Chapter 1: HURTING
Chapter Text
Johnny ‘Soap’ McTavish, Sunshine of Task Force 151, demolitions expert, youngest to ever be accepted into the SAS, mischievous genius and light of Ghost’s miserable existence, is upset. Ghost hates it. It ties his insides in knots. Knots that swell like rope in the rain and threaten to burst him, choke him, split him right open. He melts back into the heavy curtain, wrestling with the unfamiliar sensation.
“Who pissed in your cereal?” Gaz. Bloody drama queen, always stirring the pot.
“Price. I’m grounded. Fuckin’ grounded - stuck a’ haeme like a wee’un.” He flops his body aggressively down on the ancient sofa, which lets out a wheezy puff of stale air at the heavy impact of his muscled body. Gaz, at the other end, bounces slightly and whips a hand up to cradle his coffee cup.
“Me too.”
“Aye, but ye an’ Price were actually injured in the last mission. I wasnae!" Johnny's always more aggressively Scottish when aggrieved. "I didnae even git sae much as a scratch! But he’s sendin’ Ghost out on solo.”
“Well, yeah, but he’s the Ghost, y’know. The myth, the legend, the monster.”
“Git tae fuck! He's no' a monster. An’ whit am I? No' nothin'! How fuckin’ long’s he gonna punish me fer that fuckup?”
“It wasn’t your fault, Soap. The intel was bad. You had no way of knowing there were civilians in the building. Kids. You made the right call not to blow it. And everyone came back alive. You took out three APCs on the fly, that’s not nothing.”
“It’s no’ enough fer the Captain, clearly.”
Ghost really shouldn’t find Johnny’s tantrum cute. He was glad to hear his next op is a solo. It’s going to get nasty - urban warfare with war crimes - and he still gets nightmares about Las Almas and his inability to keep his Sergeant unscathed. For a black ops hostage extraction, the fewer bodies on the ground the better. If he’s captured he’ll be disavowed. Price knows those kinds of missions are Ghost’s bread and butter but Johnny's too valuable to risk.
Too bad Johnny doesn’t see it that way.
Simon 'Ghost' Riley has made a life out of being a shadow. Do little, say even less, make every word and move and mark on the world count, then slip away before they can get a grip on you. But Johnny's blue eyes are clouded with hurt. He doubts himself - shouldn't but he does - and Ghost can't just stand by and let him. He steps forward, deliberately making noise because he doesn’t want to stoke Johnny’s rage by startling him.
“It’s not personal,” he says as both men turn their heads towards him.
“Hae lang have ye bin standin’ there, LT?” Ghost shrugs. It’s not his fault the boys let their situational awareness lapse on base. It’s sort of sweet, that they still have a kid’s belief in safe places. Safe houses. He’s in no hurry for them to grow up into the cold truth that nowhere is ever safe. Instead, he focuses on the problem at hand.
“It's not personal because I'm not a person, Johnny.”
“What?”
“They don't send me solo because I'm better than you. They send me because I'm disposable. That's all it is. No-one doubts your capability, I swear. You're just too valuable to risk on a suicide run.” He expects Johnny’s reassured face then, maybe with a dash of pride and being affirmed as capable. What he gets isn’t that. It looks worryingly like horror.
“You - you’re - fucking - what ?”
“It's about what I don't have, not what I do , Johnny.”
“Explain.”
Even Ghost's stunted emotional range can recognise ice. He's fucked it up somehow and he only has minutes to un-fuck it. Clearly what he's done so far is not working. This is why Ghost hates emotional interactions. They're like fighting in the blind in thick fog with his dominant hand out of action. If anything, his fumbling attempts at comfort are making Soap angrier and more upset. He could cut his losses but something in him clenches at the thought of leaving with Johnny still mad at him, so instead he runs through his scant emotional toolkit, considerably less well stocked than his weapons or med kit. In case Soap’s rage is caused by misunderstanding, he selects clarification as his next option.
“No name, no face, no family or friends, no citizenship, no passport, no blowback if I'm caught, no paperwork if I die. That's all it is. Simple. You have people who’d miss you, questions would be asked if you didn't come home. People who'd cry for you. For me, there’s no-one.”
Wrong move. Soap’s expression darkens further, all the sunshine dimming. It makes Ghost want to punch himself in the face.
“Fuck!”
“What is it, Johnny? What’s wrong?”
“There’s us, Ghost. Fuck! There’s us. Your friends.”
