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Soap has always been a bit brash: a bit too loud, a bit too much. He can’t really help it, his mouth runs before he can stop it – it has a motor of its own, one not connected to his brain.
He knows it can be annoying, but that’s why he tries so hard to make himself indispensable. He needs to be a Queen in a sea of Pawns – a piece that no one wants to lose. He can be loud and distracting and a bit reckless as long as he still holds on to his importance. Maybe that's why it's such a blow when he hears Ghost groan over the comms, his breath crackling into the mic. He sounds tired – Soap knows he is, this mission has been a long one. They were all looking forward to finally getting back to their beds – a soft, comfortable mattress was hard earned by all of them.
“Seriously, Johnny, shut it.”
But he only laughs as he creeps through the dark, undeterred, having heard that from Ghost time and time again. The words have lost their edge, no longer cutting -- only a dull thump against Soap’s exterior.
“What do you call a cop in bed?”
Ghost sighs. “Johnny-”
“An undercover cop."
“For the fucking sake of god,” Ghost snaps, voice sharp and truly annoyed now, temper well and lost under the stress of the day. “Johnny – we're working, we’re not here for games. You need to shut trap for five seconds so you don't end up getting us killed-”
Soap finds himself pausing, hands clenching around his gun now, skin crawling with shame. Ghost’s right, of course, he always is. There’s a reason he’s as good of a soldier as he is – he has his head on straight, has a one track mind so unlike Johnny. In the darkness of an empty, quiet hallway, Soap feels lonely.
“Aye,” he says into the mic only after Ghost calls his name through the comms, annoyed as Johnny lets the silence stretch on a moment too long. “Sorry Lt. Cannae help myself sometimes.”
“You’re a soldier, learn to handle it before I shove a sock in your mouth and leave you home next time.”
That hurt.
Maybe he wasn't as indispensable as he thought he was. He chews on his lower lip at the thought, nervousness clawing its way up his spine like a greedy, devouring beast. Soap liked to think they -- they being him and Ghost -- had gotten close. That maybe they had even begun to become friends despite Simon’s innate inability to share anything about himself that was beyond surface level. Soap thought he had wedged himself in those cracks in his mask and was beginning to pull his façade apart, joke by awful joke. Jokes that Simon himself had even begun to indulge in.
Maybe Johnny had made a mistake thinking he and Ghost were... anything. Getting too ahead of himself maybe, hoping for something that wasn't really there -- all of those side-long glances at dinner, all the times their thighs pressed together when they went to get drink at the bar, all the times Ghost ended up in Johnny's room after a long night, just for the comfort of hearing someone else's breath. All of that was just... something Johnny had read into. They were nothing more than soldiers.
"Copy that," he says, the words clipped. He was angry; a bit with Ghost, pride injured, but mostly with himself.
He sighs, gritting his teeth and holding his gun tighter. Focus on the mission. Focus.
-----
The silence was killing Johnny.
There had been virtually no chatter over comms save for the occasion check-in from the others. Scattered 'Check point reached' and 'Building cleared' statements had been lovely reprieves to the deafening silence that surrounded him. He'd been in the military since he was eighteen and never once did he wish he was being shot at until now. God, he would give anything to steady the heavy buzzing beneath his skin, to let out the energy that was building at the base of his skull and begging to be let out.
But no. It was quiet. Too quiet, almost.
He walked through the building, one quiet footstep after the other. For a moment, the only sounds were of his heart beating heavily and the squeal of steps as he crept up towards the second floor, and then -- suddenly -- there was the low, drawn-out sound of a door opening.
Johnny was torn between squealing in delight and going silent as the dead. He flattened himself against the wall, gun raised cautiously as he crept up, every muscle in his body trembling with tension. L
"Possible hostiles," Johnny whispers.
"Be careful, Soap," Price crackles. In the background there is the sound of heavy thuds. Bodies hitting the floor? Maybe he was having more fun than Johnny was.
His eyebrows pinch. "How are things over there, Captain?"
"Hostiles, Johnny," Ghost reminds him. "Don't get yourself shot. I'm not dragging your ass back."
"Fuck you, Gh-"
There's a click, and when Johnny looks up, he's staring down the barrel of a gun -- it's life altering being close enough to a gun to see that it hasn't been cleaned properly. Maybe he shouldn't worry about that right now. He jerks back, foot slipping on the stairs. He feels his weight tip, sending him careening into the abyss below. In that split second, he raises his gun, firing wildly in hopes of a stray bullet hitting its mark. He tumbles, falling hard down the flight of stairs he'd just come up -- he'd be embarrassed if it weren't for the pain that blossoms through his body.
