Chapter Text
Ghost steps into Price’s office, shutting the door behind him. His eyes scan the room, an old reflex by now, and they float over Soap’s form already sitting in one of Price’s ratty old armchairs. They regularly have meetings like this, just the three of them, to discuss the details on whatever missions they have coming up that the other members of the taskforce don’t need to concern themselves with.
Ghost isn’t surprised that he and Soap are being paired up, yet again. Las Almas was almost a year ago, but Price hasn’t ceased sending the two of them on buddy-cop missions. It’d be almost sweet, the way Price encourages Ghost to go play with his friend, if it didn’t frustrate Ghost as often as it did.
He likes being paired with Soap. Too much. He thinks he would benefit from more time alone, if he’s honest with himself.
“Ah, Simon, take a seat,” Price gestures to the empty chair in front of his desk. Ghost sits and makes himself comfortable. He frowns, taking in Price’s appearance. The Captain has large bags under his eyes as if he hasn’t been getting nearly enough sleep. While that would be relatively normal for men in their career field, Price also has a half-smoked cigarette in his hand. He doesn’t smoke those unless he’s facing a complex puzzle he feels he can’t solve, typically preferring the victory of a lush cigar.
“What’s wrong?”
Price scowls, ashing his cigarette in a small ashtray to his left. “We’ve been assigned a job from Laswell. Been going over the paperwork since last night.”
“Refused to tell me anything about it until you got here, L.T.,” Soap chips in unnecessarily. Ghost is used to listening to the sergeant talk just to hear his own voice, though, and finds the noise almost soothing.
“And?” Ghost knows not just any job would prompt this reaction from Price.
“It’s messy.” Price puts out his cigarette and runs a hand over his face. “Does the name Lentsevskaya ring any bells to you?”
Ghost’s eyebrows knit together. “No.”
Price tosses the folder into Ghost’s lap. “He’s our problem, now. Well, more specifically, his laboratories are.” He tosses a twin folder to Soap, who catches it in waiting hands.
The pair flip through the documents. Ghost’s eyes skate over the details. Why is it always the Russians? He groans internally. While it’s more comfortable to wear his mask in the cold rather than in the intense heat of the desert, sometimes he wishes they’d get sent somewhere nice and temperate for once, rather than the freezing forests of northern Russia.
The mission briefing details how Lentsevskaya’s corrupt scientists have been manufacturing chemical stimulants for anonymous military groups, organized crime syndicates, basically anyone nasty enough to want top-of-the-line chemical warfare agents. When Ghost flips to the page about the chemicals themselves, he grimaces.
“What the fuck, Price,” he hears Soap gasp aloud.
Price sighs. “I know, son. Nasty business. Fucking warcrimes, all of it.”
There are three main substances the lab produces.
The first is a gas that is stored in large tanks, to be deployed over an entire strike force or similarly-sized military team. The vapors are so toxic they melt the lung tissue inside of any poor bastard who inhales it. Within thirty seconds.
Another project is a stimulant so powerful it pushes soldiers into a mania so crazed they turn animalistic, eager to rampage on whatever sorry creature is near it, happy to tear flesh from viscera. Identified by a thick, sludgy consistency and chalky residue.
The last one on the page is a potent aphrodisiac meant to humiliate and degrade. It’s supposed to be the consistency of water, but cloudy in color. Soldiers turn feverish and twitchy, desperate to ease the burning and itching of their skin where they feel a fully incapacitating, primordial need. The need to rut. To grind the hips into satisfaction.
Ghost can’t tear his eyes away from the page. He’s well aware of the typical chemical warfare agents, nerve gas and blistering agents, so the first one doesn’t phase him too much. The other two, however… he’s never heard of mood alterants being used tactically on the battlefield. The idea is unsettling, and he tries not to imagine himself under the effect of either one.
From the seat next to him, he hears a huff of laughter. “You mean to tell me Ah would be rubbin’ away like a dog in heat, if Ah got dosed with the horny one?” Soap jokes.
Price grimaces, and Ghost watches as the smirk slowly drops from Soap’s face. “It’s much more serious,” their captain explains. “It’s not as if these chemicals are being approved by the MHRA. We have no idea if the mood alterants are fatal or not. Laswell was able to pass me some initial intel and while it wasn’t much, let’s just say I didn’t particularly enjoy reading about what some of their test subjects went through.” Price’s fingers twitch, as if he’s thinking about another cigar or cigarette.
