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They have a few hours to kill before they proceed with the plan. It’s a long distance to the base even with their vehicles, so they all collectively agree to wait until it’s closer to dawn and not so early into the night.
A smart man would take this as an opportunity to sleep. Soap thinks it’s his personal hell.
Without men, there is no life. Without life, there is no noise. Without noise, he’s doing nothing but sitting and anticipating an attack and trying to wait out the ringing in his ears that never quite passes.
Ghost disappeared earlier as soon as he wasn’t needed. If Soap knows the man at all, he’s outside doing recon. Maybe it’s a good idea to join him.
By himself, he can’t do anything but try and settle into a stiff chair, his thighs and calves flexed, and trace over the plan again and again with a bullet. His ear is waiting for an enemy encounter. He watches the area around him. Grabs his gun so often he’s fondling it. Runs his hands over the smokes and grenades hidden on him. Feels the knife. Feels the ringing. Watches the windows. Looks at the entry points. Rubs the gauze. Squeezes his arm. Tries to think of nothing. Thinks of Graves and Shephard. Thinks of Shadows patrolling the area. Grabs the bullet again, warmed by his palm. Repeat.
He gets the fuck out of the safehouse before he triggers something explosive and kills everyone.
The night is beautiful and cool and dangerous. He stands next to the metal doorway, where he is concealed by the wall, and closes his eyes harshly. Takes a breath. Fills his lungs deep and slow, as slow as he can. Digs his fingers into his forehead and exhales. He wants to go back to the table. Retrace the plan again. He needs to.
He steps outside with his hands around his vest, sticking close to the wall. The balaclava is cold on his fingers. He repositions to the other side of the building, opposite of the moon, and tries to look nonchalant. His arm throbs as he keeps it flexed. Knife’s on him. Gun. Sidearm. Tripwire. Mousetrap. Explosives.
Ghost looks like a corpse under the moonlight. He lies prone on the floor, frighteningly still and unmoving. Soap wants to crawl up to him and stare, maybe poke him and see if he’ll twitch like roadkill.
“You don’t need the beauty sleep, eh, Lt?” Soap says. His boots scrape detritus as he approaches the man. He tries to smile.
Ghost snaps his eyes up and Soap lingers on the visible creases around them. He knows that his own eyes are bloodshot, his mouth half-formed at best.
He likes seeing Ghost’s exposed skin, as decomposed as he makes it appear. Like he's hollow. Like there's nothing inside but blackness and a wandering soul haunting his body. Lord knows he feels the same.
“Quit picking at your arm,” Ghost says. His mask doesn’t move. “I don’t want to waste more gauze.”
Soap stops fidgeting with the wrapping and stares at the sleeve of his arm. It’s too dark for colour to exist right now. He must be hallucinating the faint pink staining it. Has to be. All in his head… all in his head…
When he looks up again, Ghost is leaning against the wall. He’s too large to hide completely against the moon’s weak shadow. Half of his body sticks out awkwardly. Soap thinks about how he didn’t hear the man move.
“I wonder when you sleep,” Soap tells him. He turns to step next to Ghost and looks up at the sky. Even if there was something out there, it would be flying too high for his eyes to see. His own body’s a bit easier to conceal, but not by much. Still sticks out. They both cast unnatural shadows on the ground together. And the ringing is in his head. All in his head. It’s all in his head.
“Actually,” Soap amends, but his heart isn’t in it, “I wonder if you wear your sunglasses indoors so you can take a nap and we can’t tell the difference.”
Ghost exhales loudly enough for Soap to hear. A laugh. He’ll take it.
“Don’t be an idiot, MacTavish. I’d never sleep on the job,” Ghost says. He’s looking forwards, towards the horizon. Soap hopes he’s smiling. He tries to see if there are minute changes in the fabric of his mask, but it’s too dark and they’re standing too close. Ghost blends in with the shadow behind him and seems to grow, surrounding Soap like a comforter. He wants to come closer.
