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There’s men all around them, and the sound of life and machinery brings some calm back to Soap. A sharp grinding sound peaks his ears and his arm twinges. He tries to grip the skull mask tight.
“Problem, Johnny?”
Soap whirls around, grabbing the dirtied knife from his pants.
It’s Ghost. Hiding in the shadows again. Bloody Jesus, that man is sneaky as dirt. Under the cover of darkness, the whites of his eyes shine like a death omen. His pupils are blown wide. Soap feels marked bullseye.
“Negative, Lt,” he says, relaxing his grip, heart beating in his throat. He’s been on edge for days now, exhausted and ready to topple over at any moment. Although they’re all dirty and sweaty, he feels particularly chewed up and digested.
He shuffles closer to the corner Ghost is lurking in, making way for the Vaqueros moving crates of weapons. The safehouse’s more like a well-stocked armory, gold hiding underneath the layer of muck and dust. It almost makes up for the lack of warm food. Almost.
Alejandro and Price are discussing quietly at the central table, moving bullets around and marking maps. Rudy is off to their side, directing his men in fast Spanish.
Soap feels blanketed under the noise and ordered chaos around him. The underlying sense of urgency around the place is more comforting than he ever thought it would be. It’s grounding. He’s got a job to do. People to kill. A base to take back. Shit to blow up.
“Thought you got that looked at,” Ghost says. His voice is right up in his ear. Soap almost forgot he was there.
“Not a medic,” he replies. He grips his gun, feels its weight. More yelling surrounds them. The wound is warm, alive, and Ghost’s knife is tucked in his pants.
Ghost turns around and almost disappears.
Soap follows. The noise decreases around them.
---
He’s lead to a dusty room that makes him sneeze. Muffled light shines through from a filthy window. It probably hasn’t been inhabited for years, he bets. Who knows how long ago Alejandro got this place, the crafty bastard. Who knows how many other safehouses he’s got.
Walking deeper into the room, there’s a bunch of rotting cabinets and simple furniture next to two dingy beds. It’s an empty and ugly spartan room. What exactly does Ghost want to do?
Soap stops near the doorway and watches Ghost bend down and open cabinets and drawers randomly. His jeans are stained brown and red with Shadow blood. It feels strange, watching him work. Someone like Ghost shouldn’t be seen working; he should be ripping someone’s throat or hiding out of sight somewhere.
“Sit,” Ghost says, still sweeping dust and searching through the supplies. His back is turned to Soap.
Soap quietly walks towards the bed closest to the doorway and settles down. He prays that the old thing won’t cave in on him, but it gives a few frightening squeaks. He sets his gun next to his good arm and waits. Marks all possible entry and exit points.
The quiet rings around his ears. His legs twitch.
When Ghost is satisfied with whatever the hell he’s doing, he stands up and makes his way towards Soap. For such a large man, he walks gracefully and quietly. Like the dead. Soap’s hand reaches for Ghost’s knife. He needs to clean and sharpen it, he thinks. She’s brutalized many a man these past few days.
Ghost sits down next to him, his weight making some years-old dust rise from the thin sheets. Soap feels it accumulate in his lungs. Ghost’s so warm, so close, his heat radiating through the sheets. They both barely fit on the small bed.
“What’re you doin’?” Soap asks, on edge from the quiet and the proximity. His legs move up and down and his bad arm gives another pulse of pain.
“Take off your vest and jacket,” Ghost says. “I need your arm free.”
He’s holding a stained bag— a first aid kit— Soap realizes. For his arm.
A bit dumbfoundedly, Soap stops touching his gun and takes out of a few of the more volatile equipment hidden underneath his layers. He pulls out his sidearm, a few pieces of metal, spare broken fans, and other sharp bits and bobs he’s accumulated over the last few days.
Ghost watches him the entire time, hands steadily gripping the first aid kit. He’s turned towards Soap, legs spread wide. Their knees touch. It’s a blistering point of contact.
“You done putting on a show?” Ghost asks. He’s still looking. Soap isn’t sure he’s blinked even once.
“Fuck off,” he says. If Soap was a lesser man, his face would be red and blushing. For the first time in a while, he hates his heavy gear. Curse these things for taking forever to take off. His useless arm isn’t helping either; he has to be as gentle as a baby or else it’ll yell at him for pulling on too much weight. He needs to get into some action, stat. Where’s adrenaline when you need it?
