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He is a skilled and tempered interrogator.
One of the best in his unit, a master as far as his betters were concerned. Nearly every man they had ever needed broken was sent to him, where he would cut and split and carve until they cracked.
Yet still, despite having held him for over a month, he had yet to break a single, annoying Scottish dick.
He had bled him, poisoned him, ripped and rended skin, had beaten and whipped him, yet stubbornly, he remained almost entirely non-verbal. The only noises he made were screams of agony and groans of quiet pain. The man's wounds were crawling with infection now, his skin heated and flushed with a raging fever, yet still, he could not make him speak.
It was infuriating.
Anger pulses beneath his brow as he curls cruel fingers into that wretched little mohawk, wrenching his prisoner's head back. He watches with open disgust as hazy blue eyes roll uselessly, cracked lips parting in a wounded noise.
“Perhaps we will find your pet, Lieutenant, hm?” He hisses into the boy's ear, sneering as he watches him blink weakly. “Perhaps we will find him and give him a taste of your punishments, no?” He tightens his grip, if only to watch him wince and try to wriggle away from the pain. “Would you finally speak, my sweet toy, as we flay the skin from his back?”
Cracked lips twitch at his words, splitting into a mockery of a smile stained red with blood as those lazy blue eyes roll just enough to meet his own.
“L-like to see y-ya try, mate.” He mumbles, his voice hoarse and wrecked but still with a hint of something rebellious and afraid. “Ghost’ll e-eat ya for breakfast.” It’s the first real thing he’s said in days since he hurled wrathful insults in a language none of them could understand. It was a crack in a carefully made facade, a mistake on the Sergeant’s part.
Because, much like rats, he is very good at exploiting cracks in walls.
He smiles, lips curling in an ugly sneer. “Mm, I have hit a soft spot, have I?” He gives a harsh jerk on the man's hair, watching as the cracks spread, watching the light of a wounded animal come alive in the eyes of a specially trained operative.
Wounded animals will do anything to protect themselves, and this one will cough up his secrets if it means his life. Even a man of the S.A.S. could only survive so long in the hands of a man like himself.
John ‘Soap’ MacTavish had been a frustrating challenge, a learning experience.
But his time had come.
He would speak today, or they would drag a blade across his throat, and they would watch in glee as he gurgled and choked on his own blood. He was already weak, blood poisoned with rot, cuts, and splits still leaking.
There was every chance he would die before he could even garner anything of use.
But that came with the territory, came from the nature of the man he was pulling apart at his very seams.
“Tell me what I want to know, and your precious Lieu-!” Three sharp knocks sound against the door behind him, cutting him off sharply with an angry huff. He doesn’t even attempt to mask his glower as he turns, glaring at the round-faced Corporal who steps into the room with nervous eyes.
“Senior Sergeant, Sir! There is a problem.” The younger man's nervous eyes turn concerned, brow furrowing as he snaps off a salute. “The Gate has lost contact with a squad patrolling the perimeter. It could be a radio issue, but…” He flicks a glance toward their captive, whose head has long since fallen against his chest.
The only thing to show he still lived was the heaving, rattling breaths he took through a broken nose and cracked lips.
“Has anyone seen signs of an attack force?” The 141 were a fabled group, but not even they would have the audacity to storm a Konni base of this size, not with only three of them.
“No, sir, I was told to notify you in case this is an attempt to gain entry through means of stealth. I was told to ensure everyone is on alert.” Another nervous glance is shot at the man behind him, and he can only sigh as he rolls his eyes. Clearly, this young boy was yet another who had heard the stories, another idiot disillusioned by rumors of a man who was not human.
Ghost would not come here; he could not.
Even if he could find them, he could not take them alone.
“Return to your post, notify me if signs of opposition are found.” At that, he waved him away, turning back to his task with narrowed eyes. The day was growing late, and the Scottish Sergeant's time in this world was drawing to a rapid close.
He would be sure to make his last few hours as painful as possible.
But it seemed the world had other ideas.
Halfway through checking the edge of an old but trusted blade, his radio crackles to life on his belt. The captive twitches but otherwise remains silent as he leans away and brings the device to his ear.
Deranged speech crackles from the receiver, someone babbling, a scream.
And then the voice cuts with a wet gurgle.
Someone else utters a noise of horror into their mic, and then something beastial bellows before gunfire swallows the line in static. Between each round, he can hear orders being given, followed by shocked, horrified cries.
Someone screams over the line, a useless babble of terror. But as boots pound down the hall outside of his little saferoom, he can hear words. Compound, breached, devil.
“HELP, N-!”, “FUCKING SHOOT IT, SHOOT IT!”, “IT’S TO FUCKING FAST, SH-!” Fear strikes like a bolt of ice into his core, and he swears he can feel phantom claws and breath against the back of his neck.
No single man could breach their compound; nothing human could do such a task alone. Perimeter patrols worked day and night; the walls walked constantly and topped with razor wire. Not to mention the dogs and guns between the front gate and the building in which he currently stood.
But all he could hear was a veritable blood bath.
The only weapons he has at his disposal are those he uses as torture implements, the risk of a captive getting their hands on a gun too high.
Which means that he is defenseless against whatever is coming.
Through his radio, he hears senseless begging, and in return comes a noise that can only be described as animal. It’s a cross between a snarl and a noise of glee, and once again, whatever plea his soldier makes is cut off in a wet, throaty gurgle.
