Chapter Text
Ghost watched through the scope of his rifle, trained in on that Scotsman with his iconic mohawk. He was proud of his Sergeant, especially in how efficiently he worked.
Well, how efficiently he normally worked.
When Ghost saw Soap nearly blow up from on of his own explosives, his blood ran cold.
When Soap got back to the RV point, Ghost didn’t say a word to him. Until he snapped at him
“Bloody hell, MacTavish! Do you have a death wish?!”
“LT—“ Ghost cut him off.
“No! You go around tossing explosives around like it’s all some halloween candy! You can’t forget where you place them!! I almost watched you blow up , for christ’s sake! You know how—“
Scared . He can’t say that. He can’t .
“…Ghost, I—“ Soap’s voice sounded so weak .
Chatter came over the comms. Price and Nik were five klicks out.
Ghost wasn’t done yelling at Soap though.
The helo ride back to base was awful for everyone. The Lieutenant barked at his Sergeant, saying things like—
“You think it’s funny, do you? Having to watch you run around and play with explosives like they’re some bloody toy !? You’re better than this, MacTavish! You need to get it through that thick skull of yours and—“
Nik looks to Price. A silent ‘do something’.
Price cuts Ghost off, seeing the Sergeant look so defeated, looking like so not Soap. Head tucked between his shoulders, eyes glued to his Lieutenants boots.
“Ghost. Enough. Save it until we’re back.” Ghost snarls at Price, anger, and most importantly, fear pumping through his veins.
Fear of losing Soap. His Johnny.
Fear, something he hasn’t felt since hiding away from his father in the closet back in his childhood room.
Ghost huffs, sitting away from Soap.
Distance will be good.
So when Price told the two they were going on leave, together , things blew up in Ghost’s face.
One week. Alone. With Soap.
Bloody. Fuckin. Hell.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Soap feels god awful on the train-ride to some desolate wasteland Price has him and Ghost shacking up in for the next week. He upset his Lieutenant. Big time.
He stares at the man sitting across from him, his arms were crossed tightly against his chest and he had his black balaclava on, the one he’d wear around base instead of the whole mask. He stares out the window, looking colder than ever. It sends a pang of guilt down his spine, etching into each and every vertebrae.
“Ghost…” Soap hated how weak he sounded.
His chocolate honey eyes snap over to his own pearly blues, forcing Soap to take a deep breath. He tugs at the material of his worn down blue jeans.
“I’m sorry...ye know. Truly sorry.” He mumbles out, unchararistacally soft for Soap. The usual booming Sergeant, now reduced to a mumbling mess.
Ghost lets out a grunt of acknowledgement, turning back to look out the window. This just makes Soap feel worse.
“Ah dinnae ken that would piss ye off that much…” This response earns a scoff from Ghost.
“Sure. I’d be so pleased to hear my Sergeant blew himself up.” Ghost sneered back, tone oozing with so many unsaid emotions.
Fuck, the week was going to be hell.
The rest of the train ride is met with very tense and awkward silence, shifting in booths, and sighs. Most coming from Soap himself.
As soon as the train comes to a halt, Ghost stands up.
“Right. On your feet then, Sergeant.” Soap obeys.
The two walk in perfect sync to the motel that was near the train station, Ghost’s left-right, matching up with Soap’s right-left. Easy as breathing. The stone filled path leads them to this warm looking estate.
“Price said it was a motel. This is an entire flat.” Ghost murmurs as they step into their room.
“Aye…he did say that.” Soap agrees, looking around with furrowed brows.
There was a full kitchen, dining room, bathroom, and–
“One bedroom?” Soap stutters, looking to his Lieutenant.
“Repeat that, LT?”
Ghost growls, taking his phone out. “Bloody fuckin’ hell, old man.”
No service.
Great.
Soap watches Ghost set his phone down on the counter, shifting his weight from foot to foot awkwardly.
“I ken yer too big for the couch, so I’ll take it.” Soap offers after some time.
Ghost sighs.
“No, Johnny–”
“Please, LT. I insist.” Soap cuts him off, giving him that look. The one he knows will always get him his way. He can see Ghost roll his eyes.
“Fine. But don’t come pissin to me like a baby because your back hurts.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The first night Ghost doesn’t sleep. I mean, how could he knowing the person he cares so much about is down the hall on a shitty couch for his sake. He doesn’t want to sleep anyways, knowing the images he’d be plagued with.
So, by nearly five in the morning, he decides to just get ready for the day.
The water pressure is pure shite, but it’ll do. Once he’s done in the washroom, he makes his way to the small kitchenette, nearly bumping his head on the dangling pots and pans above the middle island.
He looks through the copious amounts of cupboards, looking for a mug.
He sets the kettle on the stove top, finding some cheap tea bags while he was looking for a mug. Which he found, with a chipped rim.
The kettle begins to let out that high pitched scream, but before it get’s too loud he takes it off the heated coils of the old rusty white stovetop. He didn’t want to wake Johnny, no matter how pissed off he was at him.
His Sergeant needed his sleep.
On more than one occasian, Ghost has caught Johnny awake during the middle of the night back at the base. Either hunched over some equation for a new explosive he was workshopping, doodling in his journal that Ghost oh so desperately wants to get his hands on, or in the mess, staring off into space.
The nights he finds Johnny in the mess are the ones Ghost worries about. He’s never seen his Sergeant look so…out of it.
Even if he was loosing a metric fuck ton of blood, he was there. But on these nights? These nights, he was just gone. There’s been a time Ghost made the mistake of placing a hand on the nape of his neck during these episodes, which sent Ghost to the infirmary for a sprained wrist.
He couldn’t blame Soap, he would’ve done the same.
As Ghost sips his sub-par leaf water, he can’t help but stare at Johnny as he lies sleeping on the couch.
His wrinkles smoothed out, yet the ones cornering his eyes still faintly there. He wonders what Johnny would look like in glasses. Lord above knows he’s going to need them when–
If.
If he gets older.
Ghost hates thinking like this, but it’s the reality of their job. They only had so much time.
His eyes trace the scar on his chin, the dips of his jawline, and–
God, he was absolutely smitten for this man.