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1500. At that time, it would be over 40° celsius- the hottest time of day in these godforsaken deserts. Soap hadn’t been keen on this operation, due to the desert heat alone. He was of the strong belief that with heat, you could only strip so far- unlike in the cold, where you could at least add layers to protect against the chill. But the desert is something else - it’s an ugly, dry heat. The type that sucks the moisture from your lips as soon as you step out into it.
Soap huffed a breath through his nose, unsettled with the sweat already rolling down his back. Of course the plan was to hit them during the hottest time of day, the climax of the heat drawing a majority of the insurgents indoors. The risk of heatstroke was real during the early mid afternoon hours, and from casing the location over the last week they learned the rotation was lessened around those specific hours for that reason.
So what better time to wipe the place off the face of the earth than when they least expected it?
Soap couldn’t care less. He would’ve gladly given up the element of surprise if it meant he didn’t have to lug around the extra pounds of explosives while sweating his ass off in this godforsaken heat - which is also probably why he isn’t in charge. There was fucking sand between his toes and ass (somehow) and he hated it.
And Ghost, somehow, was as unfazed as ever despite being fully geared up, including his skull mask and balaclava. The only difference was his tan sleeves being rolled up over corded arms with the faintest sheen of sweat showing. Apparently his pale ass was somehow impervious to the heat.
That just makes Soap cranky. He would’ve been bitching about it too, if he wasn’t so focused on their silent movements to get into position.
Price had made the plan crystal clear about a month ago, and nearly every other day leading up to now.
A classified group of insurgents were dealing in illegal arms in a shithole abandoned desert town in the middle of nowhere. Now, dealing and buying illegal firearms wasn’t uncommon, and dealing with this was definitely below their pay grade - and it would have been, if there wasn't a rumor that these insurgents were getting their hands on items that were more… sensitive than weaponry. Dealing in weapons is a lesser danger than dealing in information.
The world ran and depended on the collars around politicians' throats. Put the leash in the wrong hands, and shit goes south.
A bitter way to think about it, and it left a sour taste in Soap’s mouth. He fucking hated dogs, political or not. Unreasonable and selfish beasts, viscous when backed into a corner. The one saving grace was how predictable the behavior was. You corner a wounded animal, it lashes out - that didn’t change between man or beast. A wounded animal goes for the throat, always does.
Dogs aside, Price’s instructions were clear. Leave no evidence behind. The place was secluded, perfect for its use as an in between arms facility. Unfortunately for the insurgents, due to this exclusivity, it didn’t matter how much of a mess they made of the place. In their weeks of casing the compound, it showed there were no civilians at risk. Purely a weapons facility. Which meant a demolition expert, like Soap, had a very fun job to do.
Heat at his back, and a grim darkness on the horizon, Soap’s boots sunk into sand as he made his way quietly towards the bland and ramshackle sandstone buildings, losing sight of the 6’4” Ghost as he slipped into an open doorway. Their target was a taller building on the outskirts. Securing it was vital, as Price had stressed. With its positioning and height, if Ghost and Soap secured it, it would prove to be a useful overlook position for Ghost and his sniper, and would make a pretty pile of rubble after Soap was done with it.
Ghost, despite some earlier protest from Soap, went in to clear first. Soap felt annoyed at the sand in his boots (not for the last time), and when he got close enough to the empty sandstone doorway that Ghost had slipped through, he squatted against the back wall of the building. He hadn’t seen any guards on rotation, which might have been weird at any other time of day.
Soap released a breath, waited and listened. Ghost was unnervingly silent in whatever he was doing in there, but it wasn’t any different compared to the entirety of the last month .
They had shared a room at the temporary base leading up to the mission, and somehow the man managed to avoid him like the plague. They were sharing a fuckin’ room and Soap saw him less than ever. Soap would be lying if he said he didn’t purposefully stay up late sketching sometimes just to prove that the man even came back to their room to sleep. Usually he didn’t show up, and Soap would end up passing out before Ghost would slip inside the room. But when Soap would wake up, the lights would be off and an item or two would be moved. Just enough to make Soap feel like he was going crazy and Ghost was actually some phantasmal entity, keen on fucking with him.
He shrugged off his annoyance, blinking away the sweat that beaded into his eyes annoyingly.
That shadow along the horizon was getting closer- and Soap frowned. It had only been a few minutes, and dry desert air was brushing at his dry face. A sense of unease was cold in his bones, a horrible contrast to the sweltering heat. He settled on looking back to the doorway Ghost had gone.
“Ghost, how copy?” Soap said underneath his breath into the receiver, releasing the button and waiting.
The response came a moment later. “Solid. First floor clear for entry.”
Soap sent a glance around, and then slipped into the sandstone building. Being out of the sun helped immediately, the shade helping cool him off in the slightest. Ghost was rounding a corner, wiping a bloody knife off on the thigh of his cargo pants before slipping it into a nearby thigh holster.
Ghost nodded in acknowledgement of Soap, and then started up a rough set of stairs. Ghost’s steps were soundless, making Soap cringe at each of his own footfalls that felt far too loud in his ears, accompanied by the distant hum of warm wind echoing through the building. The building was three stories in total, and Ghost took point while Soap followed, keeping keen ears out for anything.
Nothing. Not a soul inhabited the second and third floor, and it made Soap’s skin crawl. No weapon caches either, not that he expected them to fill up a building on the outskirts.
“How many did you deal with downstairs?” Soap inquired once they reached and cleared the third floor, almost unable to stand the silence.
He could feel the adrenaline in his veins, making his fingers twitch. He was aware of the sand sticking to the sweat on his arm, to places that hadn’t even been exposed. All of this added with an itching trigger finger had Soap on edge.
“Three.” Ghost spoke, kneeling at a busted out window that had a view over the desolate remnants of a town before them.
Ghost slipped the large compact sniper from his back, an utter beast of a gun. With gloved hands he started retrieving attachments from his person, spiked feet to balance it on the windowsill, a scope, extendable stock, and a silencer that he screwed onto the muzzle. The man was damn efficient in assembling it, leaving the clip as the last piece to his deadly little puzzle.
Ghost pulled back the bolt, a .338 sliding into the chamber. Ghost checked the scope, adjusting his position to be as stable as possible.
Soap wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. The muzzle of his own rifle, a standard C8 Carbide, pointed towards the ground. Three men? Was that really all there was? Soap found his leg moving of its own accord, bouncing on the ball of his foot.
“Price should just about be in position. Get those charges set, Sargeant.” If anything, Ghost’s tone was dismissive. That was another thing that wasn’t new, after the annoying last month of avoidance.
Soap huffed a breath. He had no time to confront Ghost about anything, not now. But later, when they got back to their home base maybe. They’d have some time off after this, between deployments. That was a good time to ask.
“Rog’. Anything else you need from me?” Soap waited for a response, which he didn’t get.
Ghost’s attention was down his scope, far off already. A far cry from the man that looked down a similar scope in Las Almas, keeping contact with Soap throughout the night to get them out. He didn’t let himself hesitate in his thoughts much longer, leaving Ghost to his own devices and heading back to the stairwell, taking them two at a time.
Reaching the first floor, Soap adjusted his hold on his gun, trying to keep his coiled arms relaxed. He canvassed the first floor again, finding the three corpses from Ghost’s handiwork. It was hard to see the entry wounds, blood pooling and absorbing into the beaten down sandy floors. Two of the three bodies had clearly been dragged and leaned against the same section of wall, the third several feet away and face down. If Soap tried he could figure out where exactly those men had taken their last breaths judging by the drag marks and the way the blood was splattered against the walls and floor.
Grim, certainly. But efficient. If Ghost was anything, he was efficient. Each mission, in and out, it was always a clean and quick operation. From observing Ghost, Soap knew he had mapped out every squeaky floorboard in their home base. The man could make it from one end of the compound to the other without ever being seen.
Ghost had a knack to always sneak into places he shouldn’t be in. Like where he was now, burrowing into Soap’s mind like a parasite. Even if Soap was pissed at him, it didn't mean Ghost wasn’t ever present in his thoughts.
Soap was frowning as he tugged off his pack, getting his hands busy with putting together some simple explosives. Crude, sure, but he needed the most explosive power with the least amount of material to make transport easier. Blowing the building from the first floor, maybe one or two key points, would send it crumbling. He jammed his explosive mess into a support, double checking his detonator was connected, before moving to the next location to plant another charge. Soap wished his mind would cease being as busy as his hands.
It would’ve been better if he at least knew why Ghost was ignoring him. There was nothing different about the mission before this one. The same old banter, the same dynamic as always.
And now they’ve been casing a desert town for nearly a month, and Ghost had hardly spoken to him. Sure, maybe about a month ago, there was a situation. And sure, maybe that incident might (within reason) have something to do with why Ghost was ignoring him now.
Soap thought it was ridiculous though. He kicked at a loose brick, the steel toe of his boots making a satisfying thunk. There was, unfortunately, no sign of action here on the first floor. No signs of approaching backup. Everything was running smoothly, and before long Soap had the last of his charges set up. Sooner or later, Price was supposed to be opening up the party popper and get the damn ball rolling already.
Soap cleared the entire first floor again, not because he needed to but just for the sake of being unable to stay still for another minute now that his part was done. His nerves were shot, and there was no telling what the source was anymore. He leaned against one of the sandstone walls, pausing to listen once more. Deep in his gut, that unsettling feeling he’d had since they’d gotten here pitched to a crescendo.
The hot wind was picking up, whistling and winding its way through the broken windows and doors. Soap listened in keenly, just for a moment.
What he heard sent a shiver down his spine.
Dogs. Baying and barking. The sweat that trailed down his temple was unrelated to the ungodly heat.
And they were getting closer.
“Might have some company downstairs soon.” Soap spoke into the receiver, praying his voice was even and calm. He fucking hated dogs. It didn’t sound like there was just one making its way over, judging by the sounds accompanied by the distant clanking of chains.
The reply was instant. “How many?” Ghost, even and firm as always.
Soap listened for another moment. He was behind a wall, away from where he and Ghost had entered at the rear of the building. Sounded like they were circling around the building. Those dogs certainly had their leashes held by someone. But he had no way to guess at how many people might be out there.
“Can’t tell.”
There was a sharp hiss, and the baying stopped. Soap leveled out his gun, every breath catching his ears. He heard chains dropping to the ground.
His receiver crackled in his ear, a telltale sign that someone was joining their private channel. “Boys, we got a problem.” Price gritted out, making Soap’s eyes widen involuntarily.
“How copy, Captain?” Ghost replied, and Soap didn’t dare open his mouth.
Not when he heard a sharp order from outside and then the sound of those damn dogs running, claws scratching against the floor. Soap shuffled away from the entryway, only seconds before two German shepherds bounded through.
Soap couldn’t hear the next thing said through comms over the sound of his gun going off, a loud echoing crack as blood sprayed across the tan landscape. One of the dogs went down hard- a matted and bloody mess.
And that was all the good Soap was able to do. The other shepherd launched itself, shining teeth glinting before sinking into his forearm that he only just had enough time to throw up, and the gun swung wide. Soap’s fingers flexed, firing useless rounds into the ground when iron jaws locked in.
Soap was vaguely aware of a sound tearing from his throat as the dog jerked its head, yanking at his arm like a play thing, growling like a creature from his nightmares. Searing hot pain enveloped his arm, his hand already slick with blood that ran down.
The gun slipped from his grip, as Soap desperately tried to beat at the dog's face with his free hand, going for nose and eyes. It was hard to do when the damn animal kept jerking his arm around, rending flesh.