“Don’t have any friends, Johnny,” Ghost autopilots, while trying to think of his next move to calm Soap down.
“Yer bum’s oot the windae, LT!” Soap shoves to his feet. Gaz too, but he backs strategically toward the door, watching the two of them as though they’re wild animals and he’s on safari without a jeep.
“English, McTavish,” Ghost tries. But Soap’s on a tear, his voice rising, his anger thickening his accent like cornflour in gravy.
“Yer mad! Ye have Price an’ Gaz an’ Ale an’ Rudy an’ - an’ me, Ghost. We would ask fuckin’ questions - an’ more than - if ye didnae come hame tae us! Tell me ye knae tha’!”
Home. Come home to us. A knife to the chest would have been less shocking.
Ghost knows Soap is winding up - that he needs to make words - but he can’t, his tongue swollen in his suddenly dry mouth.
Come home to us.
Come home to us.
Come home to us.
Blood drips from the corpses in his memory; child-sized handprints on an off-white door smeared downward in blood, a crushed lego model, broken cups, a lifeless hand like a mannequin’s, reaching and not grasping, the thick stench of blood forcing itself into his nostrils and down his throat, the mad buzzing of flies as home became horror and Simon Riley, last of the Rileys, laid his boy-self down on the kitchen floor next to the carved up corpse of his mother and only Ghost got up again.
“C’mon, ye gleekit spooky bastard!” Johnny’s strident Scots drives through the memory like a hammer and chisel and Ghost can breathe again. “Yer ours!”
Too focused on continuing to breathe in a regular pattern, Ghost has nothing left in his repertoire to counter this. He is trying not to drown. Soap’s anger and pain crash over his walls like a storm surge, drenching him in emotion. It never used to be so fierce. His weakness against Soap is growing exponentially and he is becoming afraid. It used to be simple not to feel: a choice made so often it ran like an automated program in the back of his being, but Soap has glitched the system irreparably. Threatened the numbness. Given him wants and desires. With each encounter, it takes longer to purge his system of invading emotion; of the warmth and softness Soap - Johnny - stirs up in him. These days, he makes irrational choices, trails Soap like a dog, tells terrible jokes to cheer the man up, even flirts, for fuck’s sake, though he knows his attempts at both joking and flirtation are filthy and mangled at best.
Soap is insane. No-one else when faced with over 6 foot 4 of pure muscle in a skull mask would throw a playful punch, save a seat, start a flirtation.
The problem is, he either feels everything or nothing and everything is blood and terror and suffocation and it buries him alive. He can manage moments, snatched little pockets of gentleness or humour for Soap or Price or Gaz, as long as he shuts it down straight after before that wave overwhelms, before the dirt rises to smother, before the scent of dead family clogs his ability to function.
It is safer not to, but Ghost doesn’t play it safe. He slinks silently one step ahead of disaster.
His transport will be arriving in the next few minutes. Soap is still ranting, his eyes wild, his spiked hair making him a human exclamation mark. He never does anything mildly and Ghost feels the drag of exhaustion and self-hate.
“Johnny. It’s all right. I have no intention of dying out there.”
“Tae fuckin righ’, LT. Dinnae gie the bawbags the satisfaction! Ye git yersel’ hame tae me in one piece. If there's a scratch on ye, I'll - fuck ! Jist be careful, aye? I -” Soap tips his head down, digs the toe of his boot into the ratty rug. “I worry about ye!”
“You worry about me?” Ghost repeats, hearing the flatness of his own voice, scratchy from too much screaming in his life before the 141. He can’t even sound human.
“Don’t sound so fuckin’ shocked, LT! I like ye.” He pauses, then steps into Ghost’s personal space and reaches up to put both hands on his shoulders, giving him a little shake. Ghost feels the warmth that bleeds through the fabric of his close-fitting, long-sleeved top into the scarred skin beneath and everything in him lights up like a firefight. “I like ye alive.”
The cheeky callback to his piss-poor motivational line after Johnny survived his life-or-death scramble through the ravaged streets of Las Almas, dodging murderous Shadow troops intent on war crimes with only Ghost’s voice in his ear to guide him, sets off a whole lot of something in Ghost’s gut. Affection? Disturbance? Nausea? Who the fuck knows. Ghost’s wires are crossed, shredded, crossed some more and sparking uselessly in a puddle. The murk in that cold lump he calls his heart is nothing normal or even normal-adjacent.