His men are dying from something that moves too fast to shoot, from something alone.
He wants to flee, but the safest place he can be is here, in this guarded and locked room.
Gunfire erupts in the hall outside, and he starts with fear, scrambling to put his captive between himself and the door. The sounds of brutal carnage carry through the door, growing more and more audible over the slowly failing clatter of Kastov’s. Whatever it is, it has no mercy, and every man dies screaming.
Silence falls, and he finds himself frozen, one hand clutching his radio and the other, his knife, as he stares at the door.
“This is Senior Sergeant Malsak Gavril Innokentievich. Does anyone copy?!” His voice trembles as he forces his voice to function, every part of him shivering with anticipation.
Something on the other side of the door moves, but his radio remains stubbornly silent.
Just as he goes to call out again, something slams into the door with all the force of a rabid animal. It groans and creaks, shaking on its hinges as he flinches back. His eyes grow wide and wild as it takes another jarring hit, metal screeching as it begins to warp.
The third hit sees the door torn clean from its hinges, the wail of rending, clattering steel echoing as the door skids to a halt a few feet into the room. His mouth goes dry, and his voice leaves him as his eyes land on the shadow filling the doorway.
The shadow takes the form of a man as the dust settles and the iron cent of blood wafts into the room.
No.
Not a man.
A devil.
It wears pale skin and blonde curls, eyes gleaming with bloodlust as its mouth contorts into a bloodied snarl.
Like prey that knows it’s been caught, he can only freeze, trapped.
“DEVIL, you are a fucking devil!” He can’t stop the words from spilling free if he tries, and he could swear he sees the beast's snarl twisted into a malice-filled smirk.
And then it lunges, crossing the space with the speed and grace of a big cat.
It's too fast to be a simple man, too fast for him to avoid.
He flails and stabs out, any training he had now far from his mind as animal instinct takes over in a sick form of fight or flight. He knows who the predator is in this room, and it is not him. A scream tears from his lips as his only weapon is knocked from his hand, bloody fingers clamping down around the lower half of his face as his head is shoved back.
He has only a moment to beg for recompense from god as pain explodes throughout his bared throat.
Teeth puncture the flesh like wet paper, sinking straight into his pulse and tearing.
The last thing he hears is a contented, animal-like noise as lips suction over the rent flesh and pull.
His vision is nothing but pinpricks of light, a single-minded tunnel vision as one single thing dominates everything else in his head.
Kill.
He swipes his tongue over his lips as he draws back from the body he held up with his own two hands, humming as the animal in his chest purrs at the feeling of being so well-fed.
His ears strain, seeking out the sound of voices, scuffling feet, rustling fabric, and heartbeats as he drops the cooling corpse.
The only heartbeats he can hear now are his own and the one three feet away from him, the single person on this hellish base safe from the frenzy that had consumed Ghost’s mind.
The base is empty, devoid of life, every single Russian soldier inside sucked dry of their very blood. It’s all he can taste, all he can feel, as it settles into his overworked gut system and processes into his body.
It leaves him burning with warmth, feeling high as the frenzy abates, letting him float.
A weak noise of agony rips him from any semblance of contentment at the bloodbath, the red vanishing from his eyes as he spins to face the man still tied up to a rickety little chair.
He moves without a thought, crashing to his knees as he rounds the chair and finally, finally, puts his eyes and hands on his Johnny.
“Soap, Johnny, can you hear me?” His voice is hoarse, still holding that tonal growl as gentle hands lift Soap’s chin from his chest. Pale blue eyes flicker open, blinking in confusion and filled to the brim with agony.
But he looked coherent.
“S-Simon…?” The Scot’s voice is wrecked, strangled, and dripping with emotion as Ghost frees a knife from his kit and begins attacking his bindings. Every single one of his senses hones in on the man under his hands, all of that predatory focus piercing him. He can feel the grimy, clamming quality of his skin, smells the stink of infection and body odor, hears how weak his heart sounds.
Ghost hasn’t felt fear in a very long time.
Not since he was turned.
But he feels it now, feels it constrict his chest and claw at his throat, squeezing.
“It’s alright, Johnny, gonna get you out of here.” He doesn’t look away from his work, doesn’t see the way Soap’s looking at him.
Doesn’t see the fear in his eyes.
“S-Simon…” It’s a whimper, his voice steeped in emotions that Ghost can’t acknowledge, can’t think of. Because if he thinks too much right now, something will go wrong.
“Shh, Johnny, Shh. I’ve got you.” He tries to assuage, having freed his bound legs and now moving to grasp gently for his wrists. But he’s restless, trembling under his hands as he whimpers out another broken noise of muted pain.
“Si-, I think, I-I think ‘m d-dyin’...”
Those words stop him dead, knife freezing halfway through a fraying rope.
No.
No, he can’t.
He isn’t fucking dying.
But he is, isn’t he?
He’s both too hot and too cold, the fever battling against the blood loss, leaving him pale as a sheet and shaking. His heart is straining, and he can hear it in his chest, struggling to push the meager amounts of tainted, infection-filled blood through his system.
But he can’t.
Johnny can’t be dying.
He rips the blade through the last of the rope and lets Soap slump out of the chair, falling against his chest with a whimper. His arms close around him like a vice, pulling him in tight and cradling him as best he can with his gear.
“Shh, it’s alright. You’re not gonna die, Johnny. I’m gonna get you out of here.” Ghost can barely hear himself, his voice thin and trembling as he holds his Sergeant close. Because now that he’s closer, holding him, he can feel how deteriorated he is.
