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Distinctly, John remembers the moon’s reflection on the wet cobblestone that night in Las Almas. The reflection lighted his path, guiding him forwards, alongside that gruff voice in his ear that rattled off yet another terrible joke. It had to have been the third one during the desperate journey Soap was making in the dark. The humorous banter settled his pounding heart just enough to get through the next few minutes.
Whether it was half a dog, goldfish or skydiving, the jokes, or maybe rather the care of the person staying behind to tell them, pulled his mind out of the cloud of panic and back into his body.
Staring at the bright reflection on bloodied stones, arm burning and chaos sounding all around him, Ghost’s voice was a tether.
Before that moment, Soap hadn’t been fool enough to believe that the spooky lieutenant liked him - hell, sometimes he considered that the other man was barely tolerating him. It made sense. Soap was everything that the Ghost seemed to shy away from: loud, bright and outgoing. An explosion of a person.
Soap knew this, and wore it as a badge of pride. He knew that he could be regarded as annoying to some, and in his younger years it hung over his mind like a dark cloud. In this line of work, though, he soon found that if he didn’t cling to his bright smile and loud personality, the death and grime and terrors of the world would dig their claws in him. So, he shrugged off the old shame, and allowed himself to remain a light in the shadows, burning strongly for as long as he could.
Still, he had slightly mourned the friendship he believed would never flourish with his lieutenant. The large man, though an intimidating figure, was fascinating. Soap’s mind filled with thoughts of him soon after meeting, curiosities dancing with each new, tiny tidbit revealed to him about Simon Riley.
But Soap was loud, bright and explosive, where Ghost was a silent killer, shrouded in dark. The sergeant didn’t miss the eye rolls, the furrow of a brow behind the mask whenever his mouth would run on about everything and anything. And so, while Soap had come to treasure his incessant optimism, he still mourned that he would never get to know the Ghost as more than a reluctant colleague.
His breath caught, as it hit him in the downpour of Las Almas, not that far from the church, that he had been reading Ghost all wrong. Old insecurities had clouded his judgement of the masked man; he had convinced himself he was impossible to like for someone like that, simply because of how desperately he wanted him to.
The worry in the low timbre when it called his name, his nickname, over comms, the steady jokes calming his pulse, the guidance through hell - Ghost liked him. Liking him alive was synonymous with simply liking him. It made John’s insides flutter with warmth. He had been making a friend this entire time, unbeknownst to himself.
It had been obvious once he had made the realisation. The skull mask had turned every few minutes in the truck driving recklessly out of the city of souls, Ghost checking over the Scot where he slumped in the leather seat, smearing blood on the upholstery.
“Stay awake, Johnny,” he had ordered, the voice that Soap would earlier have thought angry or disappointed, suddenly doing very little to hide the deep-rooted worry. “Open eyes, sergeant. There you go.”
And Soap had smiled weakly, crashing hard as the stim left his system, but fighting to keep his eyes open for the man reaching over to pat his cheek. He managed to stay awake for all of five minutes before blacking out.
When he had woken, it was to a skull swimming in and out of his vision, and for a second he figured that the reaper had come to claim his wretched soul. It didn’t scare him much; after all, he had long since accepted his meeting with death would come early in this job. He would have liked to work in the 141 longer than he had, however. He liked his teammates, liked Captain Price and his funny moustache and strong leadership, liked Gaz and his like minded humour and youthful honesty. He liked the big, scary Ghost, even if he hadn’t delved as deeply into the mysteries of that man as he wanted to.
The skull was talking to him.
“I’m not the grim reaper, you overdramatic wanker.”
Soap blinked owlishly, the world tilting back into focus. Oh right. That skull belonged to none other than his superior. He grinned sheepishly.
“Thought I saw the pearly gates fer a second there, Lt. Was jus’ yer pearly whites.”
“You called me a reaper, MacTavish. Don’t pretend you mistook me for heaven just to flatter me.”
John chuckled. “Sorry, sir. Ye cannae blame me, wearin’ that thing.”
He looked down at himself where he was still resting in the passenger seat of the truck. Ghost was leaning in through the door, adjusting his handiwork: neat bandages wrapped his arm, grime and blood gone from the area around it. Medical supplies cluttered the small space around them. Soap was suddenly very aware of how cramped it was with both of them there, the body heat of his lieutenant close enough to feel on his own skin. Oh, and John wasn’t wearing his shirt. His cheeks flushed.
“Thanks, doc. Ye think I’ll live tae see another day?”
“Sadly, yes.”
Soap whacked the other’s arm playfully, thankful for the joking atmosphere. It distracted him from the much more sincere admiration that had threatened to overwhelm him before.
“Ye like me, ya numpty. Said so yerself!”
“Did I?” Ghost tightened the bandage with care, despite the flat look he sent John’s way.