“Then I’ll stay alive for you,” he says, over-serious because a joke won’t come. His eyes are burning like someone teargassed him and there’s a feeling in his chest like being slowly stabbed with something very blunt while being crushed under debris. It makes breathing a bit difficult and he wonders if it’s a new kind of panic attack. He uses the sensation of Johnny’s hands on his shoulders to ground himself. He takes a sneaky breath of Johnny’s unique scent and tries to distract his brain by analysing it: coffee and gunpowder, gun oil and grass, ozone and oranges and mint.
“Please.”
“Done, Sergeant.”
Soap squeezes his shoulders. It feels too much and not enough and he has the conflicting urge to jerk away and to pull Johnny closer and bury his head in the join between Johnny’s neck and shoulder and lick the skin there to see if he tastes as delicious as he smells.
Fuck! Exit. Now.
“Gotta go.” he chokes out and forces his feet to move as Johnny’s hands fall away. He replaces them with the weight of his tac vest and duffel. “Helo in 5,” he adds, flapping one gloved hand like a fool.
“See you in a week. Come find me when ye git in, aye? I dinnae care if it’s late.”
“Will do, Johnny. Try and stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”
“Trouble? Me?”
“Always.” and Soap laughs as he intended and gives Simon one last bright memory to lodge in his steel trap brain. He snatches it greedily, then makes himself leave. He dare not let himself look back, afraid of what his eyes might betray.
Chapter 2: HIDING
Summary:
How dead will overhearing this get him if he’s caught? He daren’t move now. He has no idea what’s about to go down but he’s never seen Ghost so tense or Price so grim.
--
Soap plays a very dangerous game and finds out far too much about Ghost. Will it change everything?
CW: Ghost's intense self-hate. He learns to love himself in the end, I promise!
Chapter Text
Of all the stupid, risky, potentially career-ending situations Soap has got himself into over the years, this has to be the worst yet.
His mouth always gets him into trouble. Well, mouth plus alcohol plus boredom plus frustration plus Gaz.
No, he can’t pin this one on Gaz. This is aaaall him.
Price’s office is temporarily relocated while the original is thoroughly debugged following the recent suggestion of a mole in the 141. Moles are a recurring issue they are sick of. In an effort to distract themselves from the internally nauseating feeling of yet again not knowing who to trust on base, he and Gaz hit the bar.
It's not really surprising that the subject of Price’s subpar temporary office came up and, after a few unwise shots, the dare to infiltrate it. Soap was flush with alcohol-fuelled courage, overestimating his capability and analysing it like a target. Maybe it's being the youngest of 4 siblings, but being taunted or dared or told he can't do something has always brought out his mad competitive streak.
A steeak which has led to him crouching, balanced on planks resting on dusty beams, above the false ceiling of Price’s office, easing the popped tile over the desk back into place while nursing a hangover. Still, a bet is a bet. All he has to do is snap a photo or grab a clip of video with the surveillance camera he's fed through a hole and he’s good… Except that Price just walked in on the phone and settled in for a bit of paperwork so currently he’s trapped watching the feed and trying not to breathe too conspicuously.
At least he's accomplished his secondary objective of proving the office's vulnerability. It's a lame cover story if caught, and he's certain Price will see right through it, but it's not like it's life or death. They're not in the field. At stake is at most a talking to and all the unpleasant duties his Captain can pile on him if he's in a mood to be irritated rather than amused.
Things get exponentially worse, however, when Ghost knocks and enters.
Things have been weird with his LT since he left on the last mission. Soap knows he fucked up, grabbing Ghost like that, telling him he worries about him. Ghost doesn't do messy human emotions and now his LT is hiding from him. Avoiding him at every turn. Soap feels sick about it, knowing he’s blown up any chance of getting closer to the man who is his complete obsession. Not that he ever really thought he had a chance, but still…
Soap’s never been a player. He's got a fair bit of experience to bring to the table but it's not excessive. He likes to consider himself a relaxed, no-strings, generous lover. He clarifies expectations up front, sticks to his boundaries, respects his partners and shows them a hell of a good time, if the requests for a repeat are anything to go by. But from the moment he met Simon 'Ghost' Riley, no-one else would do, so he hasn’t had any relief apart from his right hand in far too long.
Of course, Ghost might not be attracted to guys. Might not be attracted to anyone. He's never flirted except with Soap, never talked about anyone back home or hooked up with anyone Soap knows of. They spend so much of their time together, Soap is sure he'd know if Ghost were seeing someone. The only times Ghost talks at length as far as Soap knows are when it’s just the two of them, or when he's on a mission. Elsewhere on the base, by all accounts he’s silent outside of giving or acknowledging orders.
