the other side, a smile curling his lips and azure eyes all the brighter against the navy jumper wrapping across his broad chest. Words were said, something about a night out which made sense since Soap wore dark jeans that seemed made specifically to torture Simon, and there was a glint in Soap’s eye not dissimilar to a child’s on Christmas morning. 

Ah, so, Price was picking up the tab. 

As Soap stands in the hall, punctuating his pitch to coach the lieutenant out of his room with perfectly placed smiles and a wink or two anyone else would find gratuitous but Simon found infuriatingly endearing, Simon swaps his hoodie for a black jumper, grabs his jacket, and has the door locked just as Soap says, “‘nd it’s not tha team without ma favorite lieutenant.” 

The calendars say “December”, but the unseasonably warm air makes the jacket hanging over Simon’s arm feel like overkill, making him contemplate turning around and throwing it through the door, but instead he rolls up the sleeves of his jumper. In the corner of his eye, he sees Soap watch as the fabric folds back and reveals Simon’s forearms - corded with muscle, covered in scars, one completely inked over. 

Simon wanted to tell himself that the way Soap ogled at the skin didn’t make his own feel a size too small. He wanted to tell himself the way Soap’s Adam's apple bobbed and the dusting of pink at the tip of his ears didn’t match his own. He wanted to tell himself he wouldn’t tuck this moment away safely in the gilded chest labeled “Moments He Can Pretend” that he stored in the safe recesses of his heart. 

He wanted to tell himself all of that, but unfortunately, that would make Simon a liar. 

Soap rambles on about some combination of some chemicals that Simon doesn’t understand a lick of - he’s just happy he remembers to nod at points that seem right for it - and they walk side by side through Hereford. 

“What fresh hell is this,” Simon mutters, the revelry from the pub greeting their ears when they’re still a block away. 

“Don’t fret, Lt.” Soap nudges him with his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just ol’ Gerry with tha music up because he finally accepted he cannae hear for shit.” 

It was, in fact, not Gerry with the music up. 

The Green Pony quite literally glows on the corner. Green garland lit with soft, white lights frames every window, and electric candles flicker at the streets. Two wreaths adorned with a red ribbon bow hang on the dark wood doors, and through the windows, matching garland and lights line the entirety of the bar. A large tree pulls it all together, lighting up the far corner much to the chagrin of some patrons looking for a secluded corner away from the crowd. 

They shoulder their way through the entry and are immediately sucked into the chaos that is the Green Pony operating over capacity. Behind the bar, Gerry, the owner, a man who Simon is convinced was born in this pub, slings pints and jabs faster than any of the youngsters helping alongside him, and when he catches sight of the two men, he throws a lazy salute and points in the direction of their usual table. They break through the crowd, and the sight of Captain Price and Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick greets them at their usual booth. 

“Well fuck me,” Gaz says as they approach. “Good to see ya Ghost, but you just lost me 20 quid.” 

“Pay up,” Soap holds out his hand as he scoots in besides the other sergeant. Gaz grumbles something about “unfair advantages” as he fishes out his wallet, and hidden under a black medical mask, a smile pulls at the corner of Ghost’s lips. A terrible bet by Gaz, really. Might as well be the title of Simon’s memoir: 

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Could Never Say No.

 Gaz of all people should know this, and Simon’s pretty sure Soap does do. 

Simon settles in next to Price who silently nods in a way of greeting, but Simon doesn’t miss the way his mouth curls up in a smile around the lip of his glass. “Never become predictable, Sergeant. Easier to kill that way,” Simon offers. Two pints sit unclaimed on the table. Simon grabs one while nudging the other towards Soap. “‘nd have some respect. I’m worth at least 40 quid.” 

“Sound advice, sir.” Gaz tips his glass to Simon then takes a strong swig. 

The rounds disappear and reappear over and over. The older patrons begin to make their way home, thinning the crowd some but not enough to avoid Simon’s shoulder - large enough to breach the end of the booth - becoming a human bumper now and again. Someone’s hijacked the jukebox, and Mariah Carey’s been serenading them about Christmas for the past twenty minutes. Price said his goodbyes a round ago, but not before assuring “Yes, sergeants, the tab will still be open,” and he threw that look to Simon that said “They’re your circus now”. 