“Aye. Dinnae tell me blood loss made me imagine it. I remember everything,” Soap teased, trying not to focus on the electric feeling that ran through his body every time Ghost brushed against him while tending to his wound.
“What do you remember, then?”
Keeping Soap talking to keep him from passing out again? He knew exactly what Ghost was playing at, but appreciated the sentiment too much to call him out on it.
“Ye like me. Ye love Kentucky bourbon, like a good ol’ boy. Yer jokes rival my old man’s, absolutely awful.” He smiled softly down at the hands packing together the first aid kit. “And ye claim tae have a cold heart, despite waiting fer me at tha’ church and then patching me up.”
Ghost narrowed his eyes at him. The silence quickly became tinged with that fragile, earnest thing that hung between them. Damn his big mouth.
“You’re right. Must be the blood loss.” Brown eyes crinkled at him, and Soap released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “No one will believe otherwise, if you tell them.”
“Ach, harsh, sir.”
“You gonna be alright for now? No more sleeping on the job?”
“How could I fall asleep in such esteemed company?”
Ghost snorted, stepping out of the passenger side of the car. “You just did, you git.”
Soap grinned to himself as the door smacked in his face.
With the VIP pass into Ghost’s cold heart acquired, Soap found that the 141 quickly became his home away from home. The anxieties that had weighed on him around the lieutenant once were gone, and he felt more comfortable than ever, easily falling into his own place in the strange puzzle of people that made up the task force.
It felt almost like a secret, seeing as the world around them was becoming more and more dangerous, falling into war, that now was the time of his life that Soap treasured more than any other. Even with every mission feeling more precarious, with close calls becoming the norm, he had never in his life felt like he belonged quite like he did there and then.
Price, the one who had taken them all under his wing, was a pillar to which they all held onto in the chaos that was Makarov and Shepherd. The scent of cigars brought safety these days. Kind eyes often warmed at Soap’s semantics, even if the words spoken were reprimanding.
Gaz felt like a childhood friend almost immediately, as if they had gone to football together as wee lads and had stayed over late to eat at each other’s houses. Sometimes, Soap remembered that they had only known each other for a few years, and he brought it up to his best friend with wonder. He got called a sentimental doofus every time, to which he stole Gaz’ black cap, resulting in a chase that always ended with Price yelling.
Laswell wasn’t as involved at first, living far away and being their ever-professional, tactical superior. She was reliable and skilled at what she did, but Soap never really got to know her outside of their work.
That was until the mission over Christmas that took place in the States, which ended with a bruised bunch of soldiers spending the holiday with Kate and her wife. Even Ghost had come along, although at that point it was a given, since Soap would have pestered him endlessly otherwise. Soft light had coated the tired group as they rested after an amazing meal, chatting quietly in the Laswells’ living room, alcohol making professional barriers blur beyond recognition. John had killed seven people that day, had been grazed by a bullet to his temple, and somehow it was one of the best days of his life. Even though Ghost had called his feet stinky, they hadn’t been removed from where he had laid them over the masked man’s lap. No one commented on it. It was common knowledge by now that the Ghost tolerated John MacTavish, and maybe even liked him. At least liked him alive, Soap mused to himself, falling asleep resting against the giant, his team’s voices around him lulling him into a peaceful slumber.
How he had once believed that Ghost would never become his friend became a great mystery to Soap with every day spent in the man’s company. Sometimes it felt like a gravitational pull was holding them together; stuck in the other’s life, circling back to each other when they were separated.
Soap didn’t know when he had fallen in love with Simon Riley, didn’t even realise that he had until it consumed his very being, and there was no turning back.
Maybe it was one of those many times that Ghost found him against the odds, in muddy battlefields where everyone looked the same.
Keeping his blood in, as he had once been ordered to do, Soap never doubted that his lieutenant would find him. He did every time, always tearing through the people between them, until he could bring John home.
Maybe he fell in love in those quiet moments on base. In the moments where Ghost would make his coffee just right, not even needing to be asked, or when they would exchange those horrid jokes that had everyone around them groaning. It could be the nights where nightmares haunted their sleep, and hushed voices spilled more and more secrets, until one day Soap realised that no one knew him as well as Simon did; and no one knew Simon, had been allowed to see so much of his vulnerable, warming heart, as John.
Sometimes, he wondered if he had fallen in love on those moonlit cobblestones in Las Almas.
But there wasn’t much room for love in those very days that he realised just how much it filled his life. War was raging, and all there was room for was fire, bullets, death and staying alive, trudging over the graves biting at their heels without getting dragged into them.
Their team worked like a well-oiled machine and Soap wouldn’t be the one to introduce pesky emotions into the mix, like one would light a spark in a gas leak. He and Ghost were a duo of increasingly great renown, efficient and deadly. A ghost story amongst enemy troops. He couldn’t allow that to be compromised.
