Work Text:
Soap’s not exactly unaccustomed to the stillness that Ghost can radiate when he needs to. The perpetual bounce in his stride disappearing into a cat soft slink when he’s hunting, and the explosive bursts of emotion that culminate his hunt or expose his frustration. Ghost is almost always moving. So this version, still and hovering in the garage door is a rare animal indeed. Ghost is hesitating.
“Ghost.” Talk to me.
“Captain.” The sarcastic echo is as unimpressed as it was fifteen seconds ago when he’d opened the door in the first place. “Not exactly what I was picturing when you said we were going into town.”
Soap - to his credit - doesn’t resort to immediate violence at this new apparent hiccup in Ghost’s Plan For The Day that’s apparently happening here. He’s already hauled the full face helmet over his tired mohawk and shed his hoody for the thick caramel leather jacket hanging on the hook. He’s put on more than his fair share of muscle since he bought it in Basic and his pullover has to come off too before he’s satisfied he’ll actually be able to move in the ratty old leather. Despite the pump of adrenaline at the prospect of going out in the open, the familiar comfort of the garage and the scent of old gear and fuel is holding most of his nerves at bay. His Lieutenant, by comparison, looks less settled by the second, and this development is profoundly interesting in a way Ghost rarely is. Ghost wields his fear like a knife, this soft pawed lingering is new.
“Cannae take the Landy out again unless we have’ta Ghost.” Aware, even as he says it, that obviously Ghost knows that, what with having helped him bury it in camo netting and bushes before they collapsed into a shallow slumber last night. “The bikes live here, nobody will be surprised to see them. That big government issue brute will stick out like a sore thumb.”
“One of us should stay here. Price -“
“Ghost.”
The glare is down right combustible - those whiskey eyes peeling open in their sea of black to glare balefully at him, daring him to say it out loud. Captain John MacTavish considers himself many things, and well versed in the behaviour of his black cat Lieutenant is certainly one of them. He waits.
“I’ve never ridden.” Finally. There it is. Like pulling fucking teeth. “Like as not to get us in more trouble on that than letting you go to your local by yourself.”
Soap’s tired of splitting up. He’s not anxious by nature, but every time they’ve left each others line of sight in the last week - someone has died. It’s pure luck at this point that it’s not been one of them yet. There’s absolutely no way anyone knows about this place - but they’ve both been stealing digital warfare software from shady underground terrorist cells for way too long to hope that can last.
“Here, leave that.” Whipping the keys for the Honda from Ghosts lax fingers he tosses them carelessly back onto the work bench and rummages in the storage instead. A few minutes of grumbling turns up the pillion seat for the big Yamaha instead. He’s never actually used it, and the thought of having Ghost use it is enough to send him positively spiralling.
To his merit, one grudging admittance of genuine emotion is obviously more than enough because Ghost doesn’t outwardly complain when he’s thrown a dusty grey hoody and all but ordered to change. Oddly pliant, he fingers the odd material suspiciously until Soap snaps “It’s rated for safety not crafted by Italian artisans for the gothic runway.” Like the shiny gunmetal grey and odd pattern of darker ombré are so far beyond Ghosts style he might actually develop hives simply from wearing it.
“Wasn’t complaining.” Fucking was but you can’t reprimand a soldier for body language. And seemingly satisfied that there was purpose to the madness, he watched as Ghost stripped his under-armour, plate carrier and trademark fleece jacket down to his skin tight - black - Kevlar blend thermals. Soap’s taken to calling the ridiculous trousers he wears ‘Ghost’s Tactical Leggings’ in his head but they’re Kevlar blend too and they’ll do just fine because Soap sure as shit hasn’t got trousers that will fit him.
“You can ride pillion. We’re not splitting up again.” It’s not his usual way of handing his men, but it’s an order all the same, and he’s surprised when Ghost doesn’t interrupt his fiddling with the seat cover to correct his attitude just on spite filled principle. Maybe the unflappable Lieutenant is a little shaken up after all.
By the time they’re on the long stretch into town Soap’s relaxed enough to reach back a hand and grip his knee. Not tight, just resting, a lazy touch, that he hopes communicates how at ease he is here in his element. How safe he knows they are, even at speed. It’s absolutely not what he intended to do, but the vice grip of Ghosts thighs hasn’t let up in two miles and he’s going to get cramp or throw them into the barrier if he stays stiff as a board.
On his belly, clutched near frantically into the soft leather Ghosts gloved hands briefly tighten impossibly further before hesitantly - like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs - he softens. By the time they’ve swung through the last junction before town and slowed to pause at the lights before the carpark Soaps patience is rewarded when his sharp edged Lieutenant gently adjusts his seat, scooting in the last inch to bring them snug together. It feels like more.
It tears at him like knives, this faith Simon has in him, to follow him into death itself, regardless of his own instincts and often in spite of them.
It’s going to get them both killed. But not today.