“What do we do if we get accidentally exposed, sir?” Soap is the one who asks, although Ghost has the same thoughts.
Price grimaces and runs a hand through his regulation-short hair. “If it’s the aphrodisiac, you’ll have about an hour to get yourself to a safe location and hunker down until exfil can find you. If it’s the rage one…” He looks both of his soldiers in the eyes. “Run. As fast as possible. In opposite directions.”
Ghost clears his throat “When do we leave?”
“0600 hours. Best get some shut eye.”
---
Their orders are pretty textbook. They’re dropped in by helicopter 4 clicks out from the facility, meant to hike in, sweep the building for intel on where the chemical agents may have been shipped to, neutralize enemies, and then Soap gets to blow the whole goddamn place to bits. They’ve been given a map to a small safehouse to hunker down in while waiting for exfil, which Ghost has shoved in the side pocket of his gear bag.
As he watches the helicopter disappear behind the treetops, Ghost admits to himself that he feels more on-edge than usual. He trusts that he and Soap can handle just about anything, this last year together has proved that multiple times over. It’s the details of the lab chemicals that have him spooked.
He can’t get last night’s nightmare out of his mind. The mental images of him accidentally exposed to the Rage compound, involuntarily tearing Soap to shreds, ripping at flesh with his own two hands… it had him bolting upright in his bed, chest heaving and covered with a sheen of sweat. He’s used to violent nightmares, but they never feature Johnny in a violent way.
Ghost clenches his fists at the memory.
“Alright, L.T?”
“Roger,” he says, pressing his shoulder against Soap in what he hopes comes off as a friendly way, before taking the lead up the unmarked trail. “C’mon. We’re burning daylight.”
They reach the facility by nightfall, stopping on the hill above it so that they can scope out the place from a height advantage. Soap digs a pair of binoculars out of his pack and Ghost looks on, feeling the anticipation thrumming through his veins. He enjoys these moments with his sergeant, right before their missions become tactile. Shrouded in shadows, Ghost feels every bit the ambush predator he is, his hunting companion at his side.
“No movement,” Soap murmurs quietly and passes the binoculars to Ghost. “Only two vehicles in the parking bay.”
“Any visuals on guards?” Ghost peers through the magnification lenses for himself, his focus pulled towards the two entrances he recognizes from the mission brief. Empty.
“I didn’t see any. Weird, no?”
“Affirmative.” The feeling of unease returns to Ghost, and once again he’s launched back into his nightmare, watching himself dig his fingers into wounds that he created, coating his hands thickly with blood-
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, but he feels Johnny’s curious eyes on him anyways. He turns to appraise his sergeant. “Soap. When we’re in there. Don’t touch anything you don’t absolutely need to. Only documents, understand? Nothing comes in contact with your skin.”
Soap nods, an easy smirk gracing his face. “Och, dinnae worry! Nothins’ gonnae happen, L.T, you’ll see. We’ll be in and out like nobody’s business. Ah’ve got your six. Not gonnae let any harm come to a single hair on yer pretty little head, sir.”
Ghost flushes at the compliment, grateful for the covering of his balaclava. This… thing he’s been harboring for Soap preens in his chest, every time the Scot is even remotely complimentary. He supposes he’s lucky that Johnny talks a lot of shit.
“...Okay,” he returns hesitantly. He breathes in and out slowly, centering himself. He’s resolute in that the mission will not go sideways.
---
The mission goes sideways. Of fucking course.
They’ve swept through most of the rooms, dropped a couple of guards who were playing cards in a breakroom. They’d put up a bit of a fight, but nothing Soap and Ghost couldn’t handle. Otherwise, things are going smoothly. Almost suspiciously so, but Ghost has always been a paranoid bastard.
He’s finishing up in some sort of laboratory side room, looking for any documents he may have missed. Soap is already outside planting charges, ready to blow the facility sky-high.
The sergeant is chattering away over their comms about the explosives he’s chosen for the job. If they were keeping it strictly professional, Ghost would have reminded him that comms should be kept tactical and minimal. But since the beginning of their friendship, he’d let Soap lead him further and further off of the path of professionalism, and into the confusing space of something more . It’s the man’s voice, he thinks. The Scottish brogue has always managed to ease something in Ghost’s chest and relax him in a way he isn’t quite able to manage on his own. It’s one of the reasons he’s taken to hovering near the man in between missions, hungry for more of that relaxation.