When his tumbling comes to a standstill on the bottom step, Johnny simply lays, heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Everything hurts. His arms, his back, his ribs. He feels like he's been hit by a damn truck. He really hopes he hasn't broken anything, that would be a damned disaster -- a big 'I told you so' from Ghost. He doesn't think he can handle that today -- he might just make the mistake of hauling off and knocking his head off his shoulders.
"Soap. I heard gunfire, what's your status?" That's Price. Always worried, but never outrightly saying it.
Soap is quiet, still catching his breath. The pain isn't ebbing from his body as he lays there -- if anything it's getting worse. Amplified, coursing through his veins and tearing his nervous system apart.
"MacTavish. How do you copy?" Johnny sits up, groaning in pain. The hostile lays halfway up the steps, body limp, their blood trickling down the steps towards Johnny. It's morbid, but he's seen worse. He's more worried about the way his lungs ache and he can't seem to catch his breath, even as he drags in a long, whistling breath. He reaches up, pressing a hand against his left side -- there is a familiar wetness there, and when he pulls his hand back, his gloves are dark, the tips of his bare fingers stained crimson. He glares up at the dead body, lip curling in annoyance. The lucky bastard must have gotten a damn shot off.
"Johnny, say something."
"Thought you wanted me to shut up," Johnny heaves into the mic, spitting the words at Ghost's concerned voice. Fuck him.
"Speak when you're spoken to," he growls, just as annoyed as his counterpart. "Don't make us worry about your loudmouth any more than we have to."
"Whatever. Hostile eliminated. I'm going to clear the building. Out."
----
Maybe it was a mistake to think he could make it all the way to the extraction point a bullet grinding against his internal organs. Maybe if it was a shoulder or an arm he would have fared better, but he's barely able to stay on his feet. Nevertheless, he manages -- miraculously. The others are already there, waiting impatiently for him. Price puffs on a cigar, Gaz standing near him. It is no surprise the Ghost stands a healthy distance away from them both.
When Johnny hobbles up to them, pale and sweating, they look at him with raised brows.
"The hell happened to you, kid?" Price is the first to come towards him and Johnny shifts his vest, covering the ever-growing flower of blood that spreads over his shirt. He's never been more grateful that he's wearing black.
"Fell down some steps," he laughs, the sound forced. "Hurt like hell."
"Christ, Kid, you're a damn mess." Price rolls his eyes, but turns away, concerns thwarted for now. Soap doesn't know why he doesn't tell him the truth -- maybe he feels like it'll be a bother. He doesn't want to be seen like a pawn. There are many people like him. Losing him would not be a big blow to the team. But it would be an inconvenience. So he's going to push through and handle this on his own. Prove he can drag his own weight.
It is a relief when he is finally able to sit in the seat of the helicopter, belt strapped painfully across his chest, squeezing him much too tightly. He wipes sweat from his face, looking up to see Ghost staring at him through the holes in his mask. The other man sits across from him, gun laying in his lap as he watches him. Johnny stares back, pondering what the emotion in those eyes was but he came up drawing blanks. Ghost was a... ghost. He couldn't read him always -- better than most could, but if Ghost didn't want you to know what he was thinking, you wouldn't. now was one of those times -- his eyes swam with emotion, but none Johnny was familiar with.
Normally, Johnny would make a quip here, something about how Simon must really like his pretty face from how hard he was staring, but those words from earlier came clawing their way back into the forefront of his mind. So he simply makes a distasteful expression and looks down at the gun in his lap and kept his mouth shut.
----
At some point, Johnny had fallen asleep. Well. Passed out really. The blood loss was getting to him and each time he woke from his stupor, it seemed like time had barely passed. His vision was swimming, his skin clammy and cold despite the pressing heat of their current climate. His vest felt suffocating, like it was squeezing him tightly and he was quickly becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the way his blood made his shirt stick to his skin.
When the finally landed, he groped for his buckle, weak fingers pressing against the button. He barely managed to squeeze out enough strength to get it to click.
He tried to stand, unsteady and wavering on his feet, but he stumbled, bumping shoulders harshly with Ghost. The man looked down at him, a glare quickly dissolving into something akin to panic when Johnny grabbed his arm, vision going black around the edges. His legs weaken under him, sending him slumping down against the floor of the plane.
"I need to go to the medbay," he pants as Ghost slips an arm under Johnny's, shooting an alarmed look at Price who is already grabbing Soap by the vest and hauling. He nearly screams, pain coursing through him, but he bites his lip and groans instead. Ghost catches the motion, and with a pinch of his brow, he nods at Price.