When Ghost turns up, part of Soap is expecting immediate capture. Ghost's situational awareness borders on the supernatural, after all. Soap is ashamed to realise that at this point he’ll gladly take a reprimand from the man just to get his attention for a few minutes after being frozen out for days. Honestly, he’s pathetic.
He waits for Ghost to feel his presence or whatever… then notices that the set of his LT's shoulders and the angle of his masked head suggests this is not a social visit. Soap is not aware of any active situations at present. Does this mean Ghost is off on another solo soon? These days he's away more than home and Soap hates the lack of contact. How is he meant to continue acclimatising the man to his careful incursions and stealth affection when Ghost's gone as often as he's here? It's like taming a feral cat… every gap when they go on walkabout and you don't see them for a bit means you have to start again almost from the beginning. Is Ghost about to go on walkabout again?
Price's body language doesn't match though. He's surprised. He's not been expecting Ghost. Of course at his rank Ghost doesn't need to make an appointment as formally as Soap might, but something clues the hidden watcher in to the fact that this might be personal rather than professional. Soap is aware he doesn't have a complete baseline for interactions between Ghost and Price, but he knows they are close and suddenly it dawns on him that he might have really fucked up and that he needs to get out of here before-
“What can I do for you, Simon?” Price's tone is friendly and his use of Ghost's name is interesting.
In an act of revealing insubordination, Ghost doesn't answer his Captain. He turns, closes them both in the room and locks the door before prowling towards Price's desk in back-prickling silence. Equally revealing is Price's careful lack of reaction as he pushes away the file in front of him and their gazes lock.
“I've come to call in a favour,” Ghost says, firm and low. Price pulls open his lower left desk drawer and pulls out bourbon and glasses like an established ritual. Two meaaures of bourbon are poured, despite the fact that it's the middle of the day. One is nudged toward Ghost. His LT doesn't take it.
“I'm listening,” Price says gently, knocking his glass against the untouched other, then taking a swallow. Ghost doesn't unbend an inch.
“The promise you made me when you took me away after him. You promised not to let me become a monster. I need you to keep it. I need -”
Price's face telegraphs that this is Not Good.
“Simon -”
“- I need a surgical intervention.”
There is a Silence.
Funny how Johnny used to think of silence as an absence of noise before Ghost: now silences have types, density, flavour and feeling. This one is strained and horrified. Johnny’s heart thuds into his boots. Fuck. How dead will overhearing this get him if he’s caught? He daren’t move now. He has no idea what’s about to go down but he’s never seen Ghost so tense or Price so grim. His Captain slams back the contents of his glass and pours himself another..
“What are you saying, Simon?”
“I think you know.”
“Not sure I do.”
Soap panics. Worst case scenarios run rampant through his brain. Ghost has cancer. A brain tumour....
“Fuck you for makin’ me say this shit out loud!” Ghost spits, venomous and deep. “I need you to fuckin’ castrate me. At your earliest convenience. Sir.”
Soap is so lucky his default shock response is freeze. Anything else would have given him away. As it is, in his head, he is screaming whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck?
Price blinks.
“Simon -”
“An’ while I’d appreciate your doing it confidentially, I understand if that can’t be managed. Still needs to be done. I'll take speed over discretion if I have to.”
There is another silence. The fact that it’s only a short one suggests to Soap that Price might be used to Ghost dropping bombs on him, but who knows?
Ghost - Simon - wants to change his gender. How did Johnny miss that? Should it make a difference? Does it?
What scares him, is his instinctive probably not. This is way better than cancer. Than a tumour.
“Can we sit down and talk about this, Simon?” Price has always been emotionally bombproof and openminded to a fault, but his voice is still that careful tone he saves for lunatics, children and guys with their finger on a dead man's switch. His movements are careful too: slow and open and nonthreatening.
Ghost stays standing, rigid, his drink still untouched.
“I’d like to understand,” Price continues. “If you want to change your gender, there's a process we can start and I will support you. You know I will. But it's not fast. There's a psych eval. and a medical exam.”
“It's not…. that.”
“No?”
“No. Fuck. I'm not confused. Don't think I'm female. Wish I did. Might be easier.”
“Please, Simon. Help me understand. Something has clearly changed for you. Can you tell me what changed?”
“He touches me.”