Now, Gaz sits at the table, chocolate eyes glassy under the lights, and a finger absentmindedly circles his pint. A dopey smile sits on his lips, and every few minutes he mumbles along to Mariah before she drowns in the din of the crowd. A word hasn’t been spoken between them since Price left - an understood respect by Gaz who knows Simon’s need for silence as much as Soap’s need to fill the air - and Simon wishes he could enjoy it. He wishes he could give Gaz that much. Instead, a dainty hand attached to a brunette he faintly recognizes from base is demanding all of his attention. 

Moments ago, Soap delivered their newest round with a thunk, earning a curse or two from Gaz who saved his pint just in time, but instead of sliding into the space next to Simon - a space he occupied as soon as Price said his goodbyes - he grabbed his pint and beelined to the bar. There, a brunette waited. They were familiar, that Simon was sure of, and Soap kept flashing that smile that Simon was desperate to be turned on him. 

And then the hand. The hand gripped Soap’s bicep, gave it a squeeze, and a laugh, airy and bright followed. The hand remained. That smile flashed brighter. 

Simon hated that hand.

She was pretty enough. Glossy hair, high cheekbones, an ass Simon assumed would be appreciated by the right eyes. Eyes that weren’t azure blue and rivaled the bays of Islay. Any eyes except those. 

The hand slides from Soap’s bicep and cups his elbow. Simon’s knuckles have gone white. He really hated that hand. 

“Ghost, mate,” Simon hears from across the table. “Bruv, that glass is about to lose whatever battle ya’ve picked against it.” Simon tears his gaze away from that hand and sets it on Garrick who, bless him, doesn’t flinch. “Mind tellin’ me what that poor glass has done to you?”

“Don’t know what you’re on ‘bout,” Simon answers and sets his eyes back on that hand that’s smartly retreated back to its owner. Lucky her, she gets to keep it. 

For now. 

Soap’s pint is forgotten on the bartop, he says something to the brunette, and the cute crease that appears when the Scot is trying to puzzle out an equation is between his brows. Simon adores that crease. His hands itch to smooth it out and fight whatever has caused it. 

He misses the questioning look on Gaz’s face and when he follows Simon’s gaze. He misses when the sergeant puts two and two together, but what he doesn’t miss is the sigh that’s pulled from Gaz’s chest and the thunk of the sergeant’s forehead against the thick, wooden table. 

“Ya’ve got to be bloody kiddin’ me.” Stunned, Simon watches as Gaz thunks his head one, two, three more times, then snaps back up. His face is nothing but anguish. “Talk to him.” 

“What?” Simon smartly replies. 

“Talk. To. Him.” Gaz accompanies each word with a thump of his pint as if hammering them into the wood would hammer them into Simon’s confused brain. 

“Talk to who?”

“Bloody ‘ell!” Simon thinks Gaz is being a bit overdramatic, what with throwing his hands in the air and acting as if Simon is the densest person in this pub. Problem is, Simon has no idea what he’s supposed to be grasping. The sergeant rubs a hand down his face, and once he’s collected himself, the stare he throws at Simon pins him to the booth. “Talk to Soap. I’m beggin’ you, Ghost. Talk to him, and save us all from havin’ to keep watching you two dance around each other like a bunch of school boys who don’t know what a crush is.” 

The words make sense. Well, they make sense that they’re words, and they’re going in one ear. But not all of them are processing and some of them are going right out the other ear leaving a jumbled tangle of words like “Soap” and “you two” and “crush” that are rattling around in the empty space of Simon’s mind. Yes, it makes sense that Garrick just said something, but the implications are mad enough that he has half a mind to order him to a psych evaluation at once. 

“Might’ve finally lost it, Garrick. Imaginin’ things now.” It’s really all he can muster past his lead laden tongue. 