He’s lost muscle mass, and he can feel his ribs when he wraps a gentle, trembling hand around his side to hold him up. He’s even still wearing the same damn shirt as the day he’d left, waving from the tarmac before he’d loaded into the transport.
He stank of bodily fluids and infection, and when he finally managed to get a shaking hand up to clutch at Ghost’s sleeve, it felt more like being gripped by a child than a man.
John MacTavish was dying.
He could feel it in every weak flutter of his heart, the barely there blip of his pulse, the way his lungs strained and deflated with each breath.
“I-I don’t, d-don’t wanna die, S-Simon.” He’s crying now; Ghost can practically taste the salt of his tears on the air around them as Soap buries his face into his chest rig and sobs. “I-it hurts.” And fuck, fuck, it does hurt. It feels like someone's trying to carve his heart out of his chest with one of those stupid Hollywood faux stakes.
It’s all he can do to curl his arms tighter around him, crushing him to his chest in a way that can’t be comfortable. But Soap doesn’t seem to care; he just burrows in as close as he can with all the gear in his way.
“I’m scared, Simon.”
It’s a thin whisper, but his ears pick it up loud and clear.
Men like them go every day knowing they could catch a bullet tomorrow, take a rouge piece of shrapnel to the heart in an hour, or step on a damned IED in a week. It’s the kind of death you can’t really prepare yourself for because it blindsides you and everyone around you.
Because one minute you're fine.
And the next, you're dead.
But this kind of death, when it’s slow, dragged out over days as your body falls apart around you and slowly but surely fails you? Men like them don’t usually get that, and if you asked any single one of them, they’d all agree on one thing.
They’d rather have the damned bullet.
It’s one thing to know you might die at any moment. It’s one thing to know it might blindside you, and you can’t stop it, that you probably won’t even feel it long enough for it to matter.
But this? It’s torture in and of itself to know that death is creeping up on you.
And to be teased by your allies saving you, to be pulled from the enemy too late…
Ghost is many things, but even he won’t be fast enough to get Soap somewhere he could be saved.
The tiny base they’d kept him on doesn’t have the supplies to handle wounds like his because when people are brought here, they’re used up until they fall apart. And then either have their throats slit or are left to let infections finish them off.
You do have one option… ‘
Ghost nearly flinches at the little voice in the back of his head, the twisted voice of the animal that's been buried in him ever since his change.
His arms curl tighter around Soap, relaxing only when he makes a painted noise at the pressure on his ribs.
He can save him.
But at the cost of ruining his humanity, leaving Soap an animal just like himself.
His chest shakes when he sucks in a trembling breath of air.
“Johnny…” It’s a whisper, his lips brushing the shell of his ear as the man in his arm shivers. He can hear his heart rattle, the kick in his pulse, as he turns dull, agony-filled eyes on him.
“It h-hurts S-Simon.” He whimpers, and Ghost nearly chokes on the cloying scent of his fear, on the unvoiced plea for him to make it stop.
“I…” His voice cracks, and he feels choked.
He can save him.
But will Soap be able to forgive him for it?
He wouldn’t blame him if the man never looked him in the eyes again after this.
“I can save you, Johnny.” He whispers it into the space between them, knowing Soap can see the honesty that bleeds into his eyes and cracked-open expression. Carefully, he cradles him, holds him tight and close as he lifts a hand to oh so gently cup his abused face, drawing a gentle, blood-soaked thumb over his cheekbone.
He can see the disbelief warring in Soap’s eyes. Because he knows just as well as Ghost does that there shouldn’t be any possible way for him to do that.
But he’s too far gone to call him on it; he just lets his pale blues convey his silent plea as he clutches onto Ghost’s chest rig. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, Ghost might not be real.
Instead, Ghost only presses closer, dropping his head to press his lips against Soap’s burning-hot forehead.
A tiny part of him screams at himself not to do it, not to inflict this on Soap of all people.
Because he doesn’t deserve to be locked into a choice he can’t make on his own.
But another part of Ghost, a part of Simon, doesn’t care.
He can’t lose him.
“I hope you can forgive me, Johnny.” His head falls lower, and he feels Soap flinch as his lips graze across his weak pulse.
“Si-w-wha-?” He tries to speak, but Ghost shushes him softly. It barely takes any strength to tilt his head to the side, properly baring his Sergeant’s neck as he presses his lips to clammy, jumping skin.
“I’m so sorry, Johnny.” Another noise of confusion follows his words, another twitch following as he presses a proper kiss to his sweaty, disgusting skin. “I’m so, so sorry. ” He breathes just as his lips peel back, and his head snaps forward.
He sinks his teeth into his throat like it’s nothing, skin splitting like water as he clamps down over his jugular and seals his lips over the wound as he sucks in a mouthful of blood.
And Soap fights it, his entire body going rigid from the pain as he bucks against Ghost’s hold, letting out a cry. He thinks he hears his name, hears him beg, and his heart constricts as he takes another heavy pull. Each mouthful of blood drains the fight out of him until all he can do is cling to Ghost with incoherent, babbled pleas falling from his lips in time with the tears wetting Ghost’s face.
Even with the taint of infection in his blood, Johnny still tastes as divine as he always thought he would.
He hates it, hates it because this isn’t how he wanted to find out.
He wants to spit it all backup, wants to gag himself until it’s anywhere but in his stomach because he doesn’t want to hurt him.