Soap bit down on his lips, ignoring his selfish wants in a world that was already too selfish, that already took and took. It didn’t need him to muck it up with something as trivial as love.
Oh, but how he loved. How he wanted and craved, selfishly. He relished every soft-spoken “Johnny” , every touch and late-night conversation. He basked in the fond looks sent his way when he made Ghost’s tea just right in turn, or the tight squeezes to his arm after he had been the one to find the lieutenant amongst fire and rubble, the one to drag him home. Months passed by, then years, and with every bloody mission, every close call, John found himself longing only for home, his youthful passion for justice being selfishly, selfishly , replaced with a new want; want of safety, want of strong, warm arms and soft, scarred lips. Want, no, need of love.
He knew it couldn’t become love, even as that clawing desire finally spilled free. It hadn’t been anything phenomenal or breathtaking that had finally broken the dam inside him. Except to John, it had been, always would be. It was Simon, after all.
It happened on a quiet night after a month-long mission where everything had gone to hell fast, and then had stayed hellish for the entire time. Soap felt exhausted to his very core, yet when he had gone to his room to sleep, the nightmares had descended faster than bloodthirsty hounds, tearing into his mind without remorse.
He tumbled to his floor, heaving wet sobs, and for the first time in his career, he worried for that bright light that he had so proudly flaunted once. It was being snuffed, strangled in the horrors, finally. He always figured he would die before that had a chance of happening. He stayed on the cold floor for half an hour, staring emptily into the dark, before staggering to his feet. They took him down the well-known route to the base kitchen.
He smelled the Earl Grey before he entered, knowing exactly who would greet him. He relaxed at the familiar sight of Ghost at the small table nearest the sink, nursing the cup Soap had gotten him with little ghosts on it. The eyes framed by a simple balaclava seemed almost amber in the soft light, twinkling when they spotted the new arrival. It was possibly the best sight Soap knew. He knew that gentle look was reserved for him. It had him living in a moment where he could convince himself that the love he felt didn’t only go one way.
“You look awful,” Ghost greeted. The initial look had been replaced by one of worry as the lieutenant took in the sleep deprived Scot.
“Aye, ye’r looking right braw too, ya bawbag,” Soap grumbled, going over to the cupboards to get a glass. After a moment of consideration, he started scrounging around for the bottle of scotch he knew was hidden somewhere. He didn’t notice that Ghost had moved before he stepped back into a firm body. He startled, turning around to face the man who was standing very close. He could feel the body heat warming him, just like it had in that car outside Las Almas.
Ghost brought a hand up, holding Soap’s jaw and tilting his head to the light to get a better look. Soap allowed it, too tired to even feel his usual excitement at the rare touch.
“You’ve been crying.”
John blushed, remembering the tears that had flowed freely when he woke from his night terror. His eyes must’ve still been red-rimmed. He cleared his throat, averting his eyes. “One o’ those nights.”
Ghost hummed. His thumb stroked over stubble on Soap’s jaw, and the sergeant practically melted into the gentle touch with a shiver. That was new, he thought. When he looked up, brown eyes widened as if Ghost only then caught what he did. The larger man stepped back quickly.
Or he would have, if John’s hand hadn’t shot out to grab a tattooed arm tightly, yanking him back.
“Dinnae go.” Soap licked his lips nervously. “Please.”
There was nothing special about this night. They had comforted each other countless nights before, after countless nightmares before this one. Soap had kept his selfish wants locked so securely away, but one kind touch was apparently enough to make his resolve crumble, falling through his fingers like sand. The hourglass finally ran out with his patience.
Ghost didn’t move away again, instead looking down at Soap with dark eyes that burned with something intimate. It felt as if the breath was punched from his chest as he saw that same want, that hunger, his own lust, incredibly reflected back at him. He decided that maybe he could be a little selfish, this once.
They moved in sync, just like always, like they did when they dealt out death on the field. The gravitational pull finally made them crash, as they moulded together like two puzzle pieces that had always been made to fit just right. Ghost’s body heat was an inferno when it finally pressed fully against him. The mask was tugged over a crooked nose, revealing those scarred lips that starred prominently on the pages of John’s sketchbook. He could only admire them briefly before they descended on Soap’s own. It was hungry and charged and years in the making, and it was everything that he had wanted .
It wasn’t love. It couldn’t be love, no matter how much he needed it to be.
Despite reminding himself of that over and over, he couldn’t help the love shining through the cracks made in his carefully crafted walls. It shone through in the way he tugged the mask back down before they returned to Ghost’s room, despite how much he wanted to watch that face forever. It shone through in the softly whispered “Beautiful. So beautiful, Simon.” when he traced scarred features with a featherlight touch. It shone through in small giggles, breathless moans and desperate kisses.