Once he gets to taking the plates off, his arm trembles. Those things are heavy all of a fucking sudden, and when there’s no epinephrine pushing his muscles past their limits, every gram feels like a tonne. Christ.
He’s so focused on getting out of the gear quickly enough that he almost doesn’t hear Ghost shuffling next to him, but he damn well feels Ghost’s presence getting closer. His arm lets out another painful twinge and Soap almost grimaces. The wet feeling is likely blood. Fuck.
Soap puts his hands down as Ghost looms closer and lets him take over. Ghost reaches out and picks up where Soap left off, slowly unzipping and removing plates.
One, two, three, four. What the hell is Ghost doing?
He’s moving slowly, so torturously slowly. War-crime slowly.
Soap’s chest is lighter than it has been in days. He’s taking in an illegal amount of oxygen. His head clears, and Ghost pauses. All the plates are off now. He’s got to remove the vest.
They’re so close already, but Soap turns fully towards Ghost and looks down at the zipper on top of his neck. He really should say something, crack a joke or two, but the silence is too fragile right now and he is in need of some painkillers and a good smoke. Maybe also a few dozen shots of tequila to forget everything.
Ghost reaches out, towards his throat, and Soap wants to close his eyes. It’s too quiet here, in this abandoned room in the middle of nowhere. Soap almost can’t believe that there are dozens of men and armoured vehicles just next door. In this line of work, silence means imminent death. And here he is, next to Ghost, who is undressing him. Removing his armour. His weapons.
Soap knows he’d make eye contact with Ghost if he raises his head, but his neck muscles don’t want to work. He doesn’t want to meet that man’s gaze. Who knows what’ll come out of his mouth.
They’re sharing air. It smells stale and musty, tinged with sweat and blood. Maybe some tears. It’s barely habitable here.
He can see Ghost’s black mask moving under the skull, in tune with his breathing. Can almost trace the outline of his nose and maybe even his lips too, if he’s feeling creative.
One of Ghost’s hands holds onto Soap’s collar and his fingers brush over his Adam’s apple. Soap wants to swallow but he holds his breath like a hostage. One move and he's dead. Ghost’s other hand grasps the zipper and he yanks it down. It’s a loud, grating sound.
Finally, finally, Ghost tugs it free.
Soap’s hands are miraculously still working, so he leans back a bit and shrugs the jacket off. Lord knows he would’ve blown up like a fucking grenade if Ghost had to pull the jacket down his shoulders. He can see it so clearly: raising his arms up high and Ghost’s big hands tugging it off of him, pushing him back into the bed like they’re not in the middle of a warzone surrounded by soldiers thirsty for the blood of their enemies.
He is exposed.
He finally raises his head and prepares to clear his throat and prays his mind will think of a witty comeback, anything that will cover up what’s just happened, but Ghost is rummaging through the first aid kit and Soap’s distracted by his movements. Without his comms, Ghost’s actions are silent. He moves like a wraith.
Soap quietly turns so that his wounded arm is facing the Lieutenant. He was right: it is oozing blood, and the gauze is overflowing. It was a good time to change the wrappings. Who knows when he’ll have time to do it next, or if he’ll even still be here to care about a bullet in the arm.
Ghost tugs off his heavy gloves and Soap immediately locks onto the flash of fair skin.
Ghost moves too quickly to make out any details, but not fast enough for Soap not to see how large it is, how expansive. How deadly. Soap shivers. The thought makes his arm pulse a bit as well, pumps more blood out of him.
Ghost tugs bright blue gloves on and snaps the latex back. Soap watches his fingers move. He still hasn’t been able to say a single word. His throat is too dry.
Ghost says, “Arm up,” and Soap obeys.
It’s so quiet. There’s a warm body next to him. Ghost’s knife is in his pocket. His gun is within hand’s reach.
For all his ruthlessness and capacity for killing, Ghost is gentle. Tender, even.
His hand is warmer than Soap thought it would be, warmer than someone like him ought to be, and goosebumps trickle over his exposed arms like cold blood. Ghost moves closer and wraps a hand at Soap’s elbow, steadying him. It’s a solid hold, strong, and Soap’s entire body is tingling. He wants to stab something. Badly.