“ - a higher peak pressure, so the blast wave doesnae propagate as well as Ah’d prefer.”
“Mhm.” Ghost is only half listening. He’s found a couple of document print outs and he’s tucking them into his vest. Out of his vision’s periphery, he sees a door marked ‘storage,’ and approaches it. There might be a dusty filing cabinet hidden away, worth checking. Maybe when they get back from this mission, he’ll offer to buy Johnny a couple rounds at the dive bar close to base. He looks forward to nights like those, spent drinking and talking shit and standing maybe a bit too close to one another.
“ - and Ah’d have to combine it with fuel oil to get it nearly as useful. But Ah have a feeling that you’ll like this one, Ghost.”
Despite himself, the corner of his mouth pulls upwards. “Why’s that, Johnny?” He opens the closet door.
He’s not expecting a terrified and half-crazed person wearing a lab coat to be staring back at him.
He already has his gun up, but the scientist has the advantage of surprise. They throw a large vial of something at him- hard. It shatters against his skull mask and immediately Ghost feels liquid seeping into his balaclava, already damp against his goddamn mouth . He puts a bullet into them and drops the body, and once he’s sure he’s neutralized the threat, he stumbles backwards, wrenching off his mask and balaclava underneath.
It’s too late, though. He felt wetness come into contact with too much of his skin. He inhaled fumes - sickly sweet, and nauseating. “Fuck!”
Immediately his heart starts to race. He can’t tell what color the rest of the liquid is, splattered against the black tile of the laboratory floor. He stares harder, willing the broken remains of the unmarked vial to give him its secrets. What was it? What was it? Is he going to go mad? Is he about to finally lose the rest of his sanity, after all these years of reclaiming the pathetic scraps he could?
“Ghost! How copy?”
Ghost hears Soap’s voice in his ear, and it only serves to spiral him further. He can’t let Johnny near him. He’s still able to breathe and it doesn’t feel like his lungs are melting, so he’s certain it’s one of the other chemicals. The ones that alter a soldier’s behavior. It’s not safe for Johnny to be anywhere within his vicinity.
“L.T? Simon!”
“Soap,” he breathes. He can feel the claws of panic starting to sink into him now. Tendrils of dread seizing up his spine. “I got exposed to something. I don’t know which one. You gotta leave me behind.”
“Like hell Ah will.” He can hear Soap panting. Running? He isn’t sure, but he hopes so. He hopes that Johnny is following orders and running like hell in the opposite direction of where he is. His own heartbeat is uncomfortably audible now. He’s tempted to run himself, to try and get as much distance as possible between him and his sergeant.
Through the fog of panic, he remembers something about the viscosity of the chemicals. Thick or thin, he remembers. He dares to streak his combat boot over the spill, to see how viscous the liquid is underneath.
It’s water-thin, almost like he dropped a cup of tea.
Fuck.
“Ghost? How copy?”
His head whips up- Soap’s voice hadn’t just come through the comms. He was here, in the room’s threshold.
“Are you fucking stupid?” Ghost growls, anger bubbling up in his chest. “You were supposed to run. ” He feels raw and vulnerable, with his masks discarded on the floor next to the spill. He hates that Johnny can plainly see the snarl of his lips.
“C’mon. You and Ah both know Ah’m not leaving you here. Which one was it?” Soap starts to walk towards him, but Ghost quickly puts up his hand, not wanting the sergeant to get any closer to the chemical spill.
Instead, he walks carefully away from the puddle on the floor, unlacing his boot and discarding it next to his masks. This’ll be an uncomfortable walk to the safe house, he thinks miserably, before joining Soap at the doorway. “We have an hour and counting,” he says in response to Soap’s question.
Recognition lights up Soap’s bright blue eyes. “Let’s get your sorry ass outside, yeah?”
“Fine.”
---
They steal one of the vehicles from outside the lab, driving a safe distance away before Soap hits his detonator with glee. The entire facility goes up in flames, weirdly purple in color. Ghost assumes all of the chemicals stored inside are the cause of the peculiar color, and resolutely keeps silent as Soap navigates them to the safehouse, a small cabin nestled into a particularly thick section of forest. Calling it sparse would be an understatement. It has a threadbare couch, a double bed covered with an ancient-looking quilt, and a chest at the foot of the bed stocked with supplies.