Crushing on Soap, well, that was as easy as breathing. But crushing is too trivial a word, wasn’t it? Crushing was what you did on the schoolyard when the brain hadn’t learned the words that threatened to burst from your heart. Crushing was soft glances across a room and sheepish smiles dripping with honeyed words. Crushing wasn’t a deep seeded trust that you’d make it home alive as long as that one person was beside you. Crushing wasn’t intimate knowledge of a body learned in the lowlight of safehouses while rough hands guided needles through skin. Crushing wasn’t hushed confessions in the dark as you accepted your mortality.

No, Simon did not have a crush on Soap MacTavish, because a crush was too simple. A tapestry of moments woven from a tarmac to now - the bar lights catching the hidden caramel strands of Soap’s mohawk - blanketed along Simon’s very being, and no longer could he ignore that his British heart had a Scottish flag planted firmly in place. 

And because life loves to remind Simon that he is not a man destined for gentle touches and even gentler words, he watches as the brunette grasps Soap around the forearm and leads him out of the pub. “Told ya,” the words taste more bitter than he intended. “Imaginin’ things.” 

Gaz tracks the pair through the crowd. “I’m the best interrogator on the team,” he says. Simon’s brow shoots up, and he’s about to question what the hell that has anything to do with this when Gaz holds up his hand and continues. “I’m the best interrogator on this team. I can read body language at a level that, often, I wish I couldn’t. The amount of people’s secrets that they don’t even know but I know is a burden I’m cursed to carry.” Pint abandoned and a finger getting closer and closer to Simon’s chest, Gaz continues. “I don’t know what the hell ‘appened in Las Almas…well I do, I read the report, but I mean between you two. I noticed it the moment we stepped into Ale’s safehouse, and it’s only gotten worse since. We, the 141, are a team. Price and I are teammates. You and I are teammates. Johnny an-”

“He doesn’t want anyone callin’ ‘im Johnny.” Amusement dances across Gaz’s eyes, and Simon knows he fell into his trap. 

“Exactly. Anyone except?” Gaz takes Simon’s glare as confirmation. “All I’m sayin’ is, Soap and you? You’re more than teammates, Ghost. You’re the best in the world - as much as I ‘ate to admit it - not because of hours of training together or years of missions. It’s like you two are one soul, it’s absolutely mad to watch. And it’s not just on missions either. Ya both have a starin’ problem, that’s for sure. Though neither of you would know because it’s always when the other isn’t lookin’.”

“We - what?” Simon can’t fit Gaz’s words into his understanding of his relationship with Soap. 

“The heart eyes? At each other?” Gaz flutters his lashes, and Christ, it actually gets a chuckle out of Ghost, as annoyed as he is. “Ya’d think for someone whose eyes are the only part of his body he shows, you’d be better at schooling them, but I swear I’ve seen those lines at the corners actually melt whenever Soap walks into the room.” 

Oh, Gaz is proper teasing now, and Simon wants to smack the smirk right off of his face. He wants to tell him he’s delusional and that he can’t accept the image Gaz is spinning because it means taking the feelings he keeps packed away in that gilded chest in the safe corner of his heart and laying them all out there. Yet, the denial never comes, and instead, he feels his traitorous mouth curl up.

Is that…relief easing his chest? 

Gaz’s face softens. “Remember the first thing ya told me when I joined the team?” 

“Our job doesn’t guarantee tomorrow,” Simon says automatically. “Take the good moments while ya can. Don’t know ‘ow many ya’ll have.” 

“Maybe time to start takin’ your own advice, huh?” 

“Who’s advice we takin’?”

Gaz and Simon jump at the new voice, both reflexes fast enough to keep the pints from spilling over. Simon peers up, and his heart stutters. There stands Soap with cheeks rosy from the cold, and Simon has well and truly lost it because he desperately wants to loop his arm around Soap’s waist and tuck him into his side to keep him warm. 

“Just Ghost’s words of wisdom,” Gaz supplies easily. 