He couldn’t properly register the shouts, as the push of the hound sent Soap stumbling back, nearly losing his balance. There was more shouting, too quick for him to even begin to translate. Soap didn’t need to know what they were saying to understand it when a gunshot rang out.
Soaps' right leg gave out and he was sent to the ground on his back, the shepherd going with him and heavy paws landing on his chest. He couldn’t think straight, he couldn’t breathe. The vice-like death grip on his arm sending his own blood splattering back into his face, into his mouth, and he could only imagine what an unsightly scene this was.
The ringing in his ears almost blocked out the sounds of a gun fight. Ghost.
Had Soap warned him enough in advance? Surely he heard his gun going off - or maybe screaming. Soap thought he might have done that.
Soap had to remove his free hand from pushing at the hounds maw to fumble for a knife on his vest, fingers slick with blood as he tried to yank it free from underneath the behemoth of a shepherd. He jerked to the side, trying to throw the hound off with a yelp as its iron jaws momentarily released their grip. Soap scrambled to hold the dog down with his tattered forearm to its neck, snapping teeth only centimeters from his face. The knife pulled free from his strap and into his good hand, and he didn’t waste a second in slitting the animal's throat.
The beast gurgled and still fought, and Soap wished he could block out the sounds as it choked on its own blood. Feet kicking underneath him, head thrashing wildly. The barks cut off into pitiful gargling, until its fighting was weak enough that Soap let go and sprung back, landing on his ass and scrambling for his discarded gun. His left arm was shaking uncontrollably, and Soap avoided looking at it as he grabbed the Carbide and swung it up.
Red blurred his vision, and he was vaguely aware of warm blood running down his thigh as he pushed to his feet. The only difference between blood and sweat was the heat.
The sounds of a gun fight had stopped, but that didn’t tell him who won.
The other side of that empty doorway held one of two fates.
In one scenario, through that door, there would be a pile of bodies and a bloody Ghost. The visage of death, visiting the mortal plane once more. Ghost wasn’t the sweet kiss of death that took weary souls in their sleep, he wasn’t the gentle hand to hold as the life support was shut off.
Ghost was the solemn cries of a dying soldier alone on the battlefield. He was the cold claws of death that sunk in the moment a fender wrapped around a tree. Vicious and fast, or cruel and slow. Ghost was not a comfortable death, the soothing lullaby of darkness, but rather the burning wrath that made men shake. Was it so wrong, that Soap hoped that death was standing outside that doorway waiting for him? Steely brown eyes, stark against a blood stained skull mask.
Or, he would step through the doorway and there would be no Ghost. The corners would be a little lighter, the nights less heavy, and the world would be better off for it. Ghost would go as he lived, as a dead man. Soap would see nothing left of what was behind the mask. That was the worst possible outcome, if Ghost took Simon Riley with him.
Trying to wipe the blood from his face and eyes, but instead smearing it further, Soap rounded the doorway.
His gun was raised and ready- but wholly unnecessary. There were several more bodies in the entryway and around the staircase, spent casings glinting in the pools of blood like gemstones in water.
“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny.” Ghost was standing in the middle of the carnage, covered in blood like a fallen angel.
Thank God.
Johnny’s grip loosened on his rifle, dropping the muzzle forwards. Ghost was on him in a second, only needing to take a single stride to get to Soap and tuck an arm underneath Soap’s good arm, tugging the weapon from his hand.
Soap could feel his heart beat in his left arm- hanging limply at his side, blood dripping off his fingers. “Nah, still on earth last I checked.”
He had hoped Ghost would at least chuckle, but the man did not seem to find anything funny about this for some reason. Ghost’s hand tightened on his waist, supporting most of his body weight and pulling him down the hall to another empty room. Trying to take a step in tandem with Ghost, Soap’s right leg buckled underneath his weight, causing him to lurch into Ghost’s side.
In surprise, Soap looked down at the tan cargos, seeing the blossoming of red running down from his thigh. That explained earlier. He had unfortunately been too occupied wrestling a bloodhound to notice that he had been shot in the leg.
The wound wasn’t what turned his stomach though- it was the idea behind it. They had been aiming to maim him, not kill him. They had fully intended to let the dog maul him to death. His hands were sticky now with the blood, drawing far too much of Soap’s attention.
They stumbled through the hall, and Soap felt his vision going in and out from the blood loss. The only thing grounding him was the sticky blood on his hands and the connection point of his and Ghost’s bodies- it was all he could do to cling to Ghost’s side.
It reminded him of more. A month ago. When it all started. When he must have fucked up, and made Ghost ignore him all this time. Bodies… pressed together. Warm and solid, steady. Maybe Soap was the stupid one, for pretending that wasn’t the reason behind all of this.
Maybe it was a mistake, finding Ghost in the kitchen between wakefulness and sleep - in the strange inbetween. It had been a mistake, to notice his shaking hands and weary eyes, the drop of his shoulders when their eyes met.
And half supported by Ghost now, all he could remember was hugging the damn man. He could remember perfectly the way Ghost’s body felt- their chests pressed together. Ghost was soft, but the tension in him made every curve feel stiff. As if the simple action of a hug was foreign. But when he had adjusted to the feeling, when Soap felt him begin to relax in his arms, and the tension leaked away… words couldn’t describe it, really- even if that was all Soap could think about at the moment. Strong arms both around him in return, coming up when he realized Soap wasn’t letting go, squeezing almost hard enough to hurt. It was desperate.
And it was a mistake, clearly, because Ghost hadn’t spoken to him since then. Soap grunted as he was pulled into a side room on the first floor, dusty and barren. Ghost lowered him to the floor, tucking him against a wall.
There was so much blood on Ghost.
“Soap is down. Need to exfil immediately.” Ghost practically growled into his mic. There was static on the other end. “Price, where are you?”
Soap didn’t miss the urgency in his voice. One of Ghost’s hands began tugging at his own belt, the quick release letting it slip out efficiently. If Soap wasn’t so groggy, and mildly pissed, he would’ve made a remark about how attractive that would’ve been in any other scenario. Ghost wrapped the belt around Soaps upper arm, above the mangled mess, and tugged it tight enough to sting.
“Fuck’n ‘ell.” Soap hissed, tossing his head back to thud into the wall.
Ghost ripped off the medical pouch on his own vest, practically ripping it open. Soap groaned as he shifted, the adrenaline fading and being replaced quickly by the searing pain. His arm felt like it was fire- and he didn’t have it in him to even look at it. There would be nothing hiding the torn flesh of his forearm, where his pulse radiated hotly. Something was torn- maybe even multiple things. When Soap tried to move his wounded arm, the best he could do was twitch his fingers. Muscles torn, maybe.
Ghost tore his filthy gloves off, plopping them in Soaps lap before grabbing the smallest of glass vials, accompanied by a small syringe. He tore the packaging off, removed the needle protector, and jabbed it into the top of the small vial, easily piercing through. Maybe it was just Soap’s vision, but he could have sworn Ghost’s hands were shaking.
Hands that never shook when he pulled the trigger or threw a knife. The steady hands of a killer. The rough hands of death.
Ghost pulled back the plunger, tapped and pushed remaining air out, and then gracelessly jammed it into Johnny’s upper arm. Once the needle was empty, he threw it aside on the ground.
Johnny winced, trying to steady his breath. “Fuck’n… take me to dinner first, Lt.” He grinned, but it was an effort to do so. It was pain medication, and he knew it would be working soon. He prayed it would be, judging by how grim Ghost’s eyes were. He wished he could see more behind it, the rest of his expression.
Did the Lieutenant have dimples? Freckles, maybe somewhere underneath that black warpaint? He knew he had blond lashes, almost invisible. They were so fair. He’d seen Ghost’s face once- and only for a moment. It felt like it was so long ago that he couldn’t conjure the image to mind anymore aside from his eyes. What color was his hair? Dirty blond? Strawberry? Did Ghost chew his lips?
Ghost was ripping open alcohol pads, making a right mess of the place. And he hesitated - Ghost, of all people, hesitated. His pupils were pinpricks, divulging all the colors of his eyes. Brown and warm, but mixed flecks of gold nearer the pupils. Or maybe that was just how the sunlight hit his eyes, giving them a honeyed and golden glow. Johnny wished he had a camera, to save that image so he might try to replicate it later. God, how much blood had he lost to begin thinking like this? Wasn’t he supposed to be mad at him?
Ghost took his left arm at the wrist, fingers cool compared to his own burning skin. Ghost shifted Soap's wounded arm, causing him to bite down hard on his tongue. He didn’t miss the flick of Ghost’s eyes to him when he made a sound. But Ghost was back to business, and began using the alcohol pad to wipe down his arm.
Gods above it burned. His vision spun with dots, so he tried looking at the ceiling and away from the damage. His good hand fisted at his side, a pained grunt choking out from the back of his throat.
“Price, how copy?” Ghost paused his cleaning to press a bloodied hand to his receiver, his voice raised over the howling of the wind.
Soap drifted his gaze back to Ghost, finally looking down at his arm. The alcohol pad that was tossed to the side was soaked crimson, and despite Ghost’s best efforts his arm was still a bloodied mess. Perhaps the only bright side was the fact it wasn’t bleeding profusely now, but Johnny couldn’t say with certainty that it would stay that way when the makeshift tourniquet is removed. Ghost had his wrist gripped with his fingers pressed into where his pulse would be, his other hand leaving the receiver to dig back into the medical supplies.
The dog had done its job. Deep lacerations and tears from where its teeth had sunk in and it shook its head, effectively yanking him around like he was a plaything. Johnny wasn’t queasy about blood or gore, it’s a given in their field, but something about these wounds sent his gut reeling. That could have been his throat. His face. And there was no telling at this point the true extent of the damage, not until they got to evac.
Ghost found what he was looking for a second later. A medical stapler. Wonderful. Soap grimaced at the sight of it, in its little plastic sanitary packaging. Every-damn-thing came in a package nowadays.
Ghost looked between where he was holding Johnny’s wrist to his single free hand, unable to open the packaging. It was a half a second, and he could almost see the thoughts crossing over Ghost’s mind.
With a bloodied hand, Ghost tugged up the mask to reveal his mouth, his slick fingers leaving a streak of Johnny’s blood across his face. Mouth free, he snagged the corner of the plastic packaging between his teeth and tore it open, the medical stapler falling into his hand.
Fuck.
The pain meds were kicking in, and he had lost a lot of blood. That’s why Simon - why Ghost - looked so hot with his mask tugged up and a streak of blood across his chin and lips. Johnny didn’t miss the moment his mouth was open to tear open the packet- the snaggle tooth that stood out near a canine.
Ghost didn’t tug his mask back down when he started putting Soap back together. Johnny watched as his lips pursed, marking that expression that matched with the knit together eyes. He would try to remember that whenever the mask was tugged back down, and he wouldn’t be able to see his mouth anymore.
Johnny’s thoughts were miserably interrupted by the sharp jolt of the stapler going off on his skin. He jolted, and might have kicked slightly, but Ghost’s hand wrapped around his wrist kept him from going anywhere.
“Shit, fuckin’ bawbags-” Johnny hissed, but his protests didn’t earn him any reprieve. He hoped that if anything, he might get some sympathy from the bigger man.
Those hopes were dashed as there was no hesitation before the next round of staples were digging into his flesh. Johnny clenched his jaw, releasing shaky breaths through his nose. He was doing his damndest not to make a sound. There was no saying they were out of the woods yet, Price had gone dark. Everyone had gone dark.
It was an eternity later before the wounds on his arms were stapled shut- or as close to it as possible. The cross stitch pattern of medical staples, decorating his arm like an abstract collage of silver that stood out against the blood that smeared across both himself and Ghost.
