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Someone has been stealing food out of the 141’s communal fridge.
Well, not someone. Ghost.
Soap knows that Price and Gaz think it's him, has seen the dirty glances and noticed the very targeted complaints towards him about the missing food. It’s clearly not the two of them, which leaves Ghost; The one who never stores food in their fridge, who never seems to eat anything that isn’t from the canteen. Clearly, the least likely suspect in Price and Gaz’s eyes.
However, they’re not the only ones who have been targeted by Ghost's theft, and Soap could easily rat Ghost out if he wanted. For some reason, though, he doesn't. Ghost wouldn’t steal for no reason, and he certainly wouldn't do it multiple times if he didn’t need it for some reason or another.
He had figured drawing a large caution symbol on his brownies would be enough to deter the man. Technically, he’s not allowed to have any form of drug or alcohol on base. But really, if Price can have his bottle of whiskey, Soap can have his bars of dubiously obtained cannabutter.
At least he’s not smoking anything, God forbid. He knows Gost and Price both have contraband cigarettes, can smell the stink of them every time they come back to base from their “walks.” He never complains, and there's a mutual understanding that any found substances are turned a blind eye to. It's basic respect.
He shouldn't have expected so much from Ghost.
He's startled awake by a heavy knock at his door, springing into a sitting position before checking the simple dialogue clock on his nightstand, telling him it's not even midnight. They're between missions now, and Gaz and Price have gone out drinking for the night. He and Ghost are the only members of the 141 in their wing of the base tonight, and Ghost never initiates anything with anyone. If it is Ghost showing up at Soap’s door at eleven at night, then it's certainly not a social call.
He rises from the bed slowly, taking the knife he has stashed under his pillow and slowly creeping towards the door. Guns aren't allowed outside of missions and training, but they all know better than to not have any weapons in their rooms.
He peeks through his door's peephole and feels the tension drain from his shoulders when he sees that it really is Ghost. He tosses the knife onto his mattress and flicks on the lights, not even sparing the way the blade bounces off the mattress and onto the floor a second thought before opening the door to greet the other man. Ghost is in all black, sweatpants and a sweatshirt, with his casual balaclava pulled up over his face. At least he's not dressed for a mission, Soap thinks.
“Whats up?”
Ghost doesn't move, staring holes into Soap's head.
Soap swallows nervously and steps back, gesturing in his room. “Wanna come in?”
“No.”
“Okay…”
They stand like that for a moment, neither of them saying anything, and Soap tries not to shift his feet under Ghost's gaze. After a minute, Ghost seems to deflate, the tension leaving his shoulders as he moves to rest his weight on one leg.
“I ate your brownies.”
Soap's eyes widen, and all brain functions peter out for a second before he regains composure and looks out the door, checking both ends of the hall before pulling Ghost into his room and slamming the door behind him.
“How many?” He asks frantically, eyes searching what little of Ghost's face he can see for any signs of distress. His eyes aren't red, but that hardly means anything. “How long ago?”
“Two,” Ghost answers, then pauses. “Around twenty minutes ago.”
“Ye great eejit!” Soap cusses, slapping Ghost on the arm and turning to pace the small length of his room. He runs his hand over his face, dragging the skin down and taking a long breath.
“So they are laced.”
“O’ course they're pumpin’ laced! I put the symbol on them for you , you–you fucking–” he runs out of steam before he can finish his thought, turning to look at Ghost again in worry, trying to see any differences in his composure.
He hears Ghost take a deep breath, sees his chest rise but not fall. “Cannabis?”
“Yes, of course. I don't–I don't use anythin’ else.” He sighs. “Steamin’ Jesus, Ghost. Why? Shit, those are fucking strong, mate.”
“I'll be fine.”
“Do you do pot?”
“No.”
Soap groans, stepping back to sit heavily on his bed. “Best pray you'll be fine. Fucking shit. God.”
“Calm down.” The bastard's voice is still calm and steady, not betraying a thing. A part of Soap's brain laughs, wondering if the weed would even affect him or if his hardheadedness will protect him.
“Alright.” He takes a breath. “Okay. Look, it'll start hitting you soon, especially wi’ that amount. You've got maybe ten minutes.”
Ghost nods, and Soap quickly catches on. This is what's easy for him: facts and orders. Soap can do that, can help the fool through this, even if he deserves to suffer a little bit for stealing others' food.
“You ever been high before?”
“Negative.”
“Alright.” He rises to his feet, grabbing a plastic bottle of water from the case he keeps under his bed. “It's not cold, but it'll do.” He shoves it into Ghost's hands. “Drink.”