“Ah, only an eejit wouldn’t listen to the Ghost.” Soap stares down at the table, and he clears his throat before he continues. “Actually, Lt. I - I was hopin’ I could pull ye away?” He rubs the back of his neck, and the red on his cheeks spreads to the tips of his ears. “Unless ye don’t want to! Dinnae me - mean to interrupt, probably discussin’ something - never mind I…”

“Relax, Sergeant.” At the sound of Simon’s voice, Soap’s shoulders drop and his breaths come easier. He meets Simon’s gaze, and Simon has never seen this look in those storm blue eyes. Timid. Unsure. Bashful? “Was just finishin’ up. Garrick, ya good?” 

Gaz waves him off. “Out of ‘ere. Your dark cloud is bringin’ down the festive mood.” He throws them a wink and stands from the table, smoothing out his jumper as he eyes six feet of muscles and a jawline that could break glass leaning on the bartop. Instead of walking around them, Gaz cuts right between Simon and Soap, and just before he steps away, he leans into Simon’s ear. “Talk to him.”

The hour hasn’t cooled the air so Simon and Soap opt to wander through Hereford instead of hailing a cab. Simon blames the beer and Gaz’s words buzzing in his ears, but he feels attuned to every one of Soap’s footfalls and every sway of his arms. The street is empty, plenty of room to stroll, yet the two of them walk with barely a hair between them. A tug Simon will always follow, and maybe Gaz hasn’t completely lost it, because Soap does too. 

But because Simon can never make things easy for himself, he says “Where’s the brunette?” 

Soap looks at him, face scrunched and that crease is between his brows. It would be so simple to reach out and gently smooth his thumb along it. “Wha’ brunette?” Soap asks because he can never make it easy for Simon, either. 

“The brunette at the pub. Seemed…cozy.” If a sniper took him out, Simon wouldn’t complain. 

“Cozy?” An incredulous laugh circles around the word. He’s really going to make Simon spell it out. 

“Ya. Cozy. Thought, well, -” Simon picks at the nonexistent lint on his sweater. “Thought she was makin’ good company.” 

Soap is silent, and it’s making Simon’s skin crawl. He focuses on his steps, one in front of the other. He creates a new mission right then: get back to base, say goodnight to Soap, and not emerge from his room until everyone has left for the holidays. He has rations hidden in his desk, he can make it until then. 

“Oh, Simon,” Soap says softly between them. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the walk, but there’s a spring in Soap’s step, and whatever millimeter of space that had existed between them is eaten up entirely by the Scot. When they arrive on base, Simon prepares his goodbye, ready to go down his hall while Soap goes down his, but when he turns to depart, Soap grabs his wrist and guides Simon with him. 

They arrive at Soap’s private room. The Scot jumbles his keys, nearly dropping them on the ground, and struggles to get them into the keyhole. Simon thinks to point out that the process would probably be easier if Soap just let go of his wrist, but call him weak because that touch is more intimate than any stitch Soap has put in his body. 

Finally, the lock turns, Soap pushes open the door, swiftly kicks it closed, and the two of them stand in the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table. 

He’s been in Soap’s room plenty of times before, but this, this moment is different. A delicate thing Simon could almost hold in his hand, and he hopes that door never opens again. Hopes that they can stand here away from the responsibilities and the enemy bullets and bask in the warmth of this thing between them. This thing that Simon prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that he’s no longer imagining and is ready to stop ignoring. Since the pub he’s felt exposed, as if every emotion he’s tried to hide away for the better part of a year is now written across his skin for a pair of azure eyes to read. As he spies the rapid rise and fall of Soap’s chest, he thinks he’s not the only one.

Words sit on his tongue, but just before they tumble from his lips, he pulls them back. He’s pictured this moment 1000 different times and 100 different ways. None of it practiced. He has to get this right. He takes a breath. He has to figure out a way to tell Soap that if he wants to take the plunge, Simon is on the ledge with him, but he also wants to leave the door open so that if he’s misread everything, nothing needs to change between the two of them. The jumper is beginning to cling to his back.

But it’s Soap who speaks first. “I got ye somethin.” 

“Ya got me somethin’?” Simon repeats back.

“Aye. It’s - one second.” Soap steps around him and rifles through his jacket. When he straightens, a dark rectangle is in his hands. He holds it out to Simon who has lost all function of his arms and stares at the object. 