Ghost wants to tear himself from his skin.
The car ride here had been torture. As soon as he was seated next to Soap, he’d started feeling… warm. Twitchy in a languid, anticipatory way. It's the onset of the aphrodisiac, he knows it. If he was feeling this way already, Ghost is worried about what will happen when his hour is up. And as much as he’d been worried for Soap’s safety before, he’s anxious in an awful, new way now.
He wants Johnny.
He’s wanted Johnny for a year now, true, but he manages to keep himself in control, just far back enough to toe the line of professional-enough conduct, but close enough to soak Johnny in. To appreciate his sergeant and pine indulgently closely.
Exfil in 10 hours. You can get through the next 10 hours. He says it to himself with a clenched jaw and a firm resolve. He will not let his attraction to Soap affect his response. He’s Soap’s commanding officer. He’s Soap’s friend. Harboring feelings without telling him is inappropriate enough.
He sits down on the bed, ignoring the groaning creak of the wooden frame, and tries to keep from panting. Soap is staring and it’s… distracting.
“Do you… need anything, L.T?”
“Water,” he suggests. Maybe it’ll cool the cloying heat in the back of his throat.
Soap hands him a bottle and Ghost takes extra care to not let their fingers brush. He pops open the cap and downs the whole thing in one go. It’s cool and refreshing, but it does nothing to slake the scratching, needy feeling starting to break out all over his body. He throws the empty bottle against the opposite wall and grimaces.
Their eyes connect, and he can see that Soap looks nervous now, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Ghost desperately needs him to stop moving his fingers like that. It’s distracting.
“How are you feeling?” Soap asks quietly, obviously concerned.
Ghost can feel the heat radiating off of himself. He feels feverish, twitchy, like every nerve in his skin has been set alight and needs to be soothed. He’s embarrassed, but he can feel his cock starting to swell in his pants. He feels both overstimulated and under-touched at the same time, and something tells him that if he doesn’t get touch soon, he’ll unravel.
“Wish I had my mask,” he admits.
Soap doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sits at Ghost’s feet, reaches out and holds Ghost’s hand.
Ghost groans, his fingers immediately clenching down and grasping as hard as possible. “ Fuck. ” The contact is so good, even through his skeleton gloves. The pressure of Johnny’s hand in his sends pleasant jolts of electricity up his arm and to his heart and for a moment it feels like his whole universe is narrowed down into just their hands, just the contact points.
He can feel his control already slipping away from him as he careens towards a mistake that’ll end everything. All of the pining. The friendship they’ve built over the last year. The banter over talks and time spent together between missions and quiet evenings coexisting in the break room together. All of it.
God, not like this.
He rips his hand away from Johnny’s and it hurts. “Soap,” he manages to rasp out, panting slightly. “I need you to restrain me outside, and wait in this room until exfil arrives.”
“Ah willnae,” Soap replies, immediately obstinate. He’s still sitting on the floor in front of Ghost, his big blue eyes staring up into Ghost’s own. “Ah won’t abandon you like this.”
“Sergeant, listen to me.”
“No! Ah-”
“ Johnny.” Ghost is pleading now. Somewhere in the back of his drug-addled mind, he laments the fact that Soap can see his face, how pathetic he must look. But he barely has any control left. Whatever this drug is, it’s strong. He’s so feverish. He feels a strong urge to strip his clothes off, to soothe his skin with the cool night air of the forest against his naked visage. He takes a deep breath. “Johnny. Do it.”
Soap breathes out sharply, clearly displeased but unwilling to let Ghost’s pleas go unheeded. Ghost watches as he reaches into his pack, thankful that Soap is listening to him for once.
The scot pulls out a single plastic zip tie. He positions Ghost’s hands together and pulls it taught. Ghost tries his best not to react, but when Soap’s fingers brush against his arms, it feels like they soothe the ache pulsing through his skin. He needs more. If he could just have those hands on his skin. If I could just wrap my arms around Johnny, nuzzle into his neck and-
Ghost growls, interrupting his own thoughts. He flexes his shoulder muscles and feels the zip tie become tighter. “You’re fucking joking. Use at least two more. This won’t hold me.”