Ghost hesitates for a moment before reaching up slowly and moving his balaclava onto the bridge of his nose, taking a swig from the bottle. Soap decidedly does not stare at his jawline or the way his throat bobs as he swallows. Definitely not. He's seen the man's whole face before, for fucks sake. No reason to act like a Victorian man seeing a woman's ankles for the first time.
“Everybody reacts differently. Some people sleep, others get all giggly, others have panic attacks.” Ghost doesn’t react to that, keeping his eyes level on Soap’s. “We’ll figure out how you react soon enough, ‘n’ we’ll do what we can wi’ that. Right?”
“Right.”
“Just know, whatever happens, you’re gonna be fine.”
“I’m not a child, Soap. I know that.”
Soap raises his hands in surrender. “Jesus, sorry for tryna comfort my dearest LT afore his first time getting high off his balls.”
Ghost's eyes flicker to the side for the first time that night, and his mouth presses into a thin line. “Sorry.”
Soap feels his heart lurch at Ghost apologizing of all things, a tight feeling in his chest at the man’s expression. “It’s fine. Look, best way to keep this good for you is to keep you comfy, so let’s get you to your room–“
“No.” Soap raises his brow, and Ghost looks away again.
“We can stay here?” He suggests hesitantly, fearful of crossing a boundary but not knowing what else to suggest.
Ghost nods, working his throat but not saying a word.
“Okay,” Soap breathes. This means nothing; Ghost just… feels more comfortable in Soap’s room than in his own.
Christ.
“Wanna lay down?”
Ghost's eyes flicker to Soap's bed and back to Soap, his jaw clenching. “I’d rather not.”
Alright then. The bed is a no, but staying in Soap’s room is not. Right. Makes sense.
“At least sit down. Wont be wantin’ to stand for much longer.”
Ghost's tongue flicks out for a second to wet his lips before he takes a breath, one that is definitely shakier than the ones before.
“Feeling it?” Soap asks as Ghost walks to his desk chair and sits down slowly, as if a faster movement would send him to the ground.
A grunt in the affirmative is all he gets. Ghost spreads his legs obscenely wide and slumps backward in the uncomfortable wooden chair.
“Sure you don't wanna sit on the bed?”
Another grunt.
“Alright.”
Soap isn’t quite sure what he should do. It feels wrong to sit on the bed–what if Ghost changes his mind about the desk chair?–but standing puts him at an odd angle to converse with him. Although, maybe Ghost doesn't want to talk at all. Why would he stay in Soap’s room, though, if that's the case?
“I can hear your brain working from here, Johnny,” Ghost sighs, and Soap can see a slight tremor in his hands as he squeezes and releases the arms of the chair rhythmically.
“Sorry. Don't know what you want me to do.”
He scoffs. “Don't treat me like I've got some terminal illness, first of all.”
“Sorry.”
“And stop apologizing.”
Soap nods, then finally takes a seat on the bed. “Y’know, if you really wanted something to eat, you could’ve just asked. I woulda gotten you real brownies if you were hankerin’ for something sweet.”
Soap catches Ghost's cheeks turning red before he moves the balaclava back down over his chin. Sure, he was blunt, but really, the stealing was getting out of hand. He should have expected to be confronted one of these days.
“Food isn't–” Ghost cuts himself off, turning his head to the side. “I don’t know.”
“You don't gotta tell me if you’re not comfortable, but you really shouldn’t steal other people’s food.”
“I know,” he grumbles, scuffing his boot against the floor. Speaking of.
“Take your shoes off, we’re gonna be here a while.”
Ghost does as he's told, placing his boots neatly to the side of the chair and then moving back to his previous position. He's started blinking more frequently than normal, and he moves his balaclava back up to take another swig of water.
The awkwardness is suffocating. Soap wants to talk, to have some sort of chatter with Ghost to save him from the searingly tense silence between them. Normally, there’s some sort of banter whenever they're together, but Ghost seems to have already lost all the higher brain functions that allow him to make his shitty quips. “Wanna watch something? Play a game? I can get something from your room, if you’d like.”
Ghost shakes his head. “I'm fine.”
Soap decides to give Ghost some privacy, or, at least, as much privacy as he can , considering they’re sitting not two meters apart. He scrolls through his phone for a bit, unsure of what else he could do that wouldn’t disturb the man.
He can’t help that he keeps glancing at him as he does so. Can’t help the anxiety building in his stomach as Ghost begins to sway slowly while he stares off into the distance, tapping his fingers against his thigh in an unrecognizable pattern.