“What is it?” 

“A present.” 

“A present?” 

“Holy ‘ell, Simon. Yes! A present! Ye know what a present is, aye?” 

Simon is only more confused by the answer. Soap shoves the rectangle into his chest, and Simon’s brain catches up fast enough to wrap his hands around the object that he now realizes is a thick, wooden box. 

“For me?” Seems his brain hasn’t moved past two word sentences though. 

Soap rolls his eyes and his hands plant his hips. “Yes, it’s for you. It’s what I was talkin’ to Heather about.” 

“Heather?” Christ, Simon needs his brain to wake up. 

“Aye, Heather. The lass at the pub. She helped me get this.” 

“So, ya weren’t -” Simon feels his ears burn. “Ya weren’t…flirting?” 

Soap’s eyes widen for half a second, and then he tries to hide a startled chuckle with a cough as he looks down. Simon’s pretty sure he hears “Fuckin bampot” mixed in there. When Soap looks back up, he seems shy, almost embarrassed, cheeks back to that pink that’s starting to drive Simon wild. “No, Lt. Heather gets handsy after some pints, but I wasn’t flirtin’ with her.” Azure blue locks him in place. “I had someone else in mind for that.” 

Bloody hell. Simon’s first instinct is to retreat. Flirting wasn’t wholly a new thing between them. They’d lost comms privileges on more than a few missions with Price - Gaz never had the power to pull the plug though he always made his grievances known - but it was all coy, innocent, dangling off the edge of friendly banter. None of it was ever so brazen, so laid out in the open. But here was Soap, taking the first step, leaving a small part of himself bare, waiting to see what Simon would do with it. 

“You didn’t have to,” Simon says, holding up the box.

“I wanted to.” It sounds so simple coming from those lips. 

Simon’s jacket joins Soap’s, and he holds the box in both hands. What he mistook for black is actually a deep, rich mahogany polished by an expert hand. The box easily lays in his palms, and he’s acutely aware of Soap watching him as he lifts the lid. Simon’s breath catches.

The inside is lined by a black silk, and nestled in the middle lies the most beautiful knife he has ever seen. He can tell that the blade is of the best steel, a straight spine across the top meets a point sharp enough to tear through his toughest gloves. He runs his thumb along the edge to the heel and revels at the ease with which it knicks his skin. 

Where the blade is all wicked grace, the handle is a work of art. Stunning black onyx catches the light as Simon delicately lifts it from the box. At first glance, it’s smooth, but when he rubs the stone with his thumb, he catches other carvings. He moves to the bedside table, and when he holds it under the lamplight, Simon nearly drops the knife. 

Sapphire blue and rich hazel streak through the black stone, tangling together perfectly. Simon turns the handle. On one side is a blue bar of soap. It matches a doodle Simon has seen on scraps of paper left in briefing rooms and napkins in the mess and on the corners of his reports when a certain sergeant comes to visit. He flips it, and on the other side is a hazel ghost. Another doodle Simon has spied on the pages of a journal kept close to that same sergeant’s heart.  

“Do ye like it?” Soap shifts on his feet. He’s rubbing the back of his neck again, and Simon fights back a laugh. 

The absurdity of it all, that Soap could be nervous right now. 

No. Not Soap. Not anymore. 

Johnny. His Johnny. He’s always been his, from the tarmac to now as Simon stares, gobsmacked, at this immortalization of them in stone. At this declaration of every intention and feeling and dream Simon’s been too afraid of. Johnny’s blue streaking through the darkness, dancing perfectly with Simon’s hazel. Ghost and Soap always side by side. He decides right then that he’s done tucking the feelings away in that gilded chest. He’s done with moments that live only in his fantasies. He’s done pretending he’s ok with it being just Ghost and Soap forever and that he hasn’t craved Simon and Johnny. 

So yes, it is absolutely absurd  that Johnny could be nervous right now.