But here he is.
Killing him.
With each pull, he can feel the flutters of his heart weakening, each thump softer than the last, each breath more strained.
The last sound he hears is his name breathed out on Soap’s last breath, as his heart and lungs finally still.
One last pull and his body is free of blood.
Slowly, he retracts his teeth, pulling his head away. He can taste the salt of his own tears mixing with the iron flavor of Soap’s blood, and it makes him feel sick.
Silently, he strains his senses, knowing what he’ll find but silently praying something will prove him wrong.
Only one noise echoes back to him in the dank, stone walls of an empty base.
His own lone heartbeat
He doesn’t even try to choke back the tears this time as he holds the still body close to his chest and keens.
He’s not sure how long he sits there, cradling Soap’s cooling body.
But something finally prompts him to stand, clutching his limp form close as he moves on unsteady feet toward the door.
He ignores the drained, mutilated bodies that litter the compound, each step steadier than the last as he forces his mind to work again.
Never once does Ghost set him down, not as he trudges through snow-buried Russian wilderness, not as he searches and seeks for any safe place he might take him. The only time his attention even so much as shifts, is when he makes a single call.
Someone will have to clean up that compound, hide the evidence of the hellish thing that’d swept through it and killed nearly a hundred well-armed, decently trained men.
After Ghost relays the details, Price asks for Soap.
He hangs up and ignores the three consecutive attempts to get him back in communication.
He finds a civilian truck to steal, loads Soap into the backseat, and drives as carefully as he can to avoid jostling him onto the floor.
Nearly 48 hours of non-stop driving brings him to an old, decommissioned safehouse on the fringes of Russian territory. He’d used it before, but with its decrepit state and proximity to bustling tourist towns, it’d been abandoned in favor of one a day's travel to the south after the enemy had found it.
It was as it’d left last, walls riddled with bullet holes and rusty, questionable stains. Broken windows and a rotting, single door barely climbing to its hinges.
It boasts one room, never meant to hold more than a handful of people.
It’ll do plenty for now.
It’s risky to light a fire, but they both need to stay warm, and Ghost knows he’s perfectly capable of killing anyone that treads into this tiny den he’s slowly cobbling together.
With gentle hands, he settles Soap’s body on a cot that he drags up to the fireplace, layering blankets over him before he turns away.
He doesn’t smell like rot yet, which means the venoms taken.
Now it’s just a waiting game of how long it takes before he wakes.
He leaves him there as he puts the house back to rights. Breaking down old, dusty crates, he cobbles together basic patches, covering the worst of the holes and broken windows to block out the wind. The door is a lost cause, but he manages to wedge it just so that it blocks the airflow and stays that way when he steps back from it.
The following day, he takes the risk of leaving Soap alone long enough to hunt down the nearest town. It’s a tiny little thing, but they have a functioning hospital and a meager supply of human blood on hand for transfusions.
He only feels a hint of shame that he’s stealing every last bag.
When he gets back, he packs them deep into his rucksack and buries it in the nearest snow drift with a small marker to find it later.
At least it won’t be going to waste. Soap will need it.
At least he has some form of justification.
And now… All Ghost can do is wait.
Silently, he makes his way back inside, gathering up the unfortunately musty clothing left behind by whatever poor sods had been chased out by Russians the first time. It isn’t much, but it’s clean enough.
Carefully, he discards the ripped-up scraps of Soap’s bloodied clothing into the fire, leaving him bare and naked on the cot. In a way, it feels wrong to see him this way without his permission.
But he’d rather him wake up clean.
So he dutifully melts a bowl of snow and wipes him down from head to toe, clearing away the layer of blood and grime. Each wound gets special attention, making sure to clear out even the ones already halfway healed. And then, just as gently, he redresses him in a shirt and sweats just a little too big for him before he tucks him back into the blankets.
And then he sits beside him and simply watches.
It’s three days before his chest heaves with its first breath of air, a weak sputtering gasp of his body shudders with life that shouldn’t be.
A tangle of emotions ignites in his chest, revulsion and elation warring for dominance.
That night, he calls Price, apologizes for going dark, and forces himself to explain.
He can tell Price wants to argue, wants to be there. But he’s smart enough to heed Ghost’s warnings and promises to give them the space they're both going to need.
And then he apologizes himself, for not finding Soap sooner, for not having stopped it in the first place.
They both sit in silence for a moment, wishing Soap had never gone on that damned mission.
Ghost promises to keep Price in the loop from here on out, before he ends the call and lets his head hang. He does his best to ignore the tears trying to run down his still-naked cheeks as he stares at the floor.
Miserable brown eyes cast toward the man breathing shallowly next to him, and Ghost feels the damn break again as he hunches down into himself and does everything he can to hide as he sobs into the silence of the tiny space.
He can only pray to deities long dead, that Soap won’t hate him for this.
The only warning he’s given that Soap’s awoken is a sharp intake of breath that sleeping bodies don’t make.
And then he’s being tackled, fangs striking straight for his neck.
He may have forgotten that fledglings tend to frenzy when freshly turned.
Sue him. It’s been far too long for him to remember much of his own turning, and Soap’s the first human he’s ever tried to turn.