Before Soap can think of something to say, Ghost steps back. He turns to look down into Soap’s eyes. Soap tries to conceal that he was looking at the man’s neck, where the underside of his jaw should be. He thinks he fails.
“‘Sides, this is the dream job,” Ghost tells him, still maintaining the eye contact between them. Soap has to look at the dead grass under his feet and blink. If he does tear up, it’ll ruin the shadows around his eyes. He always loses these staring competitions between them, and Ghost always seems to be looking at him. At least it’s another unspoken ritual.
Wait.
Jesus. Christ.
“Lord, spare me,” Soap groans, before his chest stutters as the stupid fucking sinking in his stomach returns. He hopes Ghost plays it off as a laugh. Hopes the glitter in the sky is just a star and nothing else. Lord, he just wants to go back inside.
His night vision goggles are in the safehouse. He’s only got miscellaneous scraps, his rifle, sidearm, explosives, and Ghost’s knife on him. Perhaps that is why he isn’t sprinting inside at the moment. Perhaps it’s also because Ghost is here and warm and alive and right next to him. He’s sure that Ghost has been out here for hours, probably, watching the area. Must’ve been. If the anticipation was driving Soap this crazy, then Ghost is already locked up in a fucking straightjacket.
“You’ve got a lot of balls bein’ out here in the open,” Soap says. He speaks out of habit. Soap isn’t at risk of collapsing in Shadow turf anymore, but he needs his mind settled. They both do.
“I’m not out in the open,” Ghost says. “You doubtin’ me?”
He fixates on the slight twitch of Ghost’s covered fingers to soften the innate harshness he carries with him. He can barely see the hand itself, only the semi-bright skeleton phalanges poking out like mines desperately thrown on top of soil. Were those fingers still black from the powder? Are they really as warm as he knows they are?
“Anyone can see you. I spotted you immediately.”
“That’s different, Johnny. I’m not tryin’ to hide.” The night makes Ghost’s voice deeper somehow. Richer. It makes Soap dizzy.
“You’re gonna be found,” he says, and he tries not to sway too obviously. He needs to hydrate. His canteen is in the safehouse. On the table with the bullets and the map and his NVGs. Tactical error after error. Forget the enemy; Ghost deserves to be the one to push Soap over the edge. Better him than being disintegrated so quickly he never realizes he’s dead. Would Ghost draw it out or take it slow?
Fuck, when are they going to leave again?
“Ghosts aren’t real, Johnny. I don’t worry about it.”
You can’t be on guard 24/7, Soap thinks. I think you do worry about it. I think you worry about it a lot. I think you worry about a lot of things. He doesn’t say any of this. He knows it’s true.
It’s quiet, enough that he can make out every little quirk in Ghost’s voice as he talks. Soap’s been privileged enough to see him without his mask, to look at his nose and his mouth and see them move with his voice. It’s different. The way his tongue flexes when he talks, the way he lifts one side of his mouth and his cheek squishes in. It’s completely different speech. Different person.
Except for the little crackle in his throat as he forces sounds out. The way his accent wraps around Johnny... that always stays the same.
Soap puts more of his weight on the wall and looks up. The stars are lukewarm at best. His hands are warm. He grips the high part of his armour, lets the coldness spread over his palms, swings his elbows back and forth. Ignores the soreness after.
“I exist. Drones exist. Snipers,” Soap says. It comes out embarrassingly mumbled, like he’s speaking under his throat, like he’s knowingly saying something he knows is incorrect but can’t shut his mouth. Words for the sake of words. Another tactical error.
“You’re a big boy. Stop stressin’ or it’ll ruin your life. Thought you’re used to fighting on the front line.”
“I wish I was fighting on the front line,” Soap says. He leans back even more to show that he doesn’t care, even against Ghost’s hard side-eye. Ghost’s been doing that a lot lately, looking at him like he wants Soap dead. Soap’s been trying to take the fact that he’s breathing, that Ghost is even indulging him like this, as a good sign. He’s not a man that plays with his food.