After what feels like an hour but is probably more like fifteen minutes, Ghost breathes deeply and begins to talk, voice strangely tight.
“I trust this team.”
Soap doesn’t dare speak or even breathe at that, afraid that one wrong move will shut the lieutenant up. Getting Ghost to talk about himself is hard enough, but his feelings are unheard of.
Ghost clears his throat and continues. “And I want to eat–” he cuts himself off, then starts again. “I wasn’t fed a lot as a kid.”
Soap feels the bottom of his stomach swoop. He knew Ghost didn’t have a great childhood, everyone knows that. Sure, no one knows the details, but it’s no surprise that food was restricted. Hearing it, though, and straight out of the horse's mouth… “I’m sorry about that.”
Ghost waves his hand in annoyance. “It doesn’t matter.”
Soap is pretty sure it does matter, but says nothing in retaliation.
Ghost shivers and his hands move up to cross and rub at his arms. “It’s cold.”
The room isn’t cold, or warm, really, just the even equilibrium that the entire base is. Soap doesn’t point out the change in subject, instead gestures to his bed again.
“Want a blanket?”
“Those’re yours, Johnny.”
“Well, not like I’m using them.”
Ghost hesitates before nodding, holding a hand out for Soap to pull the blanket off his bed and hand it to him. He wraps the thin fabric around his shoulders, and Soap can’t help the flare in his chest at the vision of Ghost in his room, sitting in his chair, with his blanket wrapped around him. He shouldn’t, but he feels giddy at the thought.
“Hungry?”
Ghost flinches and Soap immediately regrets getting so comfortable.
“I mean, just… munchies, y’know?”
Ghost looks to the side and nods again. “Yeah. I could go for… something.”
“Anything in particular?”
This whole issue started because Ghost was hungry, and considering all he must have eaten was two pot brownies, Soap can’t imagine that he’s feeling very full. He wants to feed him, wants him to be full and satisfied, and wants it to be because of him, no one else. He tries not to think too much about that idea.
“I don’t care, just–something cold.”
The switch in requests gives Soap whiplash, and he rises from the bed quickly, not wanting to leave Ghost hanging for any longer than he has to.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he waves him off as he rushes out the door towards the communal kitchen.
Soap is gone for five minutes, maybe even less. He hurries into the kitchen, once again thankful that Price and Gaz are out and not there to distract him, and grabs an apple and an orange, the only foods he had for himself that weren’t reheatable.
When he returns, he feels a flash of panic at the absence of Ghost in his chair before he sees a lump of blankets on his bed, including the one he had given Ghost.
“Ghost?”
“Sorry,” Ghost's voice sounds from the pile on his bed, and Soap's chest flutters. “It’s fucking cold.”
Soap smiles uncontrollably, chuckling softly as he walks up to the bed and sits on the side of it, able to see the outline of Ghost’s body from under the blankets at this distance.
“Why the hell would you want to eat something cold, then?”
He sees the blankets rise near where Ghost's shoulders are–a shrug–and Ghost reaches out to grab the apple from Soap's hand. Soap moves back and starts to peel the orange as Ghost takes a bite, sitting up against the wall in order to eat more easily, causing the blankets to pool over his legs and around his hips.
“How’re you feeling?”
Ghost takes a bite of the apple and chews thoroughly before answering. “Fine.”
“Do you want me to leave–?”
“No.” He takes a breath. “I want you here. Don't leave me alone.”
Soap's breath stutters at the raspiness of his voice, but he tries not to let it get to his head. Ghost is high and has no control over what he's saying, no ability to even say what he truly feels–for all Soap knows, he’s just saying things and doesn't mean a word he's said. Or maybe, Soap just doesn’t want to let himself hope.
Either way, he assents and holds a slice of orange out for Ghost to take. His fingers feel sticky and wet from its juices, and he sets aside the peel on the nightstand, Ghost dropping the apple's core next to it.
“Thank you,” he says, taking the slice with a shaky hand and then opening shiny pink lips to eat it, and Soap swallows thickly to avoid any unsavory thoughts from arising at the image. It's apple juic e, and Soap has got to get his mind out of the gutter. He forces his eyes to meet Ghost’s, the whites of them now a hazy pink that makes an unconscious smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
“It's okay to ask more of me, y’know.” Soap is not sure why he said that, why he felt the need to offer Ghost that lick of comfort.
Ghost glances down at his hands in his lap, and Soap offers him another orange slice. He takes it.
“What happened to the orange fighter?”
Soap sighs but takes the joke. “What?”
“He got beaten to a pulp.”
He huffs out a soft laugh. “Horrible, LT.”