“Enough, Ghost! Ah’m not scared of ya! Ah’m… Ah am going to help you through this. ” Soap says it while looking directly into Ghost’s eyes, determination and impatience on his features. Impatient for Ghost to understand…
Understand…
Oh.
Soap intends to touch him.
A full-body shiver wracks Ghost at the thought, his core tensing and releasing. He can’t help but want it and despise himself for wanting it, at the same time.
“Johnny. Johnny. Listen to me.” He has to tell him, warn the younger man to get out of here.
Instead, Soap slides a hand underneath his shirt, letting his palm rest against Ghost’s chest. The touch is grounding and soothing and sending all of his attention right there.
Ghost moans. Out loud.
“It’s okay. I’m here,” Soap says quietly, casually dragging his thumb over the skin of Ghost’s pectoral as if it isn’t driving Ghost fucking insane.
Ghost clenches his jaw so tight he can hear the tension ringing in his ears. He wants so desperately to believe Soap is doing this because he returns Ghost’s affections. The slimmest of possibilities that Johnny might love him back, want him just as bad, sends Ghost’s head spiraling. Soap is the type to love freely, after all.
But that’s just it, isn’t it.
Soap genuinely loves his friends and isn’t afraid of affection, and Ghost has become one of those friends. Soap isn’t doing this out of any sort of desire for him. This is about their friendship. Brothers in arms. Always watching each other’s six’s.
Partners. Not lovers.
Ghost hangs his head, trying to focus. He’s struggling now. There’s a slight buzz in his ears and heat rippling through his skin. At this point, he truly feels drugged. His mind is pulled in so many directions, he feels unable to focus on anything other than the intensity of Johnny’s hand pressed against his chest.
“You’re burnin’ up.” Ghost peels his eyes open and peers down at Soap who has a frown painted over his handsome features.
He doesn’t respond. He’s not sure if he can, at this point. His throat feels heavy.
“Can… Can Ah try somethin’, L.T?”
Ghost tries to nod his head, unsure if he actually managed or not, and then Johnny is climbing into his fucking lap and he feels lips pressed against his throat. He immediately bucks at the sensation of having Johnny right there, and he keens when he can feel the scot’s teeth rasp against his skin.
His nerves are on fucking fire.
He wants so much. He wants to bury his nose against Johnny’s neck and suck at him until his whole throat is purpled with bruises. He wants to draw the salty taste of the man’s skin after a mission into his mouth, to savor it against his tongue. God, he wants his tongue in Johnny’s mouth. On his stomach. On his cock.
At that thought, Ghost shivers and feels himself pulse into his fatigues. He’s as hard as fucking steel, and without thinking he swivels his hips, hoping to find friction for where he aches the most. His mind is foggy and all he can do is feel.
His groin meets Johnny’s and he grinds himself upwards. Somewhere in his mind whispers he should be ashamed of himself, but the last vestiges of his control are withering away.
Johnny’s fingers are dancing across his neck, up over his jaw, and Ghost only has a second to register that Johnny is cupping his jaw and drawing him forwards before the man’s lips are pressed flush against his own.
Ghost surges forwards. He’s caught off-balance by his arms secured behind his back, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is the pulsing, needy feeling driving him for more. He works his lips over Soap’s again, and again, sucking the scot’s lower lip into his mouth before he licks at Soap’s teeth, chasing the taste of Johnny.
Immediately, it’s not enough. Ghost needs to taste the rest of his sergeant’s skin, needs to feel it under his hands. He snarls, pulling at the zip tie behind his back. He writhes against it as he continues to kiss Soap, twisting his arms this way and that, before his training kicks in. He shoves Soap off of him, onto the bed, and stands up. Lifting his arms high above his head, he brings them back down against his tailbone with enough force that they snap.
The rabid monster within him howls with delight at the freedom. He turns around and looks back at his prey, and blinks.
He’s supposed to feel guilty about… something.
He stares at the beautiful man stretched out in front of him, and can’t remember why. All he knows is that this man is his. He knows it like he knows the sky is blue. Still, if this man is his, he wants to treat him well. So if he’s guilty, he should apologize.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes out as he mounts the bed.
“Shut up,” Soap says before hauling him down into another bruising kiss.
After that, the monster within him is feral. He shoves his partner onto his back, laid down on the bed, and descends upon him like a ravenous beast, licking and biting as much skin as he can find. He wriggles down the man’s torso, suckling at skin every so often. Precious, the word comes to mind.