But despite wielding fledgling strength, Ghost is still the faster and stronger of the pair. Soap’s malnourished state upon death and the amount of energy it would have taken to put his body back to rights didn’t help, and Ghost had glutted himself on the Russians he’d slaughtered. It’s like batting aside a child as he shoves and then closes in around him, looping an arm around his throat and middle. Throwing his weight backward, he drags them both towards the wall, sinking to the floor and tangling their legs together at the same time. Soap struggles valiantly, snarling and hissing as his teeth openly snap at the air.
Ragged fingernails dig into his arm as Soap tries to claw his way free through the barrier of cloth and flesh in his way.
And Ghost is having none of it.
Instead, he lifts the arm that’d been holding down his midsection, using his own teeth to tear through the sleeve of his coat. It’s impromptu, but the moment he slaps his exposed wrist over the other's mouth, the effect is instantaneous.
Pain blooms across the tender meat of his wrist as greedy teeth sink in, and he has to press hard into Soap’s mouth to prevent him from ripping away an entire chunk of flesh in his haste to feed. But then Ghost’s blood hits his tongue, and the fight goes right out of him, lips and teeth clamping down as he sucks in a mouthful of his sire's blood.
He’ll need it for several days at least; Ghost knows that much. On top of copious amounts of human blood, as his body learns how to process it in place of human food. His teeth will change, and his senses will sharpen.
He’ll become more of an animal than ever.
Ghost remains as still as he can, letting the arm around his throat loosen just enough that it doesn’t feel like he’s strangling him.
Because he does remember what comes next.
For nearly a full minute, Soap continues to drink him down, his suction sloppy and his movements desperate. Like a man who hasn’t had water in days, greedily sucking it down the moment it hits his tongue.
Ghost is only beginning to feel a touch faint when he feels his lax body begin to tense again slowly.
Suddenly, Soap’s head jerks back, nearly crashing into Ghost’s nose as he splutters and wriggles. Ghost can feel blood dripping down his arm, spittal, and blood mixing as the man in his arms hacks and coughs. “W-WHAT THE F-FUCK?!” Soap sounds horrified, and Ghost finds himself thankful he’d kept him well in his grip. “Get the fuck off of me! You sick fucking-let me fucking-LET ME GO!” His hold only tightens, slinging his bloodied arm around his middle to better contain him as the man trashes.
“Fuckin’ hell, Soap, STOP!” His snapped-out words cause the man to freeze, both of their chests heaving from exertion.
“G-Ghost?!” Soap’s head tips just enough to the side, giving him a glimpse of wide, frantic eyes. “What the fuck is going on, Ghost, what the fuck?!” Blood rings his mouth, a line of glimmering crimson slipping down his chin.
Fuck, now was not the fucking time to think about lapping it right off his still deathly pale skin.
“Johnny, I need you to calm down. I know this looks fuckin’ nuts, but I need you to trust me .” And Soap looks incredulously at him for that, blinking stupidly. He can’t blame him. He’d have the same look if their roles were reversed.
“Trust? TRUST?! Why the fuck is your fucking, blood in my goddamned mouth?! I was chewing on your arm, for fucks sake!” He’s shouting now, and he’s starting to wriggle again, fingers clamping down on the arm looped around his neck and pulling.
He knows the panic that comes with a fresh change, how everything is too much. Every sense would be in the middle of a transition, sharpening and growing as the body itself changed and adapted to take in a new food source.
And now, waking with a mouthful of blood…
It would be too much for anyone.
But he can’t let go of him, can’t risk him taking off. Because he knows damn well that he’ll lose him if he gets away from him now.
“I can explain it. I promise I will.” Soap’s panting against his arm now, trembling like a leaf in the wind. He can only imagine what's going through his head, what memories might be trying to crawl back in. “First, I need you to tell me what the last thing you remember is.” The struggling finally weakens, but the skin-breaking grip on his wrist hasn’t let up yet.
“I-I…” He can see the struggle, the reach. “I-I was captured, bein’ tortured.” The words come out slowly, and Ghost can feel the tension lining his body as he slowly turns over the missing chunks of time in his brain. “Russians.” It comes out shaky, and Ghost can hear the little bit of blood in his body rushing, his heart trying to pound in fear. “There-there was screamin’; someone was attacking the base-.”
Soap stiffens again, his head snapping around to look at Ghost from the corner of his eyes again.
“You. It was you. I saw you right before…” Ghost only nods, feels the great breath of air that Soap heaves in, and relishes in the expansion of his chest.
Because he’s breathing.
He’s alive.
In a sense.
“Ghost.” His wandering eyes snap back to Soap, and he can hear the fear, the confusion, steeping his tone now. “That, was an entire base of trained military operatives.” He speaks it plainly, his voice small and questioning as his chest stutters. Ghost takes his own deep breath, doing his best to turn his thoughts away from how Soap looked with blood smeared across his lips and chin.
“‘M not Human.” Soap, to his credit, doesn’t instantly shout at him. Instead, his eyes flick to his torn-open wrist before falling back on his bare face.
“The fuck does that mean?” Despite the question, he can see the cogs of his mind turning, the pieces slowly fitting back together.
“It means, that I’m not human. I’m…” An animal, a monster, wrong. “A vampire.” Christ, it all feels so strangely cliche to say it that way.
But how else can he?
“This isn’t a fuckin’ joke, Ghost.” It’s not, but Ghost feels a frustrated chuckle bubbling in his chest anyway. “Vampires aren’t fuckin’ real.” Oh, Johnny…
“They are. Why do you think you were feeding from my wrist?”
Silence.