Ghost’s blood slick hands ripped open the protective casing of the bandage, and started at Soap’s wrist and wrapped it tightly up to his elbow. Soap let his head fall back into the wall and stifled another groan at the pressure, but it was necessary. Things needed to stay in place and his blood - as Ghost would fondly remind him if prompted - needed to stay inside of his body.
The comms crackled on Soap’s vest and into his throat mic, and he winced as he shot a look at Ghost. Static rumbled in his ear before broken words broke through. “... -dstorm… en route… delayed… evac…”
The words that stuck out from Price’s crackling voice was the delayed evac . Of course.
Ghost cursed underneath this breath, letting the receiver drop from his hands for a moment and his eyes were grim underneath the grease paint.
“Copy.” There was no telling if the message even made it through to Price with whatever was interfering with their communications. Ghost dropped his hands from the transmitter, and was putting himself back to work between Soap’s legs.
He had to address the still bleeding gunshot wound that was staining heavily through the thigh of his pants. Ghost flourished a knife - so quick Soap wasn’t sure where exactly it came from - and sliced open the fabric so he could get a look at it. Johnny couldn’t see where it was beneath a mess of blood, but that didn’t seem to bother Ghost as he used a strip of leftover gauze to wipe some of the blood away.
Johnny bit back a grunt, his thigh involuntarily twitching when he brushed over the wound.
“Bet you’ll like diggin’ tha’ out.” Soap winced, trying and likely failing to lighten the mood around them. That was their thing, taking stressful moments and turning them around with humor. Focusing on anything but what was happening.
Ghost didn’t bite. “Rather you don’t die from infection.”
Ghost took some of the remaining gauze and didn’t give Soap much of a warning as he started packing the bullet wound. Soap jerked back against the wall, cursing and fighting the urge to move his leg out of Ghost’s reach.
The only positive outcome of this would be the fact that he would bleed less. Soap would take the pain of Ghost packing a wound over him digging around for a bullet any day though, speaking from personal experience with the scar on his shoulder that reminded him of Ghost every time he saw it. Sure, limited medical supplies and Ghost’s shitty bedside manners hadn’t made it the best of times, but what it represented was what mattered. It was the start of something new - something different between them.
Or that's what Soap thought it meant. Until Soap catastrophically fucked it up by overstepping Ghost’s very clear boundaries.
Ghost tightly wrapped the rest of the bandages around Soap’s upper thigh, tying it tight to make sure the packing wouldn’t come out with movement, and the bleeding would hopefully be stinted.
“Can you walk?” Ghost asked, looking up from Soap’s thigh to his face.
Despite himself, Soap nodded. In all honesty he wasn’t sure if he could walk. He was still light headed and he knew once the adrenaline and pain medicine that Ghost gave him wore off, it would be game over. The only chance he had was hoping they made it to evac before that happened.
Ghost slipped an arm underneath Soap’s good side, and with their combined efforts he helped him stand. The difference in height made it difficult for Soap to drape his arm over Ghost’s shoulder, but he did his best to reach as Ghost’s hand tightened against his side. The dizziness was ever present, and he wasn’t able to tell where it was coming from.
“Soap is wounded. Can’t wait for evac.” Ghost said into the receiver, his voice as firm as ever.
Soap made a noncommittal hum. “‘s alright. I’ll be fine.” He didn’t feel fine, but the word that sounded vaguely like ‘sandstorm’ was starting to make sense when he started piecing together the big darkness that had been looming over the horizon earlier.
Being this close to Ghost he could feel the man tense.
Ghost didn’t have time to say whatever was cooking up in his mind because there was shouting from outside. “Fuck.” Ghost grumbled, and started pulling Soap back into the hall. He ignored the stench of death around them, the imagery of dead dogs only a room away, and the bodies piled in the hall. He tried to not focus too hard on all of the gore and blood lining the sandstone walls and decorating the room.
They should have anticipated it. Should have known that backup would be coming. Again, any warning they might have gotten was unfortunately bottle-necked by the connection of their radios being messed up with the outside interference.
“Upstairs?” Soap ground out, and Ghost nodded sharply.
At least they would be able to limit the number of entry points, give themselves a bit of a better advantage for the fight ahead. Even if they were at a disadvantage with Soap’s injuries.
Ghost supported most of their weight as he pulled them up the stairs.
If he hadn’t been on whatever military grade pain killers Ghost had injected him with, it might not have been a possible task. All he was aware of was an incredibly consistent throbbing going through his arm and leg, and the fact that his mobility was off. Every time Soap faltered though, Ghost’s arm tucked around his waist remained the firm connection he needed.
They made it to the second floor before time ran out.
The hair on the back of Soap’s neck stood on end, hearing the exclamations down stairs as Ghost pulled them into a room away from the staircase, leaving Soap to lean against the wall as he took a rotted looking shelf and started pushing it in front of the doorway.
Soap leaned heavily against the wall, his wounded arm hanging limply at his side. One arm was all he needed though. Soap reached into his thigh holster and extracted his P890 Pistol. His hands were sticky with blood and there was a tremor going through his hands, but he grit his teeth and stuck it out.
He glanced around the room while Ghost did what he could to barricade, noting exactly how fucked they were. It was sparse at best, aside from the handful of rotted bookshelves, a wire bed with a stained and bare mattress, a capsized desk and broken chair.
Soap looked back at Ghost at the door, and saw him finally managing to get the bookshelf into position as the mess downstairs was inevitably found.
None of this was right. The volume of people here was higher than it was supposed to be, Price was supposed to handle any reinforcements that might have been coming their way while Ghost picked off stragglers from his perch in this building. It was getting hard to tell whether this was an intel issue, or if something had gone severely wrong somewhere between their arrival and now. After all, they had spent weeks casing the place, and the routine hadn’t changed. Not until today.
Even the dogs were new. There hadn’t been any of the mutts around the base when they had checked previously, so there was something wrong here. The place wasn’t supposed to be as heavily manned as it was. Yet here they were.
Ghost moved across the room in a few strides, apparently unaffected by the blood smeared across his gear and mask. At some point he had tugged the mask back down, succeeding in smearing more across the black mask and making it shine when it caught the light just right. His gloves were still gone, leaving nothing but bare bloody hands as he yanked the overturned desk into a more ideal position for potential cover. The windows to their backs were shattered, making Ghost’s boots crackle on the fallen glass. Hot air was drafting in through the open windows, and Soap was disturbingly aware of the advancing darkness outside.
He looked back towards the partially fortified door. The sounds were still distant enough, so it wasn’t a leap in logic to assume they were still downstairs. It was only a matter of time before they came up to the second floor and their location was given away. How much time did they have? Minutes, at best.
Soap used his good arm to guide himself along the wall, closer to where Ghost was checking himself for any and all resources. A few spare magazines, only a sidearm. Soap knew he had nothing better, maybe a spare mag or two with his pistol. He still had motion in his right arm, but it wouldn’t be enough.
“What’s the plan then?”
Ghost didn’t look at him as he clicked the safety off of his pistol. “Kill them. Then get to evac.”
It certainly sounded simple. And hell, if Ghost told him to kill every man downstairs, he would. If Ghost could look him in the eyes and tell him with pure confidence that he could run ten miles in the state he was in, Soap would believe him. And just like every time before, he wanted so desperately to prove himself to him.
Ghost told him to get to the church. He gets to the church. Ghost tells him to come back in one piece, God damnit he’ll stitch himself back together as neatly as possible.
But this? Soap was leaning heavily on the wall, the painkillers dulling his senses and leaving his limbs throbbing in tune with the beating of his heart. He was half a man. He couldn’t do what Ghost needed, because for once they wouldn’t be able to get out of this one so easily.
“We have no backup, Ghost.” Soap frowned, almost wincing at the sounds downstairs. It was only a matter of time. “You - we can’t take them all. We need something else.”
Finally Ghost looked at him. The crimson blood on his mask only made the brown of his eyes look darker than usual against the grease paint. “What do you suggest, Sargeant?”
Soap’s left leg was aching with the strain of awkwardly holding all of his weight, a fact that wouldn’t be helped by shifting. "Windows are open.” If it had been anyone else with Ghost in this room, they wouldn’t have been able to pick out the way Ghost bristled at the suggestion.
“No.” Ghost said sharply. He could see him shoot an almost pointed look to his injuries.
“We can’t fight them, we can’t reach Price, we don’t have a choice.” Soap could see Ghost wasn’t buying any of it. The man was adamant on staying here, trying his luck against however many men would come breaking through that door.
He could hear footsteps coming up the staircase, and Soap shot a look to the door. They didn’t have time for this. Once the door was blown open -
Blown open. How could he have forgotten?
The whole fucking building was rigged to blow.
“We aren’t going out the window. Get behind the desk before I force you to.” Ghost’s growl brought Soap back into himself, and he quickly shook his head before limping towards the busted out windows.
“We go out the window, then we blow the building sky high behind us.” Soap was sure of it now. This was what had to happen.
Guns and fighting was fine. Ghost might trust and rely on his knives and guns to get him out of situations. He might have complete confidence in his aim, and how he could slice a man's throat. But Soap trusted explosions. Sure, it wasn’t as reliable as a bullet or jab to the jugular, but it was his medium of destruction. And in some cases, it was the best way out of things. Like now. How else could they make it out relatively unscathed and deal with the thorns in their sides?
Easy. Jump out a second story window then blow it all to hell.
“Don’t,” Soap was stopped by an arm wrapping around his right forearm, a too tight grip making him wince and stop his movement to the window. “Don’t you fucking dare jump out that window.”
The response he was going to shoot at Ghost was cut off by the sound of thudding against their barricaded door and shouting. Soap didn’t have to know the language to understand what was being said. If they didn’t move, they were fucked.
Both of them whipped to look at the door when it thudded again, and Soap used this temporary distraction to his advantage and yanked his arm free from Ghost’s iron vice grip and limped through broken glass to get to the windowsill.
Hot air hit him first, and he had to squint against the specks of sand that stung his face, being carried in by the familiar darkness that was nearly upon them. The callout from Price earlier was ringing in his ears. A sandstorm. Soap had never witnessed one, let alone been in one. But it couldn’t be that bad, right? Of course not.
“We’re jumping.” Soap shouted back, but he really didn’t need to because Ghost was right behind him anyways.
“We’re fighting.” Ghost didn’t have to shout, his low and frustrated voice carried all the weight it needed to. It was the tone that had Soap wanting to obey, to listen to his superior. He knew they wouldn’t make it if they stayed though.
The argument ended when in his peripheral Soap saw the bookshelf Ghost had moved in front of the door shift, allowing just enough space that he could see shadows and people passing through the doorway. A flash of fur, barking and howling pushing and trying to get through the crack in the door.
Soap would take jumping out of a window any day over what was behind that door.
He wasn’t going to let Ghost have the time to think about it, Soap was just going to rely on the fact that he hoped Ghost would follow after him.
Soap moved before Ghost could get another grip on him, going straight to the open window. It was only a second story drop, couldn’t be that bad, right?
Ghost was shouting something at him, but Soap’s feet left the ground as he cleared the edge, weightless for only half a moment before he was falling. Soap connected to the ground hard on his feet, the momentum sending a shock through his knees and white pain through his right leg. Soap careened forwards and only just got his good arm out in time to catch himself, face planting into the sand.
Fucking Hell that was a bad idea.
Soap struggled to blink away the black dots in his vision, huffing as he tried to push himself up enough to spit out the sand that got in his mouth. He was a touch light headed, which wasn’t great. Hot wind whipped across his face, stirring up sand that felt like hot pin pricks against his cheek. A thud to the side earned Soap’s attention, and he tried blinking through the sand to see Ghost’s dark form rolling to his feet without needing so much as a recovery period.