At least, Soap hopes so.
“You’re going to get that soon enough. Why aren’t you getting some shut-eye?” Ghost asks. It’s an irrelevant question; they both know why they aren’t able to.
“Can’t,” Soap says anyway.
“I could shut your eyes for you.”
“I want to wake up in a few hours, Lt.”
“Doesn’t look like you’re resting now. I’d wager you’re doing the opposite.”
“Oh, yeah?” Soap asks. Hopefully Ghost doesn’t merc him for insubordination. “What am I doin’, then?”
The way Soap’s leaned back makes him shorter, so he’s looking up underneath his eyelashes at Ghost. Who does not look as amused nor casual. He’s uncrossed his arms and, frankly, looks ready to put a knife in Soap’s forehead.
“You’re looking for a fight, that’s what,” Ghost says.
The hair on Soap’s arm rises. You don’t get to be a soldier for as long as he has without listening to his gut.
Which is telling him to get the fuck out, stat.
“What makes you say that?” Soap says. He’s tensed up, the joints of his fingers frozen over the straps of his vest. Ghost wouldn’t… right?
“Heads up.”
They’re standing so close that Ghost barely has to move. He jumps on Soap, taking them both down.
There it is.
His mind empties.
There is only Ghost next to him, around him, on top of him, pushing and wrapping Soap’s arms to immobilize them. Soap tries to lock his legs around Ghost and move so he’s on top, but Ghost’s too big. He pushes Soap deeper into the ground. Soap’s legs buckle. He loses his grip on the dirt.
Ghost is silent and Soap grunts as Ghost digs his elbow deep into his chest. The man has a height and weight advantage. It’s not fair in the slightest.
Ghost’s clothes wrinkle against the muscles of Soap’s arms. He feels Ghost’s knees through his jeans. The sharp bone of his elbow. The meat of his fingers. Soap’s proficient in sparring, has to be for his job, but those were just that: training. His livelihood.
This… this is different. Soap doesn’t wrestle with his fellow men. The most he does is a fist bump, maybe a side hug. He jokes, yes. He’s outgoing. He’s friendly with everyone, sure. But he doesn’t get close with them. Not like this. Never like this. Never touch.
And this was fucking Ghost of all people, who now, in middle of their tumbling, Soap has felt the width of his thighs, their solidness pressing deep enough into the other man to know how the bones of his hips feel against his own. Ghost’s entire body is like that, somehow. Hard and fleshy, like his injuries healed with concrete and metal and he’s become a freak superhuman. A freak un-human.
There’s no win condition specified. All Soap knows is this: do not let the Ghost win. If he’s caught, Soap won’t be captured; he’ll be killed.
Let it also be known that when Ghost does something, he will bust his fucking ass to achieve it.
Ghost tries to separate from their mesh of body and limb but Soap doesn’t let him. He’s finally regained steady ground and pushes up, just a bit, somehow lifting Ghost, and tries to slam him into the wall.
He doesn’t make it.
He falls down halfway through and again, Ghost falls on top of him. Crushes his ribcage. Fucking steaming hell, does Ghost weigh three hundred kilos? There’s no time to think; Soap is a fly caught up inside the engine of a speeding car on the highway. All he can do is brace himself and go with the inertia.
Something smashes into his face. He doesn’t lift his hands to cover his nose; it hurts too much. The heat spills down his nose, into his mouth, and he hopes nothing is broken. It’s fucking disgusting and he spits at Ghost, but he’s too slow to recover. Ghost comes up behind him.
The moonlight disappears.
Soap can’t breathe.
His nose clogs.
He’s choking.
Ghost is tightening his arm more and more and there is no fucking way he’s trying to kill Soap right now. His air is cut, like Ghost’s dragged his knife down his trachea, and his bloody nose isn’t fucking stopping and the material is scratching against his cheeks and forehead like little razors and he needs to get that off of him ASAP before he screams.