Ghost unwraps the bloody gauze and cleans the blood around the bullet hole. He works efficiently. Unwaveringly calm.
Soap needs to break the silence.
“Didn’t take you for a nurse,” he says. His voice is steady, thank god, if only slightly hoarse.
“You pick up some things,” Ghost responds. He wraps the wound tight. Maybe a bit too tight, Soap thinks, as Ghost tugs the gauze hard enough to make him grunt a bit. His hand is still holding on to his elbow. Soap feels all his digits pressing into his exposed skin. Feels all the heat being absorbed. Contact, he wants to call out. I’m under effective fire.
“Took all the pieces out?”
“Affirmative,” Soap confirms. “It was a clean shot.” He tries not to shake, but Ghost tightens his grip. The man can definitely feel how jittery he is right now.
“Shadow work,” Ghost says grimly. He’s already finished wrapping Soap’s wound and Soap feels like a compressed muscle about to seize. He knows Ghost can feel his leg shaking the bed. It’s creaking softly underneath them, a mocking pattern.
“Are you a religious man, Johnny?” Ghost asks.
Soap prays Ghost would never let go. He shifts around in the bed, unsettles some dust, feels the knife pressing into him. Feels Ghost, who is perfectly still. As he always is. Observing. “Why the sudden question?”
“Do you know what sound gunshots make at a church?”
Soap clears his throat. “What sound, sir?”
“Pew pew.”
Oh god.
Soap exhales a laugh, half shudder and half shiver. “Ghost, that was bad. You’ve done better.”
“Maybe so.”
With that, Ghost lets go of him and the cold hits him instantaneously. The gauze is wrapped tight, and he can feel its rigidity against his muscles, a façade of touch.
He can’t take his eyes off Ghost, who’s put on his regular gloves again. He throws something at Soap, and his good arm immediately catches it. It’s soft.
The skull mask. The ghost mask. Matching the knife.
Soap looks up at Ghost. The sun’s rays have changed their angle (have they really been here for that long?) and Ghost’s somehow sunk into the shadows again. It feels like an inevitability. His eyes pierce through Soap, acidic.
“Well,” Soap says, the only thing he could say, “care to help me put it on?”
“You’re sounding a bit eager there, Johnny.” Soap can imagine his eyebrow raising. Maybe even a smirk.
“Yes, sir,” Soap says. “I’ve got the powder, but I’m lackin’ an arm and a mirror.”
“Good call,” Ghost says. His eyes look over Soap’s body, his twitching leg, the outline of the knife. “Very observant of you.” Definitely smirking.
Soap reaches into a pocket and pulls out the little container. “Have at it.”
Ghost leans over and grabs the powder. He’s so close to Soap and seems to almost tower over him; Soap isn’t short by any means, but Ghost was a good few inches taller than most men. Bloody big bastard. Soap smells the gun oil and blood. Takes a deep breath.
Then, Ghost pulls out his glove again but keeps his hand naked. Soap examines it with a strange fascination. It’s a man’s hand, alright. Shouldn’t be anything special, but Soap sees the scars. Sees the whites and reds and cuts and scabs. Sees the dirt under his nails. Sees the swollen knuckles and joints. Sees its largeness.
Ghost doesn’t say anything, only reaches and circles the powder slowly, lighter than a man of his size and presence should be able to.
“Come here, then,” Ghost says, his voice a whisper in the quiet room.
Soap shuffles a bit closer still. He feels the bed bend down and squeak as their weights combine. He looks straight into Ghost’s eyes. Soap can see his waterline, can trace his eyelashes smudged with dark powder. His pupils are so dilated Soap wonders if he’s on any stims himself.
“Close your eyes, Soap,” Ghost’s breath blows over his face.
A soft pressure settles on his eyelid and Soap tenses up.
These are the hands behind an unconfirmed kill count, a number very likely larger than all the men in the safehouse combined. A kill count that includes twisting necks and breaking spines and violating life in all manners possible. Soap wants to grab the knife but he puts his hands into fists instead and tries to stay very still.