Shouting drifted above the hot air from above them, no doubt their pursuers. If they let the dogs loose and down the stairs… They couldn’t outrun that.
“Detonator.” Soap reached around himself, scrambling for it desperately in his vet pockets. Finally it came out in hand, a little black device with a cover that he flipped up, revealing various switches and buttons.
“We have to clear the area first,” Ghost had to almost shout over the roaring around them, the burning wind was starting to make it difficult to see properly. He had to squint to keep the sand out of his eyes.
“No time.” Soap flipped a few of the switches, holding on to the device as Ghost’s arms came around his side, tugging him up and to his feet with a wince.
Ghost got him standing, arms going around his waist and setting a quick pace. Soap was practically being dragged away from the building. They got maybe another twenty paces away before Soap engaged the final button that triggered his artful creations to go off.
Soap was no novice. He knew how many charges to place, how strong of an explosion was needed. Everything is good in moderation - and explosives definitely follow that rule as well. Too big an explosion and you’re colossally fucked. Too little of an explosion, and you’re also fucked. There was always a math to what was ‘just right’, and finding that balance was what Soap loved. Sure, he liked to lean on the side of too much most of the time. A little extra oomph never hurt anybody. (statistically, in his line of work, that is incorrect.)
In this case Soap might have gone a little overboard. There was a good reason for it though, Price said they needed this building gone, and they needed a good distraction. And maybe he was regretting that decision when the heat hit their backs, feeling the force of it almost push them off their feet. Ghost kept them upright, curling Soap further into him as he tugged them forwards and yanked him behind a half fallen wall from a previously crumbled building.
The force of the building crumbling down on itself sent a wave of sand into the air like a tan smog that enveloped them and made it impossible to see anything other than sand sand and more sand.
“Fuckin’ Hell.” Soap groaned, resting his back against the half wall. His ears were ringing, and he squeezed his eyes shut for half a moment to clear the blurriness and stinging away. His head was throbbing in tandem with his arm and leg. He opened his eyes against the worsening wind and darkness whirling around them.
Ghost hadn’t let go of him yet, and he was peering over the top edge of the half wall. Anyone within at least a five mile radius would have heard that go off, which could be good or bad. Good, as Price knows their rough location, and if he and Gaz were facing heat, then maybe it would do its job and give them enough of a distraction to get to exfil. Bad news, every enemy in a several mile radius also knows their rough location. Soap knew he wasn’t the only one to have come to that conclusion though. Ghost would have guessed that the moment Soap suggested the idea.
“We need to move.” Ghost ducked back down, steely eyes looking over Soap analytically. He could feel his eyes burning a line from his face to his chest and arm, down to his thigh and shins then back up. “We can’t stay here.”
Soap winced, finding it very hard to focus as sand started lashing across the bare skin of his face. Opening his mouth to speak had the unpleasant affect of getting sand in his mouth. “Let's go then.”
It was going to be damn near impossible to navigate in this mess. But they really didn’t have a choice in the matter. Ghost released him, and Soap wavered, the wall not feeling as firm as it did a few seconds ago when Ghost was touching him. He saw what he was doing a moment later, reaching into a side pocket and tugging some black cloth out.
Ghost didn’t say anything, just faced Soap and tugged the black balaclava over his head. Everything was dark for a half a second as Ghost pulled it on, adjusting it on him carefully. His bare fingers brushing across his cheek and neck, a sharp contrast to the biting sand.
If Soap wasn’t light headed before, he was now. Soap might as well have buried his face into Ghost’s neck and taken a deep breath. The mask smelled just like him. There was something deep and warm and distinctly Ghost underneath the burnt smell of gunpowder and sweat, something intoxicating behind all of it that had him aching after the memory of having his arms around him.
“Come on, Johnny.” Ghost broke through the howling of the wind and pulled Soap from his thoughts, and he nodded a bit too quickly.
He didn’t have to say anything before Ghost was back at his good side, slipping an arm around his waist and keeping him steady. With his wounded leg between them, Soap let himself lean into Ghost and bow his head down, hoping to avoid as much sand in his eyes as possible and letting Ghost lead them.
It was a matter of seconds before they almost lost all visibility, and not due to just the kicked up sand from the explosion. This time it was because a blanket of darkness had fallen over them in a mass of swirling sand and blistering wind. Not to mention that it was near impossible to keep his eyes open long enough to see anything without getting assaulted with burning heat and grains of blistering sand.
Soap was grateful for the mask keeping most of his face protected, the sliver of skin around his eyes and the bridge of his nose being vulnerable to the elements was better than all of his face.
Soap let himself lean into Ghost’s side, head tucked down against the blistering storm and letting him lead the way. If the sandstorm was hindering them so much, chances were no one else would be able to mobilize in these conditions either. Including Price.
Dark forms stuck out against the tan landscape, and Ghost guided them to the side of another building, running a hand along the side of the sandstone wall before locating an entrance and quickly tugging them inside the open doorway. Sand was piling up in large drifts immediately inside of the building, but heading further in they were at least protected from the worst of the storm.
Ghost tugged them through the entryway and into what appeared to be a rotted living room, the couch being half torn apart, and the adjacent kitchen in equal disrepair, cupboards left ajar and a slew of broken plates and cups scattered. The naked bulbs swayed uselessly against the onslaught, the windows broken and sending aggressive gusts of hot wind into the already stuffy building.
And by God was it fucking hot. The warm comfort of Ghost’s mask had only lasted so long, only overturned by the fact that the extra layer was making it harder to breathe, creating an uncomfortable line of sweat underneath the material.
“Let’s get you rested up, Johnny.” Ghost led him to the rotten couch, and Soap let himself get dropped down to the least torn up section, wincing at the puff of once settled dust and sand. Or maybe it was just sand.
“We need to contact Price.” Soap tugged the mask off, if only to try and cool himself off. He missed it immediately. “Can’t rest yet, Lt.”
Ghost’s expression was the usual flavor of unreadable, eyebrows knit and eyes going somewhere far off when he looked towards the entryway. If Soap let his imagination run wild enough, he could imagine the howling of hounds somewhere off in the distance. He ignored the thought, and moved his attention to his transmitter.
Soap worked one handed, tugging it off of his vest and inspecting it. Seems like it didn’t fare much better out there, fine granules of sand crammed up in between the buttons and other bits. Pressing down on the receiver didn’t seem to do anything, and Soap winced. It was going to be a right pain in the ass to get this open and see what could be done. He tried flexing the fingers on his left hand, only getting a twitch in response. Fucking Hell.
He must have been staring at his left hand for a touch too long, because a pair of booted feet came into view with dusty sand coating the coagulated blood splatters, and Soap followed the boots up to look at Ghost.
“You broken, Sargeant?” Ghost wasn’t looking at him in the face, rather the same hardly moving left hand. It was only when Soap frowned that Ghost drew his critical attention to his face. Soap turned the frown into a grin, even if it felt like more of a grimace than anything.
“This a trick question?” He forced out a chuckle, even as his chest tightened. He didn’t know what he would do if Ghost went and started being all concerned, he didn't think he had the capacity to handle that right now. They were supposed to be in a weird ‘ignoring eachother’ phase, because Soap had fucked something up.
That ‘ something’ having been when he touched him. Well, hugging him. His expression was similar then, when Soap had stumbled into the base's kitchen in the early hours of the morning and seen Ghost staring blankly at the floor.
At the time Soap almost laughed. Ghost had broken a mug, white ceramic scattered across the floor. It wasn’t any particularly special mug, one of the carbon copies that they had dozens of stocked at all times. Break one, two would replace it the next day. It was meaningless, really. But his eyes. What had stopped Soap was his eyes.
Ghost was staring wide eyed, the same worry and something else rearing its head underneath the surface.
Soap wasn’t unfamiliar with what had been happening. He had felt it sometimes, when on leave for a few weeks, back at home with his family for the holidays. Had experienced the same thing once or twice, when going about his day when a neighbor's dog started barking at the mailman, or someone slammed a car door too hard and too suddenly. The freeze and fight instinct whenever a firework went off, cold anxiety washing through him. Knowing he was home never made it better.
And seeing Ghost in the kitchen, with a distant look in his eyes and visibly shaking hands, Soap understood him.
Yes, Soap shuffled through glass in his socked feat, didn’t care that he had to pick a few pieces out later, because when he got to Ghost and pulled him in as tight as possible, when he felt Ghost melt into him - it had been fucking worth it.
That’s how Ghost was looking at him now. Like he was the broken cup on the kitchen floor, and it was his fault that Soap had been broken. The realization stung. He knew even if he told Ghost that it wasn’t his fault, he wouldn’t believe him. Soap only knew this was true because if the roles were reversed he would feel exactly the same. Turns out over a month of Ghost ignoring him didn’t change how well Soap knew him.
They had fallen into that tense silence, Ghost fully aware that Soap was lying to him, and Soap determined not to burden him any further. Fucking stubborn ass, that’s what he was.
“Hand over your radio. Wanna see if it works.” Soap let his own drop into his lap and reached out to Ghost, beckoning with his hand.
Ghost blinked, took a moment to return from wherever he had gone, and tugged his radio off of his vest and offered it to Soap.
It was in better repair than his had been, either due to the extra layers the man always wore, or the fact Ghost hadn’t been the one in a fist fight with a dog. Either way Soap messed around with it, blessing his lucky stars that it turned on for him. That praise was short-lived when everything came back as static. The storm was doing a real number on their communications. Which was… not good.
Ghost squatted down in front of Soap, and Soap tried to focus on the radio instead of whatever he was doing. That became an impossible task when Ghost undid his long tan neck gaiter that rested over his shoulders, freeing it entirely before efficiently pulling a knife from one of his thigh straps. The same knife from earlier, that he remembered Ghost wiping the blood from onto his thigh.
Soap was stuck watching in vague confusion as Ghost cut a long strip, dropping the rest to the floor before scooting on his knee further into Soap’s personal space and nudging Soap’s legs apart.
Ghost was practically on his knees between Soap’s legs, and it wasn’t the blood loss or heat making him woozy. Soap didn’t move, letting Ghost carefully care for his nearly limp left arm, using the strip as a makeshift sling. Ghost’s arms, whether fortunate or not, had to tie the knot behind Soap’s neck. Which meant reaching up and around him, fingers brushing his neck. Soap tried to keep his breathing even, closing his eyes and doing his best to focus.
Soap’s grip tightened on the radio in his good hand, he was trying to think very hard about what he could do to make the radio work, how they could get ahold of Price, what their next move should be. Anything but Ghost and the tired ache that blanketed his entire body. Fucking Hell Soap was going to need a good few weeks off after this mission when they made it back.
He heard Ghost shifting again, and Soap willed himself to crack his eyes back open. He had drawn back and was double checking the makeshift sling, pointedly looking anywhere but at Soap’s face. A month or two ago, Soap would’ve made a comment about it, some sort of joke that would earn him a breathy chuckle or a roll of Ghost’s eyes.
He ached to say something. The howling of sand and the dry heat made his lips feel cracked and rough. Nothing came of it. He couldn’t say anything. The proverbial line in the sand had been crossed, and running into trouble on a mission didn’t change that.
Without any warning Ghost was drawing back, pushing himself to his feet and retreating a few steps away into his own little world. Soap felt the need to clear his throat, blinking and readjusting on the couch. Ghost moved soundlessly across the room and peaked out the way they had entered, likely checking on the conditions of the sandstorm.