“Heather’s da used tae be in tha service ‘nd makes these custom now. I ken you’re picky about the blades. Think I drove ‘er up the wall goin’ back ‘nd forth makin’ sure it was the best -” Johnny is rambling, and he’s looking everywhere except at Simon. If he was, he would have seen Simon reverently place the knife back in the box. He would’ve seen Simon rip the medical mask off of his face, and he would’ve seen Simon eat the space between them in two strides. If he was, he would’ve been ready when Simon cupped his face, and crashed their lips together. 

Simon has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how to do soft and gentle. He doesn’t know how to exist in a space where there’s acknowledged interest that’s so much heavier than a tumble in a bed. He doesn’t know how Johnny MacTavish, full of joy and thunder and blazing glory, found his way into Simon’s endless darkness. But Johnny kisses him back and grips his jumper, and Simon’s heart is no longer his own. 

“Hi,” Johnny says once they catch their breath, and Simon can feel the smile against his lips. 

“Johnny,” Simon mumbles, and it sounds like a prayer. He pulls Johnny closer and feels the strong muscles of his arms circle around Simon’s waist. He cradles Johnny’s face, thumb softly rubbing against the stubble on his cheek, and he leans in again. This, Simon thinks, is his own personal version of heaven. 

They’re pressed together now, chest to chest, and Simon is certain he’d be fine dying right here. 

“How long?” Johnny asks, and he leans into the palm of Simon’s hand. 

“Fishin’ for compliments, Sergeant? B’neath you.” There’s a swift slap on his shoulder. Simon nuzzles into the crook of Johnny’s neck to hide his smile.

“Awa’ an bile yer heid.” There’s no bite in the words. “How long?” 

“Las Almas,” Simon admits against his skin. “The way you looked at the rig when the missile ‘it. I couldn’t look away from you. Still haven’t been able to.” He pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together. “And when I saw Graves bullet ‘it…well, not even Price would’ve been able to keep me from huntin’ him down.” 

“Hells bells, Simon. That was over a year ago!” 

Simon ignores the outburst and kisses a rough, uneven scar barely hidden within the sergeant’s hairline. Johnny’s newest, only a couple weeks old “But then Makarov -” It takes a moment to fight past the lump in his throat. The arms around his waist tighten.

“In the hospital, I promised meself - “ Johnny turns his face into Simon’s neck, “that if I made it out, if I got one more shot, I was done runnin’ from ye.” He pulls back, freeing one hand and brings it up to cup Simon’s cheek. “While I lay in that bloody bed, all I could think was, ‘Ye didn’t get tae tell him. Ye didn’t get tae tell him, and now he’ll never know.’ So let me tell ye now.” Johnny cups beneath Simon’s jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “I love ye, Simon Riley. In this life and the next, I will always love ye. God help any sorry soul that ever tries to take ye from me, because I will burn this world tae tha ground until I find ye. I don’t know how long this life is willin’ to give us, but I’ll take whatever it’s generous with as long as it’s with ye.” 

And well, Simon isn’t quite sure what to do with that. 

There’s a jumble of emotions rattling around in his heart threatening to spill into his gut if he thinks too hard about it. He’s aware that Johnny is staring at him, adoration and patience swimming in stormy blue, and his hand is softly carding through the curls at Simon’s nape. He remembers Johnny back on that tarmac - nearly two years ago now - brash and cocky and willing, and wonders what would have happened if he’d known how his fate was written, how his own heart was on the line. If he had known on that first mission what that annoying sergeant would come to mean to him, what would he have done? Would he have kept Johnny at arm’s length, protecting him from the jagged mess that is Simon’s darkness? Standing there, basking in the glow that is his Johnny, he doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think he could have. 

Simon threads a hand in the back of Johnny’s mohawk - it’s beginning to flirt with deregulation - and snakes the other around his waist. “Take the good moments,” he mutters in the space between them. 

“Aye,” Soap says, smile bright in the lowlight. “Take the good moments.” 

So, they spend the evening trading lazy kisses and honeyed words. At some point, boots are forgotten and jumpers join a pile in the corner. They tumble into bed, legs tangled, and even as sleep takes them, not an inch of space is allowed. Johnny’s breaths fan across Simon’s chest, deep, content. Sleep is pulling at Simon’s lashes, but he fights it a little longer. In his last moment of consciousness, he grazes a finger along Johnny’s hairline, catching on the rough scar, and he thinks the memoir needs a title change: 

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life. 