"See if you can take his vest off," he says, and Soap doesn't have the energy to protest. He does, however, almost laugh at the look on all of their faces when they see the hole in Johnny's shirt, and the blood that has soaked it through completely and painted Price's hands an alarming shade. Maybe he does laugh.
"Not as bad as it looks," he slurs, and Ghost nearly tears his shoulder off as he lugs him forward, pulling him in the direction of medical.
He grits his teeth, hissing. Ghost speaks. "Why," he begins, tone low and menacing, 'would you not tell us you're shot?"
"Wanted me to shut me trap, remember? I did as I was told."
Ghost doesn't say anything to that and Johnny takes that as a win. Him: 1, Ghost: 0
---
When Soap wakes up on a cot, a machine beeping noisily next to him and an IV pumping painkillers into him, he laughs -- and then groans as pain courses through him. Reminder. Don't laugh.
He looks around the grim, anesthetic smelling room and his breath comes to a halt when he sees Ghost, staring at him like he wants to personally shoot him on the other side of his body just to make sure he matches.
"You're an idiot," he says to Johnny, voice bland.
He shrugs, lifting his good side and smiles weakly. "Not my best move."
Ghost does not find him amusing. The masked man's grip tightens on the arms of his chair and Soap fears he'll crush it. "You lied."
"In my defense, I really did fall down the stairs."
"Me telling you to shut up did not mean to put yourself in danger and be reckless."
Soap grits his teeth. Ghost was really lecturing while he lay in a hospital bed? Yes, he made a mistake, but he didn't put anyone else in danger, he should be grateful for that. He handled it. "Yeah? From what I understand, I bother you so damn much that I shouldn't even bother to share with you. You wanted me to shut up, so I fucking did, and now you're angry? I've tried to read your ass, tried to get what the fuck you actually want when all you give is conflicting messages but nothing ever fucking clicks! Just when I think I fucking have it, you haul off and send me fucking spinning, so I'm fucking sorry if I didn't want to tell you I was shot because maybe that would inconvenience you."
Ghost stares at him, knuckles white around the arms of his chair. He's shaking, angry and hurt, and distinctly Johnny feels like maybe he'd said the wrong thing.
"You are my brother, you are my friend, and most importantly, I care about you," Ghost growls, reaching out and jabbing a finger at him. "You annoy the shit out of me, because you never shut your bloody fucking mouth but I would rather be annoyed than have to go to your funeral, do you fucking understand me? I will never want you dead. If you are injured, you are to fucking tell me. Or Price, if you're acting like a brat and don't want to talk to me. Don't risk your life for something stupid and fucking petty." Throughout the statement, Ghost had gotten closer, voice growing lower as he leans over Soap's cot, their faces merely inches a[art. Ghost eyes are wide and bloodshot, like he's been crying or has been sitting for far too long without blinking. Johnny stares up at him, lips parted in surprise as he looks into those whiskey-colored irises. His breathing is shallow, not because of his wound but because of the tension that surrounds them, thick enough to cut with a dull knife.
"You will never inconvenience me," he says, grabbing Soap by the chin. "I will always protect you, even if it kills me to know you are getting way too close to me. Because it would kill what little of me is left if you died, Johnny."
"Are you confessing to me," Johnny whispers, voice hoarse. it sounds like a joke, Ghost making some type of confession. It's unrealistic.
"No," he says, and surprisingly, Soap isn't bothered. "I'm telling you exactly where you stand. And I'm telling you that I'll fucking kill you myself if you ever pull anything like this again. Copy?"
Johnny blanks for a moment, so focused on Simon hovering above him that his brain feels fried. It's been a while since they were this close, and Johnny wonders what his lips feel like under that mask. Are they soft? Chapped and rough? Scarred? He bets his bottom dollar they're soft, scarred a bit but soft.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, hand resting against Ghost's. "You just hit a sore spot."
"I know."
Johnny grins at that, watching Ghost as he pulls away and sits in his chair, slumping so much he wonders just how long the Brit had been sitting there waiting for him to wake up. "No apology?"
"Don't push your luck, Mactavish."
They lapse into a comfortable silence after that, Ghost not leaving, Johnny not saying anything as he watches Ghost and Ghost watches him. He grins and Simon rolls his eyes, shaking his head slightly.
"Hey," he says, breaking their brief silence. Ghost raises an eyebrow, signaling for him to go on with what he wanted to say. He snickers. "What do you call a cow with no legs?"
"Jesus Christ, Johnny-"