Soap is yanked forward. In between his wheezing and desperate gasps, Ghost knees the back of his hamstrings and drags them both to the wall, Soap’s back held still by Ghost’s chest and arms. Hitting the wall, his free hand envelops the back of Soap’s head completely. Ghost’s fingers tug on the top of his mohawk and Soap’s neck can barely keep his head attached from the force that Ghost pushes his face into the wall with.
The mask’s fabric smells putrid. Dust and skin and grime and more blood digs into Soap’s mouth. He senses something crawling along his face, sliding around on the flooding red river. It feels like he’s being buried alive.
Ghost tugs the mask lower, tighter, and Soap’s eyelids scrape against the barbed cotton. He can’t blink. His eyes are on fire. He raises his hands to grab at his neck but Ghost’s arm is a clamped iron bar. He feels something else, something foreign, press into his flank. It turns his blood cold.
Ghost twists the mask deeper and he shoves their bodies close together, like he wants to be on top of Soap. He’s big enough that Soap is completely covered. He can hear the scrape of Ghost’s boots as Ghost puts his weight on them, like he’s trying to root into the ground and keep Soap there, under him, until his bones rot and crumble. Until the blood inseparably glues his mask and face together.
Soap thrashes even more desperately, trying to claw the mask off before he passes out. His chest is hiccupping as he tries to cough, but Ghost is pushing hard on top of his chest. Soap’s ribs feel frail and he can’t spare the oxygen to think about anything but how their legs are intertwined, the shape of Ghost’s knees, softened through the fabric but still hard, digging into his legs, his own hands meeting Ghost’s forearms and touching him, feeling the skin bend under his fingers but not move.
He twists until he shoves Ghost away somehow, gasping, and drags himself further from him to get as much distance as he can.
In a few hours, he will realize Ghost allowed him to move.
There’s blood in his mouth and eyes and nose and his hands won’t stop shaking. The grass tears under his hands and his body isn’t fucking moving. He can’t drag himself away. Can barely breathe. Can’t hide. There’s only one thing he can do.
He reaches down to the pocket in his pants.
If you’re hearing this, Lord, Ghost… have mercy…
His right hand closes on the handle. His bad arm stops functioning and he doesn’t have the mental capacity to think about it.
He forces himself on one knee and tries to catch his breath, tries to get his eyes working again.
He can’t.
Soap’s vision dots in and out and he’s breathing so heavily he can only see a few snapshots before they blur. The ground is moving around him and his face is frozen. His breath comes out reedy through his nose. The clots are itching like a bitch. His throat is burning.
Ghost stalks closer until he’s right in front of Soap.
Soap feels him walking behind his back. His body shakes as Ghost drops down and wraps his legs around him, properly immobilising. His upper body is pushed up and Ghost, again, lets Soap lean on him. His chest is tightly pressed to Soap’s back and it’s so much wider than Soap’s, fuck, and Ghost takes advantage of Soap’s shaky stillness and puts both his arms together, down his back, and squeezes them between his thighs. Squeezes the knife tight.
Ghost’s other hand raises something long and thin to Soap’s throat. Soap didn’t even feel Ghost unsheathing it from his shoulder. The fabric of his clothes didn’t rustle. Or perhaps they did. Soap’s going to die any second now.
Click.
Ghost pushes something cold and hard on his forehead. It moves up and down with the bobbing of Soap’s head.
“Ghost…” Soap gasps. It’s weak.
Though Ghost is armed to the teeth, Soap can almost feel his heartbeat.
He thinks of the bullets neatly organized on the main table inside. The one bullet he was using.
They lay still for a moment, just like that. Ghost’s pressure does not loosen. Soap can’t even gulp. His throat dries. His bad arm feels too warm and his body is encased in a brick wall. His face is cold.
Ghost’s stomach pushes out against Soap’s arms. He can feel it.
In. Out. In. Out.
It’s slow. 60 beats per minute.
In. Out. In. Out.