Soap could even convince himself that it was love that spilled from Simon in return when kiss-bruised lips brushed over the old scar in his arm that the lieutenant had once patched up. That maybe, just maybe, he could imagine it to be love when hands framed his face, stroking his cheeks gingerly as Simon looked at him like he was something precious, pace slowing momentarily as they breathed in each other’s gasps. His heart ached, yelling at him that it was love when afterwards he was pulled against a strong, sweaty chest, finally finding the sleep that had previously escaped him.
They both knew there was no room for love, though. It was an unspoken truth between them, an understanding that in this life, in this war, they had jobs to do. Soap fell into Ghost’s bed again many times after that, savouring what small breaks they could steal amidst the dreadful reality. Their little safe haven.
It was all he longed for as he laid in the ruins of that terrible war. He couldn’t bring himself to care how terribly selfish it was to mourn himself in the aftermath of an explosion that had killed so many innocents. Soap wasn’t innocent. He had always known it would end here. He had expected death to claim him much sooner.
But with blood wetting his uniform, painting the ground around him crimson, he couldn’t find it in himself to spare thoughts for the screaming innocents. He mourned the guilty John MacTavish and the love he never got to indulge. Because if he didn’t mourn, who would?
Simon Riley would. Ghost would mourn him, even if Soap had never told him the depth of his feelings. He wished he hadn’t tried to be selfless, wished he had allowed himself love, even in war. While pain was becoming distant, detached, cold settling in his limbs, all he could feel was regret; his time in the 141 was the best time of his life, apart from his one, unsaid secret.
A cracked skull swam into focus, someone grabbing hold of him, a deep voice sounding like it was coming from afar. The grim reaper, maybe.
“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny, stop calling me that,” the skull rasped, before it was ripped away. Simon’s face was revealed instead, black paint streaking lines down pale cheeks.
“Ye- Ye’ve been… crying?” Soap coughed wetly. Simon held him even tighter, speaking rushed words into his radio before returning his full attention to the man in his arms.
“Yeah, well, it’s one of those days.” His voice was choked, stray tears dropping onto Soap’s face. A gloved hand came up to brush them away, the touch so painfully familiar, so reminiscent of warmer, better times. He should have told Simon then. Maybe he could tell him now.
“I-” His voice shook, black dots dancing across his world as it threatened to escape him. Not yet. He needed to say it first.
“Shh, don’t talk, Johnny. Save your strength. Help is here soon.”
“I-” Dammit, why was it so hard? After forcing the words down so long, they suddenly stuck in his throat when he finally wanted to set them free.
“Price!” Ghost yelled, eyes no longer on John. Their absence left him even colder.
More people were coming their way, more familiar voices yelling nearby, and it settled some of his anxiety; it evaporated completely as shining, brown eyes found him again.
“I love ye,” Soap whispered, finally. A weight lifted from his chest with the words.
Ghost’s face twisted in dread, the tremors wracking the body holding him becoming stronger. “Don’t do this to me. Not now, not like this.”
“Wish- wish I told- ye sooner.”
“I know, you fool.” Simon rested his forehead against John’s. “Of course I know. I love you, too.”
Soap mourned the other’s warmth when Ghost lifted his head to yell at the newcomers desperately. He mourned a lot of things, but at least not the things left unsaid. Not anymore.
Ghost started moving, and Soap reached for him in a panicked scramble. The world was darkening, and if he left it without Simon’s warmth against him, then he was truly meant for hell rather than pearly gates. But of course he was. Oh, of course he was.
Then the warmth wrapped back around him, familiar scents entering his senses again as he was lifted off of the ground, carried quickly through the burning ruins of war.
“Dinnae go,” he pleaded weakly.
“Never.”
A life where Simon never left. A life where Simon loved him back. Oh, how badly he needed that. He clung to it with a trembling grip, suddenly utterly terrified of the nothingness reaching for his body and mind. He was scared to die, for the first time, gasping from the overwhelming fear.
“Breathe. Breathe, Johnny.” Ghost sounded like he wasn’t following his own advice, speaking in frantic, hurried mutters.
“I- I cannae do this anymore,” Soap confessed, hot tears spilling over his grimy cheeks. “I dinnae wanna fight anymore, Si.”
“I know, I know. You won’t have to, okay?” They were inside some sort of transport now. There were more hands tethering him now. Out the corner of his eye he caught sight of a black cap, and there was a faint smell of cigars in the air. He didn’t dare look away from Simon, though.
“We-we’ll retire? Ye… an’ me?”
“Yes. Yes, God yes. We’ve done enough, Johnny. Let’s rest, yeah? You and me. I promise.”
That sounded like a dream. One of those dreams he never allowed himself to linger in, for fear that his world would crash if he wished himself away.
Incredible that it was a dream that kept him awake, that kept the dark at bay all the way to the help he needed. Then again, it wasn’t a dream, it wasn't just a reflection on bloodied cobblestone. Not anymore.