That was something else to think about. Not Ghost or his bare hands, but rather the storm that caught them unaware. There was no way anyone could have accounted for that, and Soap was really regretting not paying more attention to the information they had been provided about the location during the countless debriefs they’d received.
Ghost paced at the entrance, restless like a caged dog before he ended up coming back over, his body language laced with tension. Soap tried to ignore it as he went back to fiddling with the receiver. Once the storm cleared out, it would be a mess. They’d have to reorient and contact Price, get to exfil, and not get caught up and cornered. Soap knew at this point he was dead weight. He was aware of that fact long before they barricaded themselves on the second floor.
“Doesn’t seem to be getting any better out there.” Ghost said. It was almost weird with him breaking the silence, and it nearly startled Soap out of his mind. He didn’t even realize he had been lost in his thoughts, staring off at the corner.
Soap tried to shrug. “It’ll clear up soon.”
Soap had no clue whether it would actually clear up soon. Ghost made a noncommittal hum. It was almost funny seeing him so unsure what to do with his body in the middle of this shitty and dilapidated room. Soap couldn’t blame him. If he was able to, he’d be pacing the room. For now all he could settle with was bouncing his good leg.
He looked back to his lap, at the two radios. He tucked the bad one off into a side pocket, and clipped the good one to his tac vest.
He knew they were on borrowed time here. Soap had no clue when the pain medication was going to wear off, when he’d have to deal with the real aftermath of his injuries. Whatever shit Ghost had given him was strong, keeping his heart racing and keeping the ache at bay. Hopefully it would stay that way until they landed themselves back on the helo and on their way back to base, just enough time to get a few stims in him and he’d be good to walk himself into a cushy little mattress and pass out by tonight.
The thought had Soap snorting. No one on base liked being in medical, and he wasn’t an outlier. It was both too quiet and too loud in all of the wrong ways. The unbearable quiet of being alone followed by the too loud cries of others suffering more than he was. People that wouldn’t make it through the night. It wasn’t often it got bad like that, but Soap had been there before when it was. He couldn’t stand it. The worst part about hearing when other people are suffering, is when the sounds stop.
He dropped his gaze back down to his shoes, fighting back the blurriness that was setting in his mind. It wasn’t a good time to be thinking about those things. It never was a good time to think about them.
“Steady?” Ghost’s voice easily overtook the howling of the wind, cutting through it like it wasn’t there at all.
Soap winced, dragging his good hand up to the back of his neck and rubbing. He didn’t want to look at Ghost at the moment, didn’t trust his own expressions to not give away every thought racing through his mind right now. He was tired, aching, and thinking about too much - and Ghost was one of those topics on his mind.
“Steady.” Soap closed his eyes, focused on the repetitive motion of rubbing the back of his neck. Skin on skin, a soothing and repetitive motion that helped ground him from the dizzying reality of everything else.
He could pick up the sounds of Ghost’s movements as he went around the room, doing whatever Ghost felt the need to do. Whatever it was, it wasn’t coming closer to Soap. He would’ve known if Ghost came up to him, would have felt it. That wasn’t Ghost’s style though, worried or not - he just wasn’t the type to take the step forward. Not like Soap was. And after all was said and done, that was probably a good thing.
He didn’t know how long the silence stretched after that. It felt like forever and a half, nothing but his mind racing a million miles an hour to the sound of Ghost’s shoes scuffing the sandstone floor. Soap’s fight with his body was getting intense, the longer that passed the more he was becoming aware of just how deep the exhaustion was setting in his bones. The heat didn’t help, making him light headed and sticky with sweat and drying the blood over his skin and clothes to an uncomfortable flaky mess.
The dull throb of his left arm and right leg turned into a persistent and painful burn, and Soap was starting to doubt his original ideal of walking himself into medical when they got back to base.
“Storms cleared.” Ghost spoke up again, drawing Soap’s eyes for the first time in awhile.
He had to think for a second to process his words before perking up on the couch and shooting a look towards the busted out windows. Sure enough, it was starting to clear, sand settling and visibility beginning to return almost as quickly as it had been lost.
“Fuck’n finally.” Soap breathed, unclipping the good radio from his chest and switching it on. It buzzed to life without complaint in his hand, and the relief he felt settling in his gut was almost comparable to seeing Ghost walk through the doorway earlier when he had been seconds from going back to the ground.
“Bravo 0-6, this is Bravo 7-1. Do you copy?” Soap released the button and waited, staring at the various buttons and the screen display. A moment passed. Then two. He felt a line of sweat trickle down his back, almost warm enough to be blood. “Bravo 0-6, Price, how copy?”
There was nothing on the other line but static.
A shadow crossed over Soap, and he glanced up to see Ghost towering over him with crossed arms and a clear furrow in his grease paint coated brows. Soap opened his mouth then closed it. Price should have responded. The storm had cleared, the radio was working. And Price wasn’t replying.
“Price, how copy?” Soap tried again, trying to keep the worry from his voice. They couldn’t stay here forever, and if Price wasn’t responding, what did that mean for everyone else? Gaz? He shook his head, even if it did make him a little light headed doing as much.
Soap very nearly had half the mind to send the useless radio flying across the room. “Nothing. Fucking nothing.”
Ghost was silent standing above him, and if Soap didn’t know better he would have assumed the man was a statue. “Could just be something wrong with their radios.”
Soap was again avoiding Ghost’s eyes. He hated that it made sense. That it was a possibility that they were fine, and it could be something else messing with their connection. Even so, what if Price had been trying to get ahold of them? Thought they were KIA? It wouldn’t be a stretch, shit goes south this badly, the building they were in gets blown to smithereens, and then radio silence. People have been left behind for less.
But Price wouldn’t do that. If he was alive, if he still had a breath left in him, he wouldn’t leave them behind. He wouldn’t accept that they were dead until he saw the bodies. Soap knew that. They all did. Because he would do the same for him, he would do the same for all of them.
“You’re right.” Soap sighed, dragging his good hand down his face. He was hot and tired. “What do you suggest we do then?”
“Get out of here. Place will be crawling soon enough, since the storm has cleared and they proved they have reinforcements. The mess we made needs cleaning up by someone.” Right. They were still balls deep in this.
Soap nodded, clipping his radio back to his vest just in case. There was always a chance they would hear from Price. He wouldn’t be letting the radio out of his sight until he knew for certain that it was a dead end.
Soap braced his good forearm against the rotted arm of the couch to push himself up, trying to keep all of his weight to one leg as he did so. The moment he was standing the world spun around him, sending Soap teetering towards the ground. Instead of eating sand he connected with Ghost’s chest, his body ten times warmer than the dry desert heat that was choking him at this moment.
Ghost’s arms were tucked underneath his arms to keep him upright, and Soap found it near impossible to hold himself up. His cheek was pressed into Ghost’s vest, rough and scratchy material not as unpleasant as he thought it would have been.
It was funny. This was like some sort of… weird hug. Ghost was supporting him, his arms drawing him a bit closer and a bit tighter than he necessarily had to. The same smell that plagued Ghost’s mask was stronger on the actual man, though dulled by the smell of dust, desert, and drying blood. The musk of sweat and grime, signs of what they had done, the lives he had taken. It was wrong to say it was comforting, but there wasn’t any word that suited it better.
For a second Soap was boneless against Ghost, because for once Ghost wasn’t shying away from the touch. If anything, he could feel Ghost shifting closer to him, the gloved hand around his waist tightening as if Soap might slip away any second. He could feel the brush of a hardshell mask against the top of his head, so quick he might have imagined it. No, he definitely had to be imagining it, there was no way that he should be confusing ‘catching him from falling’ with ‘hug’.
Soap could almost ignore the aches and pains of his own body and the weakness that was definitely from blood loss, because he definitely shouldn’t be wanting to fall asleep against Ghost like he wanted to right now. As if he would let him. It was all wishful thinking at this rate.
The time was cut short far sooner than he would have liked, as Ghost moved again. Soap was bracing himself for his own body weight, knowing this was going to be an absolute pain in the ass, but to his surprise Ghost didn’t shift away. Instead he adjusted their position so he was at his side with his arm tucked underneath Soap’s good arm, hand still tucked firmly at his waist.
“We’ll need to get some distance from here before trying comm’s again.” Ghost said. His voice was the usual cool and even tone. Calm and calculated as he bent just enough to pick up his spare mask that he had lent Soap from the ground.
Soap nodded, because he knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep the same cool countenance as Ghost should he open his mouth at this second. He wasn’t sure what it was; the proximity, or the fact that Ghost was again going through such lengths to save his life. And even as he was convincing himself he made it up, he could almost feel the brush of his mask against the top of his head.
What was that anyway? It wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t like the arm around his waist, which he could argued was there for support because Soap’s leg was fucked. But that touch was unnecessary, even going so far as to be bordering indulgent.
Indulgence was not something the Ghost partook in. That was just a given, a fact of life. The sky is blue, water is wet, and Ghost does not indulge in anything. Especially not when that thing is Soap.
There were technically exceptions though. And that’s what that felt like, a one in a million exception. Soap shook his head to try and clear his thoughts, only coming away from the action a little dizzy.
Ghost started moving slowly, and Soap pushed his arguing limbs into moving. His legs didn’t want to cooperate at first, and he had to rely heavily on Ghost for the first few steps until he found a pace that worked. Even working together, most of his weight went to Ghost as they left the building and exited back into the blank landscape.
The sun was just as brutal as it had been earlier, making Soap squint and look anywhere but up. The rundown town looked the same as it did earlier, aside from a few new sand drifts, and others that were higher than before. The most disturbing detail was just how clear the sky was. It was almost like the storm never even happened. The damn bastard. (because cursing at nature always worked out, in the end)
It was rough going on the shifting sand, one second feeling steady and the next having his only good leg sinking just a touch too much. Ghost didn’t say a word, only keeping him steady and keeping the pace manageable.
It should have annoyed Soap that Ghost wasn’t pushing him to go harder, to go faster. Soap knew he could. They should be booking it right now, but they weren’t. Instead of saying anything about it, Soap kept his head on a swivel, watching the nearby buildings for any signs of movement or possible threats. If it was clear enough for them to be out and about, anyone else could be out here. Soap scowled at the thought of more dogs being somewhere around here.
It was always a possibility. He had no idea how many of those fuckers they took down with the explosion, all he could hope for was that they didn’t have any left.
Soap frowned a little. No movement. He wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or not. Ghost was pulling them away from the little town, further out into the sand dunes. Once they crested one or two, they’d be well out of sight, and thus out of immediate danger. Probably.
The sun was beating at the nape of his neck, and the sheen of sweat was back. This operation wasn’t supposed to take too long, was supposed to be as easy as blowing some shit up then going home. No, now comm’s are cut off and he’s sweating his balls off with a bullet hole in his leg and an arm reduced to ribbons. Wonderful. Fantastic.
His breathing was too loud against his own ears and he was panting through gritted teeth. The air didn’t help, each pull bringing in hot air which only achieved in warming his insides further. Soap wavered a little bit as a wave of dizziness hit him, causing him to grip a little tighter to Ghost.
Maybe it was just the blood loss, but the fact that Ghost was so steady and quiet beside him despite the mask and extra layers was disturbing. The fucker hadn’t so much as shifted uncomfortably, but there was no way he wasn’t boiling alive underneath all of those layers.
They were starting an incline on a sand dune, the sand shifting and fighting them every step of the way. Soap huffed, chest heaving.
“How d’ya do it?” He said, lips sticking together as they dried and cracked. Didn’t take too long out here to start drying out, apparently.
“Do what?” Ghost asked. His voice might have been a little rougher than usual, but that was the only indicator that the heat was getting to him.