Soap wants to ask how the fuck is Ghost so calm. How is he breathing so deeply and evenly, holding his sergeant at knife and gunpoint. Holding his life in his hands. How he is able to distend his stomach even a little, unwind the snail’s coil of his abdomen and stretch it wide enough to feel the burn of forcing air in and out. In and out. In and out. Soap tries to copy his breathing.
He half-shuffles but the knife presses deeper still. Warning. The gun is ever-looming. The mucus and gunk building in Soap’s throat tastes like blood and sweat and saliva. Like sickness. Death’s precursor.
Ghost removes the barrel of the sidearm. Soap thinks he’s looking at the mark left on his sweaty skin.
The gun is out of his periphery.
Ghost clicks the safety off. The sound echoes in their shadow.
Ghost pushes the barrel back with slow, steady pressure. Like he wants Soap to feel every point of enervation. Exactly in the same place on his forehead.
His finger is on the trigger.
Soap’s muscles are twitching out of his skin. His legs tremble erratically. He can’t feel his arm. His lips are sealed with the thin layer of waxy blood. If he kicks too hard, Ghost’s finger will slip.
Ghost leans forward, his mouth close to Soap’s ear.
“Twist your knife,” he whispers. His breath is hot.
“Shit…” Soap whispers back. It’s not a word but a desperate exhale. He can’t move his hands. He releases the knife.
Ghost lets go.
Soap crumples. His legs and arms are too unstable and numb to hold his weight, and Ghost, the bastard, pushes him off. Soap lays there, the back of his head tickled by grass, and closes his eyes. Tries not to feel the things crawling on him. Doesn’t want to see the stars right now. Ghost doesn’t try to help, only blends in with the still blackness of his eyelids. It’s quiet. Not even the animals are out. Just them.
Any minute now and he should hopefully be fine.
He’s finally able to open his eyes to rip the mask off his face. His arm stumbles, but he secures the knife in his pocket.
His legs have somehow restored function. His mind is clear.
Soap pushes his forehead to the ground and lies there. He thinks of nothing.
Ghost watches him.
---
“I thought we were doing hand-to-hand,” Soap says when he regains speech. His voice breaks halfway through and he doesn’t clear his throat. He feels the liquid stickiness in the lower back of his mouth. Lets it sit there with him. His nose itches when he twitches it. Probably not broken.
“You thought wrong,” Ghost says. Soap closes his eyes again. He doesn’t think about anything. Except for Ghost.
“That was… dirty,” he mumbles to the worms under him.
“Thought it was worth taking a stab at.”
Fucker.
“You askin’ for another go?” Soap says, turning his head from the ground, trying to find Ghost. He feels ants crawling on his exposed hands. He’s just barely starting to reach exhaustion.
Ghost walks over to him. Soap feels the vibration of his thick boots, their weight approaching before he has visual confirmation of the target.
“I certainly wouldn’t mind,” Ghost says. His voice is too loud. “I’ll even let you make the first move. You need the training.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“We need to check your bandages. And your nose. Get up.”
Soap doesn’t want to move but Ghost doesn’t give orders twice. He tries to trust his legs to carry him. He sits up, takes a bracing breath, and gets on one knee. He staggers to the wall and extends his good arm out, leaning into it. Fuck. Hopefully he didn’t tear the stitches again.
There’s a bloodstain on the wall.
Under Ghost’s guard, Soap feels his own heart rate decreasing. He’s stable enough to stand on his two feet without falling.
With his back to the safehouse, he puts his head in his hands. Bloody Jesus. He crouches lower into the shadows and breathes. Massages his forehead. Curls his fingers into his eye sockets until they sparkle.
He scans the treeline. Ignores the aches of his arm. Of his face. Of his whole body.
Ghost is surprisingly patient, watching Soap regain his bearings. Soap feels his gaze as he triple checks his gear, runs his hands over his dirty gun, and after another deep breath and a shake of his head, he looks at Ghost. The man looks like he always does. Unaffected.