“I’m no-.” Ghost cuts him off with a snort and shifts his wrist closer. The blood was only just beginning to clot, but he knew it could be licked right back open with a single brush of his tongue.
“Tell me what your instincts are telling you to do right now, Johnny?” He feels him leaning closer, and watches the way his eyes zero in on the broken flesh as his pupils constrict and expand. Feels him tremble, then flinch as he jerks back, a hand snapping up over his own mouth.
And all he can feel is guilt.
“I’m sorry.”
Silence.
“I didn’t want to.”
Trembling.
“I couldn’t let you die.”
Soap lets out a shaky exhale, and Ghost watches his lips tremble as his eyes stay locked on his wrist.
“You need to drink, both my blood and human blood for the change to finish.” Soap’s eyes dart to his, and all he sees is horror and disgust inscribed on his features.
To say it hurt would be an understatement.
But he understands why.
“What happens i-if I don’t?” Ghost feels something in his chest go tight, something in his throat coiling and squeezing. This is the tipping point; Soap’s out if he wants to choose what comes next.
If he wants to live this way for the rest of his life.
“You die.” Emotional rattles in the core of his words, and he lets his arms squeeze around him for just a moment. “If thats… What you want, then I won’t stop you.” The words grate and stick in his throat, like he’s physically choking as he spits them up. “You didn’t get a choice then, but… You do now.”
For a long moment, Soap remains silent, utterly still in his embrace aside from trembling limbs and the twitch of his chest as he breathes.
When he finally does move, when he finally speaks, Ghost’s heart squeezes in a way that threatens to leave him breathless.
“Let me go, Simon.”
It feels like dying again.
It feels like the very moment Roba’s spawn had torn him apart before the man himself had finished him off and made him anew.
But he opens his arms and lets Soap stumble to his feet.
It’s been a week.
One very long, very hellish, awkward week.
Soap hasn’t tried to leave the dilapidated little cabin, but somehow, he’s managed to avoid Ghost almost entirely.
He knows he’s there; he can see him, hear him, but they don’t speak.
They don’t interact aside from Ghost bringing him food, very human food.
It’s tearing Ghost apart, as much as he won’t admit it. He’s forced to watch as his complexion grows worse than it had when he’d found him, watches as Soap struggles with simpler and simpler tasks as he avoids, and avoids, and avoids.
They don’t speak, they don’t interact outside of Ghost leaving food at his side where he stays by the fire.
But Soap watches him.
He can feel his eyes on him, and he knows, he knows exactly why.
He knows he’s wracking his brain, trying to figure out how he never figured it out sooner. Knew that he was trying to pick out what set Ghost apart as an animal, a monster, and not a man.
He wonders if he’ll find it.
It isn’t until that night that Soap finally, finally, speaks to him.
“Why’d you do it?”
He sounds so small, so painfully small.
Ghost’s lips press into a thin line, and he could spit out any number of excuses, any number of stupid things to avoid the truth.
But he doesn’t want to.
“Because I love you.” Soap flinches, and it takes everything in Ghost to force the words out around the lump in his throat. “Because I couldn’t watch you die, because you matter too damn much to me.” His voice comes soft, head falling as he speaks. He can’t even look at him, focusing on the countertop as he reaches a hand up and rips off the mask he’d put back on.
He hadn’t even wanted to; he just wanted to make sure Soap was comfortable.
“Sim-.” He’s not done yet; he needs to say this. He needs to get it out.
“When I saw you in that chair…” Something in him hitches, and it hurts. “When I saw you, something in me broke .” He sinks his teeth into his own lip and digs his nails into the wood. “I have been alive longer than you can fathom, and I have been alone for so, so, much of it.”
He’s selfish, so, so selfish.
“But I have people I care about now, people I want to protect.” He forces himself to look, to meet shimmering blue that swims with tears. “I failed to protect you, and I, I should have let you go. It wasn’t right of me, to do this to you without your permission.”
It happened to him; it was the reason he was here, and they were here.
“But I am a selfish, selfish creature, Johnny. And I couldn’t lose you, not if I knew there was a way to save you.” He knows he looks like a sorry sight, with trembling lips and teary eyes, but he needs him to see that it’s the truth. “If you truly don’t wish to finish the change, or you never wish to see me again, I’ll respect it, I swear it. I just hope that you know that no matter what you choose… I’ll still love you.”
He hears Soap’s breath hitch across the room, watches the first tear spill from his eyes, and hates that he’s the one to have put it there.
“I-I…” And he looks so lost, scared, even as he scrounges for words his chest doesn’t want to cough up. “I just don’t w-want you to leave.” It’s whispered into the open space between them, and Ghost feels every organ in his body squeeze.
He’s moving before he has a moment to think, rounding the counter as Soap scrubs furiously at his wet face.
Careless of anything else, Ghost drops to his knees the moment he reaches him, hands halfway out but not daring to touch yet. A near-perfect mirror of the day he found him. “Johnny, Johnny, look at me.” He speaks as softly as he can because he doesn’t know how to be gentle.
But he’ll try. He’ll try anything for Johnny.
When he doesn’t respond, only stares down at the floor between them, he finally reaches out. His hands shake as he places his fingers against his chin, and when he doesn’t flinch away, he tilts his head to meet their eyes.
“Johnny. I will never leave you.” He whispers it like someone might whisper their darkest secrets at the confessional, bowing under the weight of his sins as he lets their foreheads fall against one another. “I didn’t think I could love like that, not anymore.” Soap’s eyes squeeze shut, a sob quaking through him. “You showed me that I could.”