Soap rolled his eyes. “Aren’t ya the least bit hot?”
Ghost didn’t reply as they crested the sand dune, Soap’s legs aching from what shouldn’t have been very much effort at all. He was fucking winded already. Hell, he was winded halfway up the damn thing. Black dots swam in his vision, but he paid no mind to them. Just the blood loss and exertion, nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.
It was practically Las Almas all over again. Except it wasn’t the middle of the night. And he was definitely more fucked up. In the least, he didn’t have to fight his way through a Shadow infested city to get to Ghost. Honestly? Aside from the shitty sewer swim and betrayal, he’d rather Las Almas over this. The only part that was distinctly better was Ghost being here with him.
What he wouldn’t trade for some good cool rain though.
Surprisingly, going down the dune was harder than going up it. It was harder to balance on the way down, the sand giving and drifting down around their calves, shifting with their weight and offering no stable ground to walk on. Soap was hanging on to Ghost’s vest for dear life with his one good hand, wincing every time he had to place extra weight on his right leg.
Ghost’s hand was fisted into his side, his other hand out for balance as they made their way down in stride. It was slow going, but it was better to be cautious than to tumble down a sand dune. Soap didn’t want to know what that would feel like. The pain meds were great right now, sure, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt like a bitch if he took a tumble right now - and it would absolutely be coming back to bite him in the ass later when whatever was left burned through his system.
Rather, if they ran out. He had to remind himself that they would be back at base in just a few hours to bask in a nice cold shower and then sleep for two days. In fucking air conditioning. Soap wouldn’t set foot in another desert if he could help it, not unless it was on a vacation to see Alejandro and Rudy. Even then Soap would swear to stick to the nice and populated places. No more wandering around sand dunes, he was getting way too old for this shit.
“It is hot.” Ghost said, and it made Soap squint at him.
Had he - oh. He had asked Ghost a question. It felt like that had been forever ago in the grand scheme of his mental tangents. Maybe Soap’s focus was a bit worse than he thought it was.
“Ye gonna take it off then?” Soap tried to be flirtatious, for ‘old times sake’, but his heart wasn’t in it. Ghost was always one to jump in on the banter. Or he had been. Before whatever it was between them changed.
“You wish.”
It wasn’t… nothing to work with, but it also wasn’t a lot. At least he didn’t ignore him, so that was good.
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Lt.” Soap tapped his tac gear slightly for emphasis, drawing out a huff of a laugh from the bigger man.
Soap didn’t know how badly he wanted to hear that until now. Fuck. He didn’t know he needed it. When was the last time he heard Ghost laugh? It had been a month since the kitchen incident between them. And now that he heard it again, he couldn’t believe that he had gone without it so long. His voice. His laughter. His jokes. All of it.
Despite the intense heat Soap felt a shiver go up his spine, feeling a little light headed. He nudged Ghost with his hip slightly.
“Tell me a joke.” Soap asked, resisting the urge to look at Ghost.
A moment passed in silence, and Soap worried that maybe he had said the wrong thing. Maybe pushing wasn’t a good idea, maybe this wasn’t the game they were supposed to play. He was starting to convince himself that the little laugh was a one off when Ghost spoke up again.
“Why can’t you starve in the desert?”
“Don’t tell me.”
“Because of all the sand which is there.”
Soap really did try to keep a straight face. It was stupid, just like all the other jokes. Like they always were. But there was something different about it. It was probably the blood loss, which was now Soap’s go-to excuse for everything Ghost did that made him feel some sort of way now. But whatever it was, Soap laughed.
He couldn’t help breaking into a grin, his lips cracking in protest.
“Sandwiches? Really?” Soap rolled his eyes.
“You heard me, Sergeant.”
He couldn’t see Ghost, but he was accustomed enough to the man to know there was a smile hidden somewhere underneath his words. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Sure, Soap shook his head and pretended he was annoyed by it - but that was part of this little… dance they had. Ghost makes a joke, Soap hates it, wash, rinse, and repeat with a sprinkle of flirting between.
It only sucked that it took a shitty ass day like this to bring that back. The sand shifted underneath Soap’s good leg, causing him to lose his balance slightly. Ghost reacted quickly, using both hands to steady him on his feet again.
“Thanks.” Soap offered. Ghost still had an arm around his waist, the other hand planted over the front of his vest.
Ghost didn’t reply, just held him for a minute longer before dropping his hand and starting to move again. Moment over. Right. Soap could get the message and move on from it, right now just… wasn’t the time. Their top priority was getting as much distance from the threat as possible, then see if they can contact Price and Gaz. He shouldn’t have said anything, it was a waste of energy in the end anyway.
So Soap zipped his mouth shut and decided he was going to shut the fuck up.
Easier thought than done.
Their progress was painstakingly slow. Even though they stuck to the foothills of the surrounding dunes, it didn’t make traveling any easier. It didn’t take long before the exhaustion started settling in, the sun beating brutally at their back, serving as a constant reminder that he was definitely being cooked alive. He was soaked through with sweat but that didn’t help, only weighing him down further and adding to his already burdened muscles.
The pain medication had started wearing off in record time. It literally burned its way through his system after a few short hours, and the accompanying pain was dizzying. He had given up putting any weight on his right leg a long while ago, swallowing his pride and pitifully limping against Ghost. He was pretty sure their sides were fused together after the extensive amount of time they spent practically glued together.
His head was throbbing something awful, each persistent pound of his heart sending another pang through him. How far had they walked? Soap really wasn’t sure. He had hoped that Ghost was keeping track of that, because Soap wasn’t particularly present for the last few minutes. Or hours. He had no frame of reference for time out here. The only thing he was able to focus on was the blistering heat and the pain. He may need his arm and leg, but they really didn’t need to be such a pain in the ass throughout this experience.YAYYYYY
“Think we’re far enough to radio in?” Soap said, his voice rough with dryness. Try as he might, there wasn’t enough saliva to wet his palette.
Another few steps and Ghost didn’t say anything. Of all the times in the world, now wasn’t the time for the silent treatment. Call it the heat or the pain, but it was really nagging at some special nerve inside of Soap. Weak as he was, he stopped and forced Ghost to do the same.
“Ghost.” Soap said again, glaring up at the man. Soap was met with bleary and unfocused eyes hidden underneath layers of blackout paint, and a slow blink. “...Ghost?”
Instead of responding, like the bastard he was, Ghost tugged Soap on another few steps. This wasn’t going to do, not at all. Soap’s whole body was protesting against him, aching and yearning for just a touch of reprieve from the near constant abuse. Soap was opening his mouth to say as much - albeit in a more forceful and foul way - when everything went tits up. Or, more accurately, shoes up.
Ghost made it one more step before his legs gave out and he was sent face first into the sand. Unfortunately, due to their current predicament, this meant that Soap was also sent to the ground. The landing was rough, as Soap was dragged down by Ghost and collided hard with the sandy ground. His bad arm, in its sling, was pinned underneath him, and white hot pain ripped the air from his lungs.
“God- fucking-” Soap spit sand from his mouth, blinking away the black dots swimming across his vision. He was panting through gritted teeth, using his good arm to shakily roll himself onto his back.
The effort of rolling over sent a fresh wave of nausea and pain through him. He really fucking missed the morphine right about now. He had to squeeze his eyes closed, the unrelenting sun only making everything that much worse.
And that was before thinking about the fact Ghost had collapsed.
“Ghost.” It was a miracle he didn’t vomit, he was so dizzy as he turned his head and cracked his eyes open.
Ghost was face down in the sand, and he wasn’t moving.
Soap threw his good arm out towards Ghost, effectively smacking his arm. It didn’t do anything. His pain was temporarily overwritten by a lance of fear, a thousand different scenarios running through his mind. The first and most likely of those scenarios, was a hidden wound somewhere on his person. It wouldn’t be the first time Ghost hid a stab or bullet wound to keep them focused on making it back to exfil. Wouldn’t be the first time he prioritized Soap’s injuries, despite them being a lesser severity. It was stupid - God it was so fucking stupid.
Ghost would rather eat bullets than say he hated it when Soap got injured, he would rather bury himself six feet deep than say anything. He dealt with his feelings through his actions and self sacrifice, and prioritising Soap was one of those ways he communicated in his twisted, fucked up way.
And now he could be fucking dead.
“You stupid… fucking… bastard.” Soap hissed, dragging himself through the sand to Ghost. It wasn’t far, maybe only a foot or two, but it stretched on like a mile as granules of sand clung and clawed its way into every fold and crevice of his clothes and bandages.
He grabbed Ghost’s shoulder, grunting as he shoved the hunk of dead weight to try and get him on his back. It would do neither of them any good if he suffocated face first on the ground. His arm shook with the effort of moving him, the dots returning to his vision and the hot air burning with each open mouthed inhale. Soap scrambled to press his hand to the side of Ghost’s throat, having to maneuver underneath his annoying mask to finally reach skin. Soap cursed the moment his fingers brushed Ghost’s neck at the sheer amount of heat radiating off of him. He was burning up. And not the usual ‘in a desert’ type, more like the ‘I’m a fucking idiot who wears long sleeves and a mask in a desert and plan on dying of heat exhaustion’ type.
There was a pulse at least, which was what Soap would consider as his only win of the day. He wasn’t dead yet. He didn’t even notice how badly his hands were shaking, because it was going through his entire body.
His relief at having not vomited only a minute ago was quickly dashed as vile rose in the back of his throat. Soap lurched to the side, away from Ghost, and his stomach constricted as the last shitty MRE he ate found its way out of his system. His vision only slightly blacked out as he vomited, heaving and shaking as it passed. With a shaky hand, he wiped his mouth and sucked in a breath.
If Soap tried hard enough he could convince himself he felt better after that, instead of several times worse. He whirled back towards Ghost, clutching a hand into the front of his tac vest angrily.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,” Soap started yanking on his tactical gear, being as forceful as he had to be if it meant getting it off of him. He only had one good hand against the mess of clips and straps. He needed to at least get the top most layer off, even if there wasn’t so much as a lick of breeze, the layers were not helping. He just wanted to tell himself that anything would help.
He just wished his hand would stop shaking.
“You’re not leaving me to bleed out alone, you piece of shit.” Soap yanked on the bottom of his mask, fully intending on taking the stupid thing off.
The mask was soaked through with sweat, sticking to Ghost’s skin as Soap pulled it up and over his mouth and nose and - he stopped. He should take it off the rest of the way, the man was wrapped up in more layers than a prank christmas present - but he couldn’t find it in himself to do so. There was blood smeared across Soap’s hands, caked underneath dirty and cracked fingernails, and for some reason it felt too significant to touch his face like this. Ghost was covered in sweat and who knows how much blood - he wouldn’t care that Soap touched him for the sake of trying to save his life. He might be pissed that Soap took his mask off of him, but this wasn’t for a selfish reason. It's not like Soap wanted to violate his privacy like this.
He couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Soap left the mask rolled up over his nose, a filthy hand hovered too close to the patchy blonde stubble bisected by scarring over his chin, cheek, and nose. A faint smattering of freckles across his pale skin, a smear of blood - Soap’s blood - flaking and dry. A crooked nose that was broken a dozen times too many. No wonder the bastard snored like a beast.
“If you burn to a crisp it’s your own damn fault.” Soap said underneath his breath, sitting back slightly with a wince.
The movement made the dizziness return, worsened by the constant pressure of blinding heat reflecting off of bright sand. There was nowhere to look without his eyes hurting aside from the dull tans and blacks of Ghost’s clothes - belts and straps undone and the uppermost layers open. He didn’t have the hands or strength to actually get anything fully off of him. That would require rolling him over, and Soap knew he couldn’t do that. Not right now, not without risking another round of throwing up or worse.