Soap nods.
“You hungry?” Ghost asks.
“No,” Soap says. He doesn’t feel much of anything right now.
“Let’s go inside. Some people ought to be awake.”
---
Soldiers never slept easy. Especially in these times. Soap’s own clock was fucked too but Jesus, how long did they spend outside?
He shakily checks his wristwatch and— oh. Two hours. Two fucking hours have passed since he last walked through the plan. Two hours since he thought about his journal or the bullet or the ringing or his guns.
Ghost moves through the sleepy crowd, towering over the Vaqueros. They make way for him easily. Soap follows through the revealed path and tries not to look behind him. Price, Alejandro, and Rudy are nowhere to be seen, but Gaz is quietly cleaning his gun nearby. Seeing him settles Soap down a little bit. Nobody points out his sorry state. Nobody looks surprised, either. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he’s partially grateful they’re pretending.
They make their way to the kitchen and get a hold of MREs from a dusty crate. Soap doesn’t want to check the expiry date. His eyes seek it automatically anyways. Only a little past the due date. That’s okay. He’s had to make do with much worse before.
Ghost goes to a corner where they can lurk and easily watch the rest of the open space. He sits on the floor, unbothered by the dirt. There’s probably some tarps they can grab but Soap really can’t be assed. He secures his gear, MRE in hand, and sits down next to Ghost.
There’s people working nearby. Soap hears them coordinating with each other in tired Spanish. He doesn’t want to bother them. Though Alejandro and Rudy call him hermano, this is their base that they have to recapture. Their men.
There’s still quite some space between them, so Soap shuffles a bit closer. Should he open the ration with Ghost’s knife?
“Wait,” Ghost says. He tears into the MRE quick and methodically lays out half of the packets. It’s a breakfast ration.
Ghost cuts into the napkins with a knife and drops a water purification tablet in his canteen. The thick gloves are removed. He’s wearing a thinner, all-black pair underneath. Classic Ghost.
“I won’t bite,” Ghost says. He dips the napkin into his water.
Soap moves closer. His arm twinges when he puts his weight on it. Bad idea.
There’s a cold wetness under his nose. His eyes shut automatically and he braces himself.
Each stroke leaves a cool, fiery trail, and his face vibrates with how hard he’s trying not to move. Ghost doesn’t comment. He slowly cleans the blood around his nose, next to his cheeks, above his lip. He digs into the corners. Circles on top of the biggest part of his nose. The underside. The napkin must be completely saturated with red. Water drips from his chin and falls on top of his folded hands. The trail hurts.
Ghost circles around each nostril. He does it again. Again.
The napkin is removed. Soap doesn’t remember opening his eyes.
Simon’s fingers are on his lips.
Ghost is not here right now. He’s somewhere between the rough and damp of his glove, between the slow rubs over Soap’s bottom lip, right in the fleshy middle part. It’s his thumb this time, and Soap can’t look at Simon’s eyes, so he focuses on his loosely held fingers moving back and forth. It hurts to look at them. They’re too close.
Simon moves to the corner of his lips, and he can’t be wiping blood; Soap’s already tongued it all back into his body. But he doesn’t stop.
After a bit, Simon’s fingers curl down. They hold his jaw. They’re not warm, but they caress the underside of his chin all the same as Simon runs his thumb across his bottom lip. He traces over the top. Goes back to the bottom. It’s a continuous ellipse, like an orbit.
Soap’s ration crackles in his palms.
It interrupts Simon, who breaks off and looks at his own MRE. Soap runs his tongue over his lips. It tastes of chemicals and iron.
“Your arm?” Simon asks.
“It’s fine. Nothing pulled. Doesn’t hurt,” Soap says.
“Copy.”
Simon turns to his meal.
Time to dig in, Soap supposes. He doesn’t think of the ball of disappointment weighing him down.
Soap opens the box with his hands and orders the packets by height and size. Next to him, Simon copies his organization. Soap doesn’t touch his own napkins and electrolytes, but he puts the little toothbrush in one of his emptier pockets. Can never know when you need it. He misses the pocket the first time.