And in the morning, there’s a folder waiting on Price’s desk. He sips his coffee, picks it up, and smiles at the familiar weight. When he flips it open, there’s simply a location: Glasgow. 

“Merry Christmas, Simon,” Price says and watches a jeep pull out of the base.

Johnny is singing Mariah at the top of his lungs, and Simon doesn’t remember the last time he was this content. The mask is forgotten on the desk in his room, and a new knife is tucked by his side. They turn onto the highway, Glasgow waiting, and Soap lays his hand out between them. 

Simon can feel it, the wispy end of a filament stretching between them. The past collisions and the future moments. He can see it, that future laying on the other side. That future full of lazy kisses and even lazier mornings. Of days together, never questioning if the other walks through the door. Of Christmases in Scotland and maybe a cabin one day, too. For now, they have to make due with stitches in safehouses and easy touches in helis. Stolen kisses in private rooms and hidden words between the commands. 

For now, he reaches over and takes Johnny’s hand.

[losersimonriley]

A New Fan of Winter

Happy ghoapmas, @baklavasudarajako <3 I loved your request, a pile of fluff is exactly what I’ve been needing to write

Thank you @forsaire for hosting the ghoap holiday exchange!

ao3 link

Ghost, Soap, and a pile of blankets, 1347 words, fluff, pre-relationship

He's firmly decided this is the softest blanket he's ever touched in his life. Probably the softest he'll ever touch.

Last night was the best sleep he's ever had.

For once, they lucked out with a safe house. Full pantry, an actual bed, warm blankets—and he gets to share it with Soap.

What more could he possibly want?

A fire, probably. That's not any fault of the safe house, though. It's perfectly equipped with a wood stove and a whole shed full of kindling. Whoever keeps this place supplied deserves a raise. It's just that the smoke would put them at risk, being that they are on an op and safety is rather the whole point of the safe house.

There's a chill in the air for certain, but it's not terrible. No hypothermia risk, just the risk of being uncomfortable. But that's where these godly blankets have come in.

Dawn is breaking. One curtain is open, letting in the dull pink light of an overcast sky at sunrise. The other is shut, throwing the bottom halves of their bodies in shadow.

Soap snores next to him. Looks like Ghost wasn't the only one getting a good night's sleep. There's a drool stain on the pillow beneath his slightly open mouth. Disgusting. It's so endearing his heart might burst.

Thankfully, they've each got their own blankets. Ghost is no stranger to sharing a bed with Soap on missions, and he knows exactly how the single sheet equation pans out every time. Soap steals all the blankets in his sleep, even though he runs hot, only to end up throwing them on the floor before the night's over. It never fails. Simon wakes up shivering every fucking time.

But not this time. He burrows deeper into his four layer burrito. Johnny only has two, and true to form, they are dangling off his ankle into the floor below.

How does that bastard not have icicles growing out of his nose? Ghost is warm, all things considered, but his hands and feet are always icy, no matter place or time, and right now is no exception.

He wants those blankets that Soap is wasting, but grabbing them would require him to break free of his warm cocoon. And his freshly woken brain just can't comprehend why he'd ever want to move.

As if psychically linked, Johnny's blue eyes blink open.

"Cold?" Soap's voice cracks with disuse from sleep. Funny how he knows exactly what's on his mind right upon waking. Nobody knows him like Soap. Nobody has, or ever will, know him like Soap.

"Just the extremities."

"Shite. Here."

Soap raises the corner of Simon's blanket nest, effectively letting cold air stream in.

"What are you doing?"

"What's it look like? Warmin' ye up."

Soap scoots underneath the layers and pulls his own two covers off the floor, throwing them on top of the pile. Instant body heat soaks into his skin. Like being on a beach in summer instead of a cabin in the middle of freezing winter.

His feet immediately tuck themselves under Johnny's legs, seeking warmth from the human furnace.

"Bleedin' frostbitten Jesus, Ghost," Soap hisses, leg jerking in surprise, but not pulling away.