The only upside was that his arm was going numb.
Ah.
His arm was going numb.
Soap’s stomach dropped.
He turned his attention to his arm that rested uselessly in the makeshift sling, seeing patches of red staining through and sand caked into the bandages. Soap inhaled slowly, counted to four. Held. Released. Not now.
Soap fumbled for the one good radio, still clipped to the front of his vest, and squeezed his eyes closed against the sway of the world as he pressed the receiver and an involuntary tremor went through him.
“Price,” Static answered him as he waited for a response. “Price. We could really use a hand right about now.”
He dropped his hand to his lap and waited.
No voices cut through the oppressive silence to dull out the sounds of his own too-quick breathing. There was no point in moving, there was nowhere to go. Hell, if it wasn’t for the clear path from where their bodies had disturbed the sand by taking a fall, he wouldn’t know which way they had come from. Even that was getting harder to see with the way it felt like the sands were constantly shifting underneath them.
Soap should have felt utterly alone and lost. Ghost wasn’t conscious, the rest of the 141 were MIA as far as he knew. It was just him, bloody and hurting in the middle of nowhere.
But the sense of being alone never came. It was him. And the shifting sand.
He tilted, sinking his good hand into the hot sand, not having realized he had been falling forwards until he had to catch himself. Wasn’t it Gaz, during infil, who had said something about sand being able to soak up gallons of blood in just a few seconds? That was a joke, right?
Soap’s hand sank down until it was enveloped entirely, and he couldn’t look away. He could feel the pressure, the slightly cooler temperature underneath the burning top layer, he could feel - something wet. He was touching something wet. Soap jolted back, dragging his hand out from the sand and choking on a sharp inhale.
His hand was covered in blood.
Soap fell back, his good leg kicking in the sand as he tried wiping the blood away on his pant leg. It was too warm between his fingers, too tacky and thick - too bright. Everything was too bright. His back hit the sand and sent the air from his lungs as he scrambled, desperate to get the blood off, to get away. Away from what? The desert that he was fucking lost in?
Soap shot a look back at where they came from and - the indents of their feet, the signs that they had fallen, the only clue as to what way was what - was gone. The sand around them was pristine. Untouched.
His head swam and he looked back to Ghost, panic surging that maybe he had disappeared too. That he had been swallowed up by bloody sand.
Ghost was still there, laying as still as ever a few feet away. Soap fought against the bone deep aching and stiffness in his body as he crawled back to him, dropping his hand onto Ghost’s chest and curling it into a fist in his shirt.
His clean hand.
Soap froze.
His hand wasn’t covered in blood like it had been just a few seconds ago. It was the same set of five fingers, cracked nails packed with sand and crusted blood. But it was old blood - it was his blood. Slowly Soap looked back at the sand underneath them, wide eyed. No blood. The blood was gone.
It was real. And then it was gone.
His chest ached with how fast his heart was pounding. It was - it was nothing. A groan pulled him from his thoughts, startling Soap as Ghost stirred. Ghost’s eyes shot open, the whites of his eyes bright against the eyeblack, hands digging into the sand as his head shot around as if he was taking in his surroundings for the first time.
“Ghost,” Soap tilted back, his breath catching in relief. He was conscious. That was as good a win as any, it was something to focus on. Not the blood or the feeling of sand shifting underneath his weight. He forced a dry chuckle that burned in the back of his throat. “Fuckin’ scared me there.”
Ghost’s mouth moved, pale skin slick with shining sweat. For a second, Soap didn’t think he had said anything at all until he repeated himself. “Border.”
Soap’s head hurt too much for riddles. He was too tired for the curt one word responses - too dizzy to spend his energy deciphering bristled body language. “Can you fucking talk to me?”
Instead of paying Soap any mind, Ghost was shoving himself to his feet with an unsteady sway to the side as his mostly unbuckled pieces of gear slid off fully and onto the sand. He shrugged off whatever Soap couldn’t work off, yanking at any remaining straps until he was down to his basest layer of clothing and gear and stumbling away from Soap.
Soap cursed underneath his breath, trying to get his legs underneath himself and manage a standing position. A wave of nausea and black dots in his vision was making it difficult, as Soap clenched his jaw against the bolt of pain burning up his leg as he finally managed to right himself.
“Ghost!” Soap winced, taking an aborted step forwards despite his body protesting each movement.
Ghost didn’t even react to his name being shouted. He lumbered on, dead to the world around him. Soap didn’t know - he didn’t understand. He was confused, he was upset, and most importantly he was pissed off. He doesn’t get to do this. Lieutenant Ghost Riley doesn’t get to walk away from him like this, not after all that had just happened, not after scaring the living daylights out of Soap. Absolutely not.
And Soap was about to let Ghost know what he really felt about his behavior when the six four mountain of a man dropped to his knees without warning.
Like a broken record, Soap called for him again.
Like the stubborn bastard he is, Ghost didn’t answer.
Soap took his time limping over, the sun burning into the back of his neck like a hand choking him. He couldn’t draw in a full breath, and that was probably why.
He was lucky that Ghost didn’t get too far before dropping, because Soap didn’t think he could keep going anymore. Even the dozen or so paces it was to get to Ghost felt like too much. Everything felt like too much. It was like the warm sand was sucking him in, sinking with each step just a little further.
Soap finally reached Ghost, mouth parted and panting with a curse on the tip of his tongue before he saw the state that he was in.
Ghost was staring out into nothing, eyes fixed on a blank horizon and his mouth moving in a silent mimicry of speech. Soap’s frustration at him was waning as fast as his energy, his legs shaking and urging for respite. With a pitiful sound Soap gave in and sank down next to Ghost, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving him a weak shake. It was like he wasn’t even there. Ghost didn’t acknowledge him in the slightest.
Soap blinked away spots in his vision, the edges of a dark tunnel around him. He needed a moment to rest. But not yet.
“Simon.” It was on the edge of a plea, something that felt so wrong in the current landscape.
It was only after hearing his name that Ghost froze underneath his touch. Soap didn’t realize that he hadn’t dropped his hand, that his grip on Ghost’s shoulder was so tight that his arm was shaking with the effort of it. He didn’t realize that was how he was holding himself up. Dark and glassy eyes moved back over to Soap, the pupils only just dilating.
Ghost’s voice came through, a gravelly and rough thing. “Roba.”
That was it - that was what he had been saying. He was repeating that same word over and over. Roba .
Soap had no idea what that was supposed to mean. Border. Roba. He was grasping at straws here, trying to understand him. And Ghost was looking at him with wide eyes, furrowed brows. He looked scared.
It was enough to make Soap forget about the pounding in his head, or the reality of their situation. It was just them, looking at each other in the desperate silence of a dead world.
Ghost’s eyes fluttered, long blonde lashes distracting Soap for a second too long as Ghost collapsed again.
Just like the first time, Soap had been using Ghost as his support so when he went down, Soap went down. For the briefest of moments everything was black, some combination of whatever was going on with him combining to black him out for what he assumed was only a handful of seconds. When Soap came to, everything was distorted and sluggish.
His left arm was trapped underneath his body where he had landed, and not for the first time was he thankful he was having a hard time feeling it anymore. Soap was vaguely aware that he and Ghost were both laying on their sides facing each other, one of Ghost’s hands halfway between them with his fingers disappearing into the sand.
Soap’s good arm was sluggish, slowly reaching and pressing to the side of Ghost’s throat and searching for his pulse point. He couldn’t tell who was shaking, him or Ghost. He couldn’t find his pulse.
He couldn’t find a pulse.
“Simon,” Soap wanted to yell at him, but his voice was already scratchy and raw. He wanted Ghost to yell back.
Considering it must have only been mid afternoon, the world was considerably darker than it should have been. Barely able to keep his eyes open, Soap reached for his radio one more time, unclipping it from his vest with a shaking urgency.
“Price, Gaz,” it was taking a horrible amount of effort to keep the button pressed, to keep his eyes on Ghost’s closed eyes and the half rolled up mask. “Ghost… isn’t responsive. I… fuck. Come on, Price.”
He released the button and let his hand and the radio drop.
He wanted to keep fighting, but this was it. The end of the line. With both of them unconscious, Price wouldn’t find them. He didn’t have the strength to hold up the radio again, he couldn’t do it.
Was breathing always this hard? It was all he could do to split his focus between Ghost and air, fighting the droop of his eyelids.
Soap let go of the radio, and let the rest of his strength go into putting his hand over Ghost’s in the sand. Skin on skin, warmer than the sun. The small point of contact was all Soap needed, really. It was all he needed to think about, to focus on, other than Ghost’s closed eyes.
He stared at Ghost until he was reflected onto the inside of his eyelids.
And even there Soap didn’t look away.
It was probably a good thing that Soap didn’t remember anything past that.
As far as he was concerned, the next time he opened his eyes was to the sterile blinding light of hospital fluorescents. Soap squeezed his eyes closed against the bright lights, wincing at the pounding headache that greeted him immediately.
“Might want to take it slow there. You’ve been through the wringer these last few days.” A familiar and warm voice washed over him, slow and patient. Soap almost shot up at the sound, snapping his eyes open.
Price.
His captain was sitting back in a chair at his bedside, an ankle resting atop his knee and a book splayed open in his lap. He was looking at Soap, reading glasses pushed down on his nose and a whisper of a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
The relief that hit Soap in the chest was enough to make him drop his head back down and squeeze his eyes shut with the breath knocked out of him. He was too tired to care about the burn in his eyes, whatever medical grade drugs they pumped him full of keeping him just a touch too floaty and tired.
Soap struggled with his eyelids for a minute, slowly blinking and rotating his head on a too-soft pillow back to Price. A knot formed in his throat, taking in his captain fully this time. No bandages or slings, no obvious injuries aside from a fading black eye. Alive, and warm. He wouldn’t have let himself consider the alternative in the desert, but now that he knew his captain was alive and well all of the what if’ s took his breath away.
“Gaz-” Soap croaked, the rough scratch of his voice sending him into a coughing fit. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, a sensation he was only just becoming aware of.
“Slow down, kid.” It might’ve been a reprimand if it had any heat in it, if it wasn’t for the level the sheer fondness in his voice.
Price reached to the bedside table, which Soap was only just taking inventory of. It was covered in shitty hospital coffee cups and paper wrappers, and two other books. Price managed to find a simple cup of water amongst the mess, and made a straw appear from seemingly thin air.
If Soap had his wits about him, he might have rolled his eyes and said something snarky. Unfortunately, Soap did not have his wits - and thus accepted the straw gratefully as he tried to drink as much as he could. The water wasn’t cold, closer to room temperature, but that only made drinking easier. Fuck. It felt like it had been weeks since he’d had anything to drink.
Price let him focus on that, before drawing away the empty cup and speaking again. “Gaz is fine, was minorly grazed by a bullet but he’s already up and about. You don’t have to worry about him at all.”
Soap felt a stitch of tension release from his shoulders, nodding slowly. He wasn’t tired, but his body was trying to drag him back under. Not yet , he tried pleading with his stupid limbs, but it felt like nothing was listening to him except for Price. And it wasn’t like Price had the ability to stop the medication from pulling him back under.
He hoped he hummed an affirmative, but wasn’t too sure. Gaz was okay. Price was okay.
Ghost.
“He’s fine.” Price spoke before Soap had fully caught up with his thoughts, as if he could sense it. Soap had no clue what expression he was pulling, but it must not have been good with the way Price’s smile disappeared. “You made sure of it. If it wasn’t for you, neither of you would’ve made it. He was… in bad shape. He was completely out of it when we found you two.”