Simon leans out and puts the package of biscuits next to Soap’s. As they both arrange their items, Simon also moves his chocolate bar. His cocoa.
“Keep the condensed milk,” Soap says.
Simon still moves it closer.
“Simon…”
“Take ‘em, MacTavish.”
Soap opens his chocolate. He traces the little design before choking it down. It’s dry and brittle. Not too sweet.
They both open the granola trail mix together and eat in silence. Ghost chews quietly and Soap doesn’t bother closing his mouth. They’re both dry swallowing it. This is one of the sweeter meals he’s had in a while. Will give them the quick burst of energy they’ll need.
He chews loudly. Rhythmically. Ten chews per swallow. Four raisins per bite.
Simon is a fast eater, faster than even him. Soap watches him take one of the opened biscuits and spread condensed milk over it.
He holds it out between them. The milk has oxidized. It looks like shit.
“Eat,” Simon says.
Soap exhales and reaches out. Picks it up from Simon’s hand. Their fingers brush and Simon turns to make his own milk-and-biscuit. His fingers precisely squeeze the little package, just as decisive as pulling a trigger. Soap chews fifteen times.
There’s dim laughter coming from his right. One of the Vaqueros has tipped over the plank of wood he was using for his gun and all the little components are spread over the floor. Gaz is moving to help him pick them all up.
Soap picks up his canteen and takes a solid gulp. It tastes like the electrolyte package he hasn’t used yet.
---
“We’ve got a few more hours still,” Ghost says.
“Aye. Can’t wait to blow up a Shadow. And that fucker Graves.”
“Soap…”
“Ghost…”
They finished eating a half hour ago and have been people watching since. Soap’s normally a stickler for cleanliness, but he doesn’t have the heart to remove the used packaging or store the half-eaten food for later. There’s a small chunk of chocolate missing from the second bar, resting on half-crumbled biscuits. There’s cocoa powder on the floor. Soap wants to take a picture. Proof of life.
Even though there’s more men around, it still feels like just the two of them.
Soap rubs a hand over his ears. The fucking ringing returned to his awareness a while ago. His headphones are on the main table. Too far.
“Bothering you?” Ghost asks.
“Aye,” Soap says. Then, because he’s exhausted: “Are ya gonna magic that away too?”
“In a sense,” Ghost says. He’s still looking ahead. “If you’d like.”
“I don’t want yer lice,” Soap replies.
“I know a few tricks. Your head, Johnny.”
He can’t defy a direct order from his lieutenant. They’re already sitting shoulder to shoulder. It’s not a question.
Ghost encircles his large hands around the back of Soap’s skull, the scratchy fabric tickling Soap’s exposed scalp. His fingers tangle in Soap’s mohawk, thumbs settling on his cheekbones. He stays there for a while, just holding Soap in his hand. His entire head can be cradled in one palm.
Ghost is not moving and it should be awkward, should be unnerving or scary, even. Anything but this relaxation. Soap should be shrugging it off and asking if Ghost’s lost his mind, doing this where anyone can see, but also just doing all of this in the first place.
He’s making another tactical error. They both are.
He can’t look at Ghost... what if they make contact? Explosives aren’t effective at this distance. When they’re this close, he’d also be dead before his limbs could move.
He stares at the gear around Ghost’s midsection, at the tucked smokes, trying to find where he’s hidden his guns and knives. The knife in his own pocket presses down on him, but Ghost’s started to move his thumbs and the coarse texture over his cheek is distracting. It’s still one of the softest things he’s felt on base.
Ghost’s thumbs move back and forth, slowly, like they’re feeling the texture of Soap’s face as much as Soap is trying to absorb him. Soap leans forwards.
Then, Ghost’s thumbs move back and press his ears shut.
The ringing stops.