Tracing the bone of his face, those same hands are impossibly gentle. The light, repetitive motion could lull Soap to sleep. Ghost could press his fingers in at any moment, dig his thumbs into the soft jelly of his eyes, and Soap doesn't think he'd be able to do anything about it. He feels Ghost pressing his knee deeper into Soap's thigh, right next to where his knife is, and almost wishes Ghost would push a little deeper. A little more forcefully. With how quietly soft Ghost is being, Soap might not even fight him. Much. Anything to keep him touching. He's hopeless.
With his bare fingers, Ghost moves to cover Soap’s eyelid. Every touch is electric. Soap’s eyes are as firmly shut as he can get them, his fist as clenched as he could handle. Ghost’s face is right next to him, his body a solid block of life, his too-fucking-large and expressive eyes likely looking straight into him.
Ghost lets go, breaks the link connecting them, but Soap doesn’t open his eyes, and he does not lean forward to try to recapture the feeling. Ghost’s probably collecting more of that black powder, Soap tells himself. And sure enough, his fingers are back, tracing Soap’s eye with that incredible tenderness. Soap wants to melt into the bed.
If he really focuses, he could probably hear men and equipment in the background, or even the throbbing in his arm, but all his attention is on the enigma of a man doing his makeup.
It’s so, so fucking quiet, and Ghost’s a demon that scares everyone away.
Soap feels safe here, he realizes. He’s at ease with no gear, no armour, no vision on the doorways, and hell, barely two functional arms. He didn’t think he would even get the luxury anymore, honestly. He hasn’t been good with quiet lately, and he’s probably going to be ordered to see someone after this shitfest blows over, but for now, somehow, everything feels…okay.
Another stroke over his eyelid. The powder feels caked on, like a layer shielding him from the dry and dusty air swirling around them. Soap sees the appeal of wearing a mask like this. He can almost pretend to be a different entity, pretend he doesn't have the flaw of humanity slowly killing him.
“Would you consider this becoming better than you?” Soap asks, feeling Ghost’s finger moving from eye to eye. His breath catches on Ghost’s hand, he can feel it.
“Being better than me and becoming me are two very different things,” Ghost responds. His voice is so close to his ear, deep and low and grounding.
“Can ya imagine, havin’ two of you around?”
“Let’s hope that never happens,” Ghost says. He says it gravely, tonelessly. Soap wishes he could see the man’s face.
“We’ll see about that, Simon.”
“Open your eyes.”
Soap opens his eyes. Somehow, they’ve shifted even closer to each other, thighs touching. Ghost feels like a wall. Solid, unyielding muscle. Unbreakable.
He stares at Ghost’s exposed fingers, his open palm. The tips of his index and middle fingers are blackened. He wonders what it would feel like to have that hand on his face. It would burn, he knows. It would scorch.
“Why do you still have my knife?” Ghost asks. They lock eyes.
“Can never have too many,” Soap says. His hand creeps to where he’s hid that goddamn knife but Ghost doesn’t waver.
“Keep holding on to it."
“Yes, sir.”
“I want it back when this is over.”
“Yes, sir.”
In the quiet aftermath, Soap sits up and breathes. These will be his last few fully deep breaths before he puts on his armour for the foreseeable future. The black around his eyes pulls on his skin. He breathes so deeply his face expands.
“Mask?” he asks.
Ghost reaches over to pick up the mask, and he moves like he wants to say something before their radios crackle with activity.
“Ghost, Soap, we need to go over the plan. We’ve got intel from Laswell.” Price.
Ghost is already standing up and moving. Soap is immensely disappointed. He tries not to let it show on his face.
“Copy. On our way,” Ghost says. He’s standing in front of Soap, watching him gather his gear.
“Thanks for the makeover, Lt. Feelin’ good as new,” Soap tells him, shrugging on his jacket and getting his gear ready again. He feels Ghost’s eyes trail over his face. His eyes. His throat. His chest. He feels like prey.
“Then you’d better not smudge it.”
---
“Where did you guys go?” Gaz asks. Soap doesn’t want to answer him and half-scrambles for something plausible. Ghost, the bastard, is nowhere to be seen. He’s probably lurking somewhere nearby and laughing because he’s a prick like that.
“Glad to have you back, hermano,” Alejandro says, smirking like he knows what they’ve just done. Soap feels like his mother’s caught him fooling around with a girl.
“Alright,” Price interrupts. “Now that everyone’s here, let’s go over everything.”
Everyone straightens up at that.
They’re ready for war.