Price absently rubbed at his bearded jaw, with an imperceptible twinge. Soap considered the black eye, and whether that happened in the initial fight at all. Price leaned forwards, dropping an elbow to his knee and his other hand atop Soap’s good one.
“You’ll see him soon enough, but for now just know you made it. You both made it.” The small smile returned, a sight that was more soothing than it should’ve been in his blurring vision.
Soap nodded slowly, willing his hand to move and squeeze Price’s. They made it.
His eyes drifted again, everything getting just a bit too dark around the edges, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to hang on for much longer before sleep took him. Everyone was fine, Ghost was fine.
One final thought popped into his mind, the one part that didn’t make sense. Soap didn’t do anything to save them, he lost consciousness right after Ghost. He dropped the radio. He gave up.
“How did I…?” His voice was too distant, and Price was reduced to a blurry outline.
He was vaguely aware of the hand squeezing his again. “You let us know where you were, kept repeating the coordinates in morse over the radio.”
The radio… the radio…
He dropped it.
Before he could say as much, before he could explain, Soap’s fight was sapped from his body entirely and he sank back under the sand.
The next time he woke up, it was because something was in the room with him.
He felt it rather than saw it, some creeping feeling that pulled him back to wakefulness. The room was dark, which sent his mind through a loop for a second. The only light was a dim LED lamp, casting uncomfortably long shadows across the ceiling.
Soap tensed, noticing one of the shadows cast across the wall shift.
Slowly, he turned his head to the side, holding his breath until finally he caught sight of the figure in the chair beside him. The very human, and very tired figure slouched in the chair that Price had previously inhabited. The sight of the man in the chair made Soap release his breath, any trace of fear quickly dissipating.
Ghost was tucked into himself, arms crossed over his chest and head hanging low. Soap had to admit, it took him a second to recognize him because of the short blond curls visible. No full skull mask or balaclava hiding him away, just a blue medical mask. He was sure there had been some sort of argument over the change, knowing the stubborn brit wouldn’t give up his mask without a fight.
His eyes were closed, not a flicker of movement coming from his form aside from the way his shoulders rose and fell with his deep and even breathing. Surely falling asleep like that wouldn’t be good for his neck? But he couldn’t find it in himself to wake him. Not yet.
Any reasonable person would have.
Any reasonable person would press the nurse call button, and let them know someone was absolutely breaking policy by sneaking into his room in what he assumed was the dead of night. He couldn’t tell if Ghost was still a patient, sneaking around - or if he just broke into the hospital. Both were bad. And yeah, maybe Soap should press the call button, which was right next to his hand on the hospital bed remote, big, red, and tempting.
After all, if he didn’t he only had two choices. One was to fall back to sleep and pretend he didn’t see anything, and the other was to actually have a conversation with Ghost after all that had happened. Maybe ask him why the fuck he thought breaking into his room was a good idea.
Maybe Soap was a little curious.
He flexed his fingers near the controller, but didn’t drop his eyes from Ghost. It was nice to see him somewhat at peace at least, a far cry from whatever distant and frantic mess he was in those final minutes. Whatever those sandy dunes did to him, did to them, Soap didn’t like it.
And he wasn’t ready for that conversation.
Despite the fact he wasn’t feeling nearly as tired as he was speaking to Price, Soap closed his eyes and pretended he couldn’t hear Ghost breathing not two feet away. He didn’t need to focus on that, didn’t need to even remember that he was here. He didn’t see any bandages on him, but they could have been hidden underneath his black hood or sweatpants.
Soap was struggling to settle in when his choice was made for him.
“I know you’re awake.” Ghost mumbled, and without thinking Soap tensed. So much for that.
He huffed a sigh through his nose, before opening his eyes again, only to be met with Ghost watching him. His soft brown eyes were even darker in the dim light, but he could still see how bloodshot they were.
“And I know you’re probably not supposed to be in here.” Soap shot back, thoroughly failing at putting any heat behind his words. He was starting to remember how angry Ghost made him when he was actively dying, and that fact wasn’t helping when a very much alive Simon Riley was sitting on a chair by his bed.
Ghost shrugged, and looked away.
Wonderful.
“Why are you here?” Soap deadpanned, deciding to look at his hands.
His right arm, fully in a cast and sling across his chest. He could feel his fingers, for the most part, which was probably good. If he stared at his fingers and thought hard enough, he could move them. Good. All good. Great, actually. He kept staring at his clean nail beds, ignoring the sound of Ghost shifting in his chair.
“Wanted to see.” Ghost mumbles, and Soap frowns.
“See what?”
A beat of silence. Two.
They still must be delusional, because Ghost says “You.”
Soap is thrown off kilter, scrunching up his nose and letting himself look at Ghost again. Ghost is still avoiding his line of sight, sitting a bit straighter in his chair and boldly looking at a fucking empty corner of the room.
And Soap stares at him as if he can burn a hole straight through his head and watch every single thought fall out of the resulting hole. Worst of all, there’s a horrible burning in his chest. Hotter than the desert sun, hotter than blood between his fingers. And at this moment he thinks he hates Ghost.
“I thought you were dead.”
That was what it took to get Ghost to look at him again, brows furrowed. What does he even have to say? He thought Ghost was gone . He thought everyone was gone. All of their fighting just to make it through, just to get back so they could heal and go through it all again - just so they could go back to whatever it was they had before. And not the good before, the before where Ghost was ignoring him, where Ghost wouldn’t talk to him. Soap scoffs. Who was he to think that brief crack back into banter would last? Ghost’s silence was telling.
“You’re horrible, you know that right?” Soap continues, seeing Ghost’s gaze drop again. He should really stop. He really needs to shut up - but he can’t. Because if they go back to Ghost being nothing but a goddamn ghost then Soap would rather it be because he knows why Ghost hates him. “You just… shut down. I tried to be there for you, and you’re fucking miserable about it. You know, when a friend comforts you for once, you’re not supposed to start ignoring them like the plague? And then you go and almost die, just because you’re a stubborn asshole.”
Ghost shoots him a look, hands clenched together and white knuckled in his lap. Soap doesn’t care. He’s already in a hospital with half of his limbs in heavy duty casts. He can’t do anything to make it worse than it already is.
“ You almost died.” Ghost snaps, and he stands so suddenly from his chair that it topples over. “I keep watching you barely make it out of one shit scenario only to jump headfirst into the next. You’re insufferable.”
Soap feels an angry flush rising. “ I’m insufferable? Really?”
“Yes!” Ghost is towering over him at the edge of the bed, every bit bristled and tense. It’s a shock that a nurse hasn’t come running yet. “You aren’t allowed to get yourself killed.”
“What, I need your fucking permission to die now?”
“Yes. And I don’t give it. Not now, not ever. So get it into your thick fucking skull that you’re not going anywhere.” Ghost is breathing hard, eyes sharp and - wet.
Soap’s mouth dries out, the angry retort dying in his throat. “I don’t know how you expect to make sure I don’t run off and die when you’re making a point of ignoring me unless it's an emergency.”
Ghost crosses his arms, in a way that looks less defensive or angry, and more like a soothing motion of wrapping his arms around himself. Maybe Soap is seeing things again.
“Staying close will get you killed.” He says finally.
“No. It won’t.” And Soap has never been more certain of something in his entire life.
“I’m not going to argue with you about this anymore.” There he goes, dropping his arms and backing out again, leaving again.
It’s like deja vu, seeing him turn and start to leave. Those are the same tense shoulders from the night in the kitchen, the same stubborn asshole who always leaves. Back then, Soap had the choice to follow after him. Here, he doesn’t have the ability to.
“Don’t walk away from me, Simon Riley.”
And he stops.
“I don’t care about your rank. You’re not allowed to tell me what to do. That’s not how this goes, because in case you forgot, we had each other's backs out there. I watch you, you watch me. That is how we work.” Soap is sitting up as much as he can, clenching his jaw hard enough to hurt.
Ghost’s shoulders drop, and he runs a hand through sandy curls. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Watch you die again.”
“Ghost, I already told you-”
“You don’t understand,” Ghost whirls around, trembling where he’s standing a few feet away from the foot of Soap’s bed. “I’ve seen you die, every fucking night. I close my eyes and you’re gone, and it’s always my fault because-”
He stops with a strangled sound, a heavy weight making the air too thick to breathe.
“Because I let you in. And I cared too much.”
Oh .
“You’re stupid.” Soap says simply.
Ghost narrows his eyes at Soap, taking an angry step forwards which - yeah that makes sense. Soap did just insult his feelings. Feelings that it's clear he’s been weighing heavily, and likely struggling with for weeks if not longer.
“Caring doesn’t get people killed.” He supplies, hopefully, because it would be awful to get murdered in a hospital. No matter what he says, he knows that’s going to become more likely once he does what he’s thinking.
“You don’t even know what you’re talking about. It does.” Ghost is close enough that his low and threatening tone registers clearly.
“Not for us. I cared about you for a long time, and you’re not dead.” Soap watches Ghost look to the side, the first flicker of doubt making itself known.
“That’s different.”
“It’s not.”
“You’re wrong.”
"Stop saying that.” Soap uses his good hand to reach out and grab the front of Ghost’s hood, and he swears Ghost flinches.
Ghost shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“You’re a liar.” It’s childish to challenge a trained killer. It's juvenile to breathe in the sterile air between them, and to hate a medical mask that keeps him from feeling his breath. It’s stupid to hate Ghost so much that he realizes it was never hate at all.
It was anger at being shunned, it was anger at the loneliness and distance between them. It was anger at losing him when he was so close. But he didn’t hate him as much as he hoped. Never could.
Ghost’s eyes flick down before going back to his eyes. “I am.”
And Soap only has one hand, and that one hand can’t move from where it’s fisted into Ghost’s hoodie, even if he knows Ghost wouldn’t move if he let go. It’s all in Ghost’s capable and bloody hands again.
And Ghost does shift, he does move. He reaches to the edge of the blue medical mask, and tugs it down. Down, below his crooked nose and scarred chin and lips, catching on the stubble at his chin. And really, Soap isn’t looking at Ghost at all.
He’s looking at a broken man whose heart is wounded and barely there. A man who may never explain what the words Roba or border means to him. He’s looking at the same man who was in the kitchen in the middle of the night, looking raw from something that Soap realizes now was loss.
He’ll curse those lips that spit venom and vitriol when he’s done making amends, but somewhere the wires cross and Soap doesn’t know whose lips he means. Both, maybe. Maybe it’s good it's both of them, because part of him hopes that kissing Simon Riley tastes rotten and he doesn’t know why.
He’s wrong.
Soap leans forwards, and Ghost closes the last of the distance.
The first thing Soap feels is actually the stubble. It’s rough, and he hates that the first thing he thinks is something akin to sandpaper, because the last thing he wants on his mind at this moment is sand or anything related to it. Once he gets past that, he feels the warmth.
There’s something unnaturally delicate about scarred lips. He doesn’t know what it is about kissing Simon, that is in itself intricately careful. Maybe the harsh sun really did a number on him. Maybe Soap doesn’t care anymore.
He knows there’s a conversation that needs to happen after this. He knows this isn’t a band aid, it won’t stop the mess that’s this. He knows he can pull Ghost into him as much as he can, he can swipe his tongue into his mouth and feel firm hands dig into his waist until he forgets to come up for air. Soap knows he can go until he’s panting, knowing this is all they can do until the inevitable happens.
Until they talk or get killed.
He doesn’t care.
It’s 0500, just before sunrise, and the coldest time of night. Soap’s lips are pressed to Ghost’s, and he isn’t keen on living anywhere else but this moment.