Soap hears blood moving through his head. It’s not exactly silence in a literal sense, more of the muffled sound of an engine, like he’s the lone crewman floating on a spaceship in the middle of nowhere.
Ghost’s fingers are pushing hard enough for Soap’s ears to start hurting a bit. If he lets go right now, Soap will stab him.
He moves closer to Ghost. His forehead almost touches Ghost’s shoulder, hands tucked into his body. He wants to curl up against him and hold his knees close to his chest, but his gun is in the way, so he holds onto that instead.
He tucks it under his chin and keeps it close to his chest. It’s uncomfortable: the gun is cold and irregularly-shaped, but Ghost keeps his hold and Soap loses himself in the warmth he’s created around them, between wrappers and C4 and their linked bodies.
Ghost pushes his thumbs in even more, like he’s trying to cut through Soap’s ears and crush his brains, and Soap’s body hushes until it’s unsettling.
No, not like this. This is too much.
Soap moves back and Ghost lets go immediately. The noise of the safehouse returns and more people are awake now. Soap pushes himself back, deeper into the corner, and only stops when he’s encroaching too much on Ghost.
His ears ache, Christ. He keeps his gun on his lap and massages the area. It doesn’t really help.
Fuck, what just even happened? What were these last few hours?
His ears are still hurting. They’ll probably still ache for the next hour. Ghost is a strong beast of a man.
As Soap scratches his scalp and brushes out the limp mohawk, he wishes Ghost would do it again. He thinks of his journal. He can’t open it while Ghost is as laser-focused as he is on him right now.
He leans back against Ghost and returns to their joint observation. Half of the lightbulbs are burnt out and a few Vaqueros are using flashlights. Some are even using the light on their guns. It’s a special operation within itself.
He tries to stretch out but his legs don’t want to move. Looks like it’s finally hit him. Soap's head rests on the wall and he doesn’t have the energy to lift his arm to look at the watch. Hopefully there’s enough time left for a little catnap. Ghost was right. They need all the rest they can get.
The pain in his ears has dulled enough that the ringing overtakes it again. He moves his arm… yeah, still aches. He’ll need a painkiller later.
He hasn’t replaced his earplugs yet and even if he had the noise-cancelling headphones, they’re too bulky to take a nap with. He focuses instead on the weight of the gun on him, shuffles his torso so the explosives and metals clink against each other. Watches Gaz.
Next to him, Ghost is making a worryingly large amount of noise. It’s uncharacteristic. Shuffling, moving the fabric of his gear, bending his jacket, looking through pockets.
He watches Ghost disarm himself, removing the three sidearms that he’s somehow managed to conceal, and tinker with them. Who the fuck carries three pistols on himself?
Ghost puts two down on the cold floor and starts taking apart the one that’s left, but Soap’s concentration is fuzzy.
His head's too heavy and he doesn’t even try to fight it, only closes his eyes and prays he wakes up before they have to leave.
---
“Johnny. Time to go.”
He wakes up immediately. The safehouse is frantic and loud, shouted Spanish and the squeal of carts as weapons and equipment are being moved around and loaded into armoured vehicles. It’s as warm of a welcome as he’ll ever get.
Ghost’s applied a fresh layer of black around his eyes. He looks like a different person.
Nobody acknowledges them. The MRE packaging has been cleaned up. There’s no visible sign of what happened. Just them.
“Sir,” Soap says. His voice is still sleep-rough and he clears his throat, rubs his eyes hard and takes a drink of water from his canteen. Gotta prepare for combat. Combat mindset. Remember the plan. Alejandro’s men. Graves.
He doesn’t get up just yet. He has to inventory his gear: knife, gun, sidearm, tripwire, explosives, mouse trap, journal, MRE shit. Knife, gun, sidearm, tripwire, explosives, mouse trap, journal, MRE shit. Knife, gun, sidearm, tripwire, explosives, mouse trap, journal, MRE leftovers, Ghost’s boots.
Soap looks up. Ghost extends a hand.
Soap grabs it, squeezes, and stands.