He feels hands curl into his jacket, fisting in the dark material as Soap shakes.
“If you want me with you, then I will be here.” Ghost can’t help himself, his lips quirking up, a wet chuckle leaving him. “As sappy as it sounds… I’ll spend the rest of eternity with you, if you let me.” Another sob shakes through Soap’s body, and he lets his hands slip up and onto his back as Soap snorts. Suddenly, he’s laughing, his head falling against his chest as he laughs.
Ghost lets his arms shift, curling them around him as he tugs him into his chest.
The silence isn’t so painful this time.
“Suppose I could l-let ya, s’long as you promise not to get tired’a me?” His words are muffled by fabric, but Ghost hears it loud and clear as he squeezes him against his chest.
“I’ll never get tired of you, Johnny. Never.” His words are firm, pressed into his mohawk as the man under him shifts, bringing his face to Ghost’s throat.
And were it anyone else, Ghost would have shoved them away on instinct, threatened to peel the skin from their bodies.
But for Soap, he simply tilts his head to the side, exploding the pale line of his throat as hot air gusts across his skin.
Soap’s lips are hesitant as he presses them against his skin, and Ghost can feel the want, the need in the way he trembles.
But he doesn’t bite.
Instead, he kisses across his skin, nuzzling and licking until he finds Ghost’s pulse, finds where his blood will flow the fastest and easiest. Using gentle fingers, he urges him along, carding through his too-long hair, letting out a soft hum as Soap sikes himself up for the bite.
The first press of teeth against his jugular has him shuddering, his hands cupping Soap’s head as the man pants with barely restrained need.
And then finally, finally, he sinks his teeth in.
It hurts, it fucking hurts, because whoever made up Vampire bites being aphrodisiacs had to have been on drugs of their own at the time.
But in a way, it’s fucking bliss.
Because Ghost knows that this is his, that he’s feeding Johnny, that he’s saving him by giving him this.
He shuffles closer, slipping off his seat as he sloppy suctions his lips around the wound and cages Ghost in against the floor with a low noise of contentment. “That’s it, Johnny, good lad.” He rumbles, fingers still carding sweetly through his hair as Soap shivers.
Maybe it wasn’t aphrodisiacs, but just the right person doing the deed.
He lets him drink until his mind fogs over, pain forgotten as blood deprivation sets into his brain. And Soap whines so sweetly and forlornly when Ghost gently prises him from his meal, but he needs a moment.
Soap could drain him, and he’d be fine, ravenous for a meal, but ultimately okay.
But he doesn’t want to miss this, doesn’t want to pass out before he’s proven just how much Soap means to him.
Firm hands grab at Soap’s slowly warming face, that natural blush returning as his system begins to cycle Ghost’s blood into his own. The sight of his pale skin once again thrown into such stark contrast against dark, sun-kissed skin feels like heaven.
And then he drags him in, crushes their lips together in a soft noise of need as the tang of bitter copper hits his tongue. Soap comes alive over him, fingers tangling into his jacket as he drags him in close, as tightly as their bodies would allow.
Their first kiss is harsh, nothing but tongue and teeth as Ghost tastes himself on his love's tongue.
But as they part for oxygen, something breaks loose, and the second kiss, while just as desperate, is softer, slower.
And suddenly, their clothes are too much; Ghost needs to feel him.
He pulls away, hands leaving Soap’s skin only long enough to grab for the zip of his jacket, the hem of his shirt, and the waistband of his bands. Blessedly, Soap gets the message, tearing at his own oversized clothing that Ghost dressed his lifeless, pallid body in mere days ago.
By the time Soap’s stripped himself bare, kneeling in front of Ghost like he’s ready to beg, Ghost is kicking away his jeans. His naked ass nearly hits the shoddy cabin floor before Soap stops him, swooping in to keep him steady while the other hand gropes behind him.
He feels the thick canvas of his jacket against his backside, letting Soap guide him down onto it as he slips into his space with a soft noise of contentment.
Shaky, slowly warming hands settle on his knees, slowly sliding across his thighs and up his hips as Soap settles between his legs.
And maybe this is stupid, after everything Ghost has now put him through, to want this as well.
But Soap only leans his forehead against his, pale eyes lidded with pupils blown wide and cheeks flushing. “You promise that you’ll always stay?” He asks it so, so softly, and Ghost can feel him trembling.
“I promise, m’right here, not goin’ anywhere until you tell me to.” He whispers it to him, feels Soap shiver at the admission before he dips down and captures Ghost’s lips again in a gentle press of his own.
Gone is the animal desperation, because they know that the other isn’t going anywhere. That this only has to end when they're ready for it to end. Each press of their lips is slow and indulgent, each swipe and tangle of their tongues exploratory and gentle.
Soap pulls away just long enough to breathe, lips brushing his when he speaks. “S-Simon, I need-, can I, can I touch you?” Desperate, so fucking desperate.
And Ghost is no better.
“Please.” He breathes, air hissing between his teeth as Soap’s hands roam from his hips, slipping up his ribs, gliding over his torso, feeling him.
His thumbs brush the gnarled scars under his pecs, across the hard planes of muscle and fat as he caresses and maps. Chapped lips press to his own, sucking softly on his lower lip before sliding into his mouth with a soft moan.