The world starts to feel hazy around him, and he loses track of time. All he can focus on is sensations. The grinding of his hips against something solid. He’s pretty sure at some point he manages to get his mouth around his partner’s cock, and isn’t that a revelation.
He defiles the man underneath him utterly and completely, letting the world blur around him until he himself can’t quite remember who he is.
All he knows is that he’s thrusting into tight, slick heat while his mind chants.
Mine. Mine. MINE.
---
When Ghost wakes up, the first sensation his body registers is a deep all-over ache, as if he’d put himself through a brutal full body workout.
The second sensation is that he’s wearing a mask.
He blinks his eyes open, and recognizes the white speckled ceiling tiles of med bay. Turning his head feels like a chore, but he’s relieved to see the empty chair at his bedside. He isn’t sure what he would have done if Soap had been here first thing, waiting for him to say something.
Ghost blinks once more, and then the memories come rushing back.
His lips pressed against Soap’s.
Slowly pressing his cock into Johnny, the little punched out groan they both made when he bottomed out.
“Simon, please-”
“Fuck.” He drags a hand down his face. Part of him wishes he’d stayed unconscious.
Guilt and shame wash over him. He can only remember snippets, small moments between himself and Soap, but what he does remember has him recoiling in self disgust.
He took advantage of Soap’s loyalty, debased it into nothing more than meaningless thrusting.
Goddamnit. Ghost had been fine with being nothing more than Soap’s friend. Happy, even. He’d never allowed himself to dream of anything more, not when he was already so honored to be considered a good friend of one of the best men he’d ever known.
Now it’s all ruined.
He stands up, groaning as his joints pop. As disgusting as he feels, he knows he needs to go see Price, to give his mission report and likely receive his dishonorable discharge. He deserves it, after all.
He makes his way to Price’s office, not bothering to stop by mess to soothe his rumbling gut. He doesn’t want to chance a run-in with Soap, or anyone else. He listens to the noises of the base around him and does his best to blend in with the shadows, navigating towards his target unseen.
When he gets to the office door, he raps quietly on the wood with his knuckles. “Come in,” he hears faintly. He pushes the cheap, thin door and is relieved to see Price sitting alone at his desk, going over some paperwork.
“I need a word,” he says, taking a seat.
“Simon!” Price looks up from his scattered pages, looking pleased. “You’re finally awake.”
“How long was I in medical?”
“Well, you’ve been in the med bay since you got back, about five hours ago. Although Soap says you’d been asleep for a couple of hours by the time exfil picked you up. Couldn’t rouse you. That’s why you’re not in your bed.”
Asleep for a couple of hours before exfil’s arrival. That meant he’d had roughly anywhere between six to eight hours, uninterrupted, at the cabin. He grits his teeth.
“So… are you going to discharge me now, or after I’ve had tea?”
Price frowns. “What are you talking about?”
It’s Ghost’s turn to frown. “What did Soap tell you?”
Price leans back in his chair. “He said you got dosed with something, but it was pretty mild and put you to sleep. Why? Do I need to know something?”
Underneath his mask, Ghost snarls. First he’d wronged Soap, and now the man was lying to cover up for him? “I… saying it was mild is an understatement.”
“I don’t want the details, son,” Price says with a grimace. “But Soap seemed fine. Cheery, even.”
Ghost sighs. He doesn’t know what to make of any of this. “If you aren’t discharging me, I need a solo mission.”
“Why?”
“I can’t -” Ghost frowns, scrubbing at his face over his mask. “I need some space.”
“The only thing I have right now is a recon mission in Guatemala. It’d be two whole months, Simon.”
“I’ll take it.”
Price frowns at him, clearly disapproving. But when Ghost doesn’t break his stare, the captain sighs, deflating. “Fine. You’ll be wheels-up in two days, unless you change your mind. For the sake of my own peace and sanity, talk to Soap before you go, yeah? There’s a reason I’m always assigning you two together.”
“And what’s that, Captain?”
Price raises an eyebrow. “Don’t be stupid. Now go.”
Ghost goes.
He doesn’t end up talking to Soap. He can’t find it within him to face the man, not really sure of what to say. Sorry I brutally fucked you? No, not likely. It’ll be better for the both of them if he just leaves quietly.
So he does.