"Bad circulation Jesus, actually."

Soap takes that as an invitation to wrap his arms around him, pulling him close and rubbing his hands up and down his arms. Simon doesn't ask what he's doing again, because he'd say the same thing. Warmin' ye up. That's all it is.

He wouldn't let just any brazen sergeant manhandle him.

Simon's eyes start to grow heavy again. This is—he could get used to this.

"Look," Johnny says. Of course there won't be any going back to sleep now that Johnny is awake. Simon peeks his eyes open to see Soap nodding at the window with a soft grin plastered to his lips.

Turning over in Soap's arms takes far more effort than it should, but seeing the fat snowflakes falling in the morning light makes overcoming orneriness worth it. Especially when he turns back to face Johnny again and his face looks like that. Absolute wonder. Like a child on Christmas.

"Maybe it'll stick and we can go out later," Soap says, eyes still stuck on the window.

Soap wants to go play in the snow just outside enemy territory, in the frigid temperature—when there is a perfectly warm bed right here. Because Soap is classically and certifiably insane.

And Ghost already knows he'll be obliging him later.

"If it accumulates, we can kiss tomorrow's exfil goodbye."

"Well. Least it's not a bad place we got here."

"Be better with a fire."

"Were ye cold all night?"

Would that have made you do this quicker?

"Nah. Blankets are good."

"They're too hot."

"You're too hot."

He didn't—

He didn't actually mean for it to come out that way. He meant it literally, as in Soap's body temperature is literally too hot. All the time.

Christ.

An utterly devilish look crosses the other's face. Simon is in for it. There's no use in even trying to backpedal. He's just going to have to let the demon run his course.

"How hot is too hot, LT? Would ye say I'm pure smokin'?"

"It's not too late to learn how to sleep with one eye open, you know."

Soap barks out a laugh, and the morning breath hits Simon square in the face. He doesn't mind at all.

It grows quiet between them once more, and if he didn't know any better, he might think Soap had fallen back asleep with a pleased smile still on his face. But he does know better. Soap doesn't go back to sleep. Once he wakes up, that's it.

Just playing possum, he is. Just relaxing in this rare, comfortable moment. So he stares. At long black lashes that hide the colour of the snow clouds outside. At the curve of his nose. At overgrown stubble and a faded chin scar. At the warmth.

He could stay right here forever. Cold be damned. All the warmth he's ever needed is tucked in beside him.

"Was that an instant coffee pack I saw in the cupboard last night?" He eventually breaks the peace.

"Aye," Johnny says, eyes still closed.

"Could you make some?"

"I could. Will I?"

"Soap," he grouses. "I'm your lieutenant."

Johnny opens his crinkling, amused eyes, and removes his hands from Ghost to prop his head up on his elbow and look down at him. It makes him feel like he's under a microscope. He swears he can almost see snowflakes reflecting in his eyes.

"Gonna order me into the kitchen, sir?"

"If that's what it takes."

"Maybe I'll do it for a wee price."

"And what's that?"

Johnny just keeps looking at him, face going softer by the second. Simon's stomach does a little tumble, because he thinks, maybe, for some reason…Johnny is about to kiss him.

And he'd let him. Of course he would. All the flirting, the jokes, the touches—maybe they're past due for a kiss.

"If it snows enough, we at least have to go for a walk out there. And if I smack you with a snowball, it cannae be helped."

The butterflies in his stomach are promptly replaced with disappointment. He really thought—

"And maybe…," Johnny starts, but doesn't finish the thought, eyes dropping down to his lips for just a split second. Ghost catches it, and the butterflies are suddenly swarming again.

"Maybe what?"

Johnny gives a small shake to his head, grinning down at him.

"Nothin'. You'll have to go out in the snow with me for that one."

Hm. Good thing he was already planning on it.

Soap leaves the protection of their blankets—he bets he was close to coming out anyway, regardless of his coffee request, due to overheating. Insane.

There is something cosy about the sparkling flakes falling outside as Soap rattles around the kitchen. He's never been much of a winter fan, but for Johnny? He could be.

Maybe he already is.