And then his hands come down again, following the growing pool of molten heat in Ghost’s gut, rough fingers grazing across sensitive skin. Ghost puts one hand on the floor, palm flat to stabilize himself, while the other curls around the base of Soap’s head. Their lips separate again, and Ghost feels drunk from breathing in the other's air. His head swims in a delightful fog as Soap’s hands dance lower, spreading his thighs and teasing his soft inner skin.
And he’ll beg if he has to, to feel those clever fingers sink into the wet mess that he’s become.
But Soap doesn’t tease him, not now, not as he dips two fingers between his folds and skates them up. It’s a fleeting touch against his aching hole as he splits them to run them along either side of his cock. The noise he lets out against his lips is wanton, begging without words as he curls into his space and nips at his lower lip.
Lips find his just as two fingers slide home into the molten heat between his legs, Soap swallowing his groan as Ghost’s fingers tighten in his hair. He kisses him slow and sweet, rocking his middle and forefinger into him, dutifully swallowing every noise he makes as he trembles.
Who would think that a man such as himself, a creature powerful enough to raze entire enemy bases, could come apart so easily at the hands of one man?
His moans raise in pitch when a third finger slips into the mess between his legs. His head falls back; throat bared when he crooks them just right, pleasure stabbing through his body. He thinks this might be what it’s like to be set on fire, to have his body melted down as warm, chapped lips press to his neck again.
Blood oozes out of the bite, trailing down his throat like spilled paint. Soap’s mouth and nose press to his skin again, seeking out the thudding pulse of his jugular and lapping at the rivulets as a hand lifts and collars his neck, smearing them.
He never would have thought something like this could be so good.
“J-Johnny, please.” He isn’t afraid to plead now, feeling teeth scraping across the column of his throat. It makes him keen when the hand around his hip tightens, the fingers in him pressing deeper, crooking right into that spot that has him clenching around him. And the other doesn’t hesitate to oblige, understanding his unvoiced plea for more, as he shuffles in closer.
He feels empty when Soap’s fingers slip out of him, hips twitching to chase them while lips press messily to his jaw and throat in wet, bloody kisses. Soap’s a solid warmth around him, a reminder that they're both here, both alive, both whole.
Heat presses against his core, but it’s Ghost who shifts the last bit before rocking his hips, nudging just the tip of Soap’s cock into himself. Twin groans fill the room, Soap’s head falling to his shoulder while his own chin hits his chest. Hungry, seeking lips find his throat again, pressing and sucking needily. Pain sparks when he nips at his neck, laps up the blood that leaks out, and pants into his skin as his hips begin to rock.
It’s going to be over embarrassingly fast for them both, so keyed up on one another. But as Soap continues to cover his neck in nips and broken skin, lapping up and reveling in the taste of him, Ghost finds he doesn’t mind it one bit.
He’s content to fall apart just like that, just for him, for Johnny.
The fire and heat of Soap surrounding him lulls his body into a warm state of floating, body rocking lazily into his lover as Soap’s hips give slow, gentle circles between each pull of his blood. Ghost can’t help but tangle his fingers into his hair, pulling his face into his neck, begging to be bitten, to feed him.
Soap’s pace quickens just a bit, hips jumping and jerking when Ghost murmurs breathless pleas into his ear, breathing his name out as his body grows tighter and his eyelids droop.
He hasn’t felt something like this for anyone in so long.
So long that he’d thought he’d forgotten how to.
Of course, it would be Soap that would reignite the passion of lust in his veins. To draw his core tight and shake him down to his bones as he sucks down another mouthful of his blood and detaches from his throat. They’re both panting, sweat coating them as Soap’s fingers dig into the meat of his thigh, his control and pace faltering as his edge sneaks up on his faster than either of them can expect.
Soap’s lips crash down over his own, and the taste of iron fills his mouth as their panting breaths mingle and nails dig in. Soft grunts and weak breaths fill the air as Soap’s forehead presses against his, breathing each other's air as Ghost snaps.
He curls in tight against him, keening low in his throat as his body tenses tight and then shudders. He clenches around Soap, fingers clawing and nails biting at his back as he holds on for dear life.
Because between blood loss and euphoria, he’s found rapture.
Caught in the heady waves of Ghost's orgasm, Soap lets out a noise like he’s been wounded. Blood and drool gather on his lips as his own orgasm breaks over him like a wave, sending his hips slapping flush against Ghosts as he quakes.
He’s babbling something, Ghost thinks, something that sounds like ‘I love you, I love you, Simon’, and, ‘please don’t leave me, don’t ever leave me.’
As if he ever could.
As if he ever would.
Nothing can tear him away from the man he’s so stupidly fallen for, not now, not ever.
Their foreheads rest together as Soap, oh so carefully, lowers them both fully to the ground, hips flush with his own and plugging him up as they settle into the hazy afterglow.
It feels like he’s found Elysium, because what else could this protected place in his lover's arms be but paradise?
From the day he first met him, he always knew he would one day sink his teeth in, always knew that eventually they would end up here.
Simon is a greedy thing; he’s always known this.
It’s soothing to know that Johnny is no different.
He lets himself wriggle just enough to curl into the man lying over him, exhausted and loose from everything. Tonight, they’ll rest; Soap satiated on Ghost’s blood.
Tomorrow, he would feed him human blood, and he would begin the arduous process of acclimating him enough to return to human life.
But that was tomorrow, and tomorrow could wait.
For tonight, they would simply exist, perfectly content, coiled in one another's arms.
Just for tonight.