“You love them,” Ghost says, and Soap feels his heart skip a beat at the bluntness. You love my jokes, is what Ghost means, of course. There’s no other meaning possible, really.
If Ghost can be honest, so can Soap. “I do.” I do love you.
They sit in silence for a while, Soap passing orange slices to Ghost and Ghost chewing them slowly before swallowing audibly. Eventually, he's eaten almost the entire thing, and Soap holds up the last slice in front of Ghost's half-lidded eyes.
“Last one,” he tells him. “Better savor it.”
Ghost slowly reaches out for it, but at the last second, his hand locks around Soap's wrist, holding tight with surprising strength and causing Soap to almost drop the orange in surprise. He doesn't, though, and he holds the slice tightly as Ghost pulls his hand towards him, opening his mouth and baring his teeth.
When Soap's fingers are barely an inch from Ghost's mouth, he bites down on the orange, lips so close to Soap's hand that he can feel the warmth of his mouth radiating from him.
He swallows shakily and releases the orange, allowing Ghost to tip his head back and chew the orange without releasing his wrist.
Soap feels his mouth go dry, eyes unable to move from Ghost’s. Ghost isn’t smiling, his searching gaze flickering all over Soap's face.
Soap takes a shaky breath. “Simon?”
He doesn’t realize how close their faces have gotten until Ghost pulls his wrist again, pressing it against his chest and pulling Soap in the final inch needed to make their lips press together chastely.
Soap doesn’t breathe, and from the strangling grip on his wrist, he guesses Ghost isn’t faring much better. He closes his eyes, letting the feeling of warm, juice-sticky skin and a tight hand take over his senses.
Eventually, Ghost's tongue flicks out to wet his lips as if he’s forgotten about Soap’s pressed against them. The action, however, reminds Soap of what exactly is happening between them, and he reels backward to the other end of the bed, the grip on his wrist easily breaking at the slightest pressure.
Ghost is staring at him with wide eyes, and Soap knows he's reflecting the same expression back at him. Something seems to click in Ghost's mind, and he looks away, scowling.
“I'll go.”
It’s Soap's turn to demand, “No,” now, voice breathless as he feels his entire body burning. “Simon, no,” he says again as Ghost tries to rise from the bed, his legs wobbling and falling back onto the side before curling into himself and crossing his arms over his chest, his head hanging low between his shoulders.
“I shoudn’t’ve–” he gasps, and Soap sees his fingers dig deeper into his arms to the point where he knows they'll bruise, so he presses his hand against them, slowly prying them off.
“Simon,” he repeats his name, mentally willing the man to look at him, but he does not. “That's not the problem, I–I, too…” he wavers. Too? Does he even know if Ghost meant that kiss, that he wasn't just making a shitty joke, or kissing the closest person because that's just the kind of high he is?
The hand that Soap was grabbing grips back, squeezing his fingers in his fist.
The contact reassures him, and he continues to speak, looking down at their joined hands. It’s too painful to look at Ghost's face like this. “I care about you, Simon. I can't fool around and pretend nothing happened in the morning.” He pauses, closing his eyes for a moment, then resuming. “I also can't do this with you while you’re high.”
Ghost’s other hand moves to the back of Soap's neck, cold fingers shocking him into looking up at him. His eyes are squinting behind the balaclava, and his lips are pressed together thinly. He raises their joined hands to where his balaclava rests against the bridge of his nose, pressing Soap’s hand against it. He takes the hint, holding the fabric between his fingers and slowly raising it over his face, giving him time to take it back, to pull Soap's hand away and tell him to forget it. He doesn’t.
His face is blotchy red, the sharp angles and slopes familiar yet new, and Soap lets himself drink it all in, dropping the balaclava to the side and cupping his cheek, feeling golden stubble scratch against his palm. Ghost sighs at the contact, leaning into it. He presses his other hand against Ghost's other cheek, holding his face between his hands as gently as if he were holding a baby bird.
“You’re so pretty,” he tells him, whispers, not even thinking before the words slip from his lips.
Ghost blushes but doesn’t look away. “You’re an idiot.”
“I know.” He laughs wobbly, his mind feeling muddled and heavy. He can only imagine how Ghost is feeling. “Steamin’ Jesus, Ghost. You think I don’t know?”
Ghost smiles, a goofy, lopsided smile that Soap has never seen before.
He leans forward, pressing their lips together yet again. The taste and smell of oranges lingers between them long after they pull apart and lay together in Soap's bed, chest to chest. Soap listens to Ghost’s even breaths long after he's fallen asleep.