“We've all touched you… you’re so much better at not breaking fingers these days. I’m proud of y -”
“Not - not like that. Not sparring. Not first aid. Not assistance in the field.”
“Do you mean, unwanted touch, Simon? Is someone harassing you?”
Soap feels sick. Oh God. He’d thought Ghost immune to his charm at first. Touching him had been like brushing a live wire: dangerous and thrilling. Time had acclimatised his LT to his incursions into the man’s space though. He’d thought Ghost was softening towards him. How had he read it so wrong? Possibly being written up for harassment is nothing compared to the cold nausea of having made the man he admires so uncomfortable he’s seeking recourse from Price in such an extreme manner. But he can’t deny the evidence of his eyes. There’s discomfort in every line of Ghost’s body.
Fuck this! He’ll blow his own cover and write himself up to save the man from having to struggle through putting words to this. It’s the least he deserves, he -
“Not unwanted.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Who is it, son?”
“Johnny.” His name slips out of his LT’s mouth like a sigh.
“I have noticed you two are close. What’s the issue, son?”
“He touches me,” Ghost repeats as though Price is stupid. Then, after a pause so long Soap has to remind himself to breathe, he adds, “Like a person, Captain. Like - like people touch other people.” Ghosts's voice is strange and hushed and tight.
“Soap's a friendly guy. If you tell him to cut it out, he will, though.”
“Seven times, Captain.” Fuck, seven? He counted? Mentally Soap backtracks, trying to identify the times in question. Yeah, there’s a whole lot of deliberate there, starting with that playful shoulder punch the moment they met. Let’s get ourselves a win, LT. I’ll save you a seat.
“Seven times when he didn’t have to. I wasn’t bleedin’, we weren’t sparrin’, I wasn’ in ‘is way. He just touched me. As if I'm - not - this -” he gestures contemptuously at all of himself and the self-hate in that single movement is painful. “-and I can't- it's getting - I'm going to break, sir.”
“I need you to be clearer, if you can, son. Say what you mean.”
“When he does it, it's like electrodes. My heart starts hammering. My skin burns. It's hard to breathe, even the therapy breathing.”
“I'm sure if you told Soap you don't like it, he'd stop.”
“Didn't say I didn't like it.” Price jolts. “That's the problem. When he does, I want to… I want… it not to stop.”
He swoops down, scoops up his glass in one huge, black-gloved hand, shoves up the very base of his mask and downs the bourbon in a single swallow.
Chapter 3: HARROWING
Summary:
Soap gets a harrowing insight into the man who's haunting him.
(A little extra bonus - a 3rd chapter a bit early, and it's no April Fool. Poor Ghostie!)
Chapter Text
Price regards Ghost solemnly over the rim of his second glass of bourbon.
“If Johnny touches you… and you don't want it to stop… that sounds like attraction, Simon. Have you never felt that way before?”
Headshake.
“It's perfectly normal son.”
Headshake.
“No? Sounds normal to me…”
“To think about someone else's body that way?” Simon asks in a whisper, as though saying it out loud will make it real.
What way? What way? Soap is desperate. Ethics of eavesdropping be damned, he has to know.
‘What way, Simon?”
Bless you, Captain Price!
Ghost seems to come to a decision then. The tension in him unspools into a kind of surrender as his limbs lose their stiffness and he takes the offered seat and holds out his glass. Price fills it and tips his head in that 'Go on…' gesture he has that has tripped up many an FNG into spilling far too much information. Soap never dreamed it’d work on someone as self-contained as Ghost, but maybe this is what Ghost has really come for.
His LT slams back a second measure of the strong spirit and shudders a little. It seems to shake some words loose.
“I wanna touch his bare skin.” Ghost confesses in a hoarse whisper, so innocent Soap could kiss him to death over it. “The part where his shirt rides up sometimes. It looks warm…”
Oh, please… Soap wants to moan. He bites his lip, his tense muscles straining. Ghost is still talking.
“...His hands. They're so clever. His neck…the top of his shoulder. I wonder if it would taste salty or sweet. S'creepy as fuck, right?”
No, no, no - do it. Oh please. Anywhere. Anytime. Just do it…
“I wanna know if his hair is soft. It looks soft. I like how he smells like sun and grass and coffee and oranges. I wanna touch his eyelashes. His mouth...”
Soap's mouth tingles. He licks his own lips, imagining Ghost's, and his cock punches up through the fabric of his trousers.
“There's this scar on his chin. I wanna lick it. That's fucked in the head, yeah? That’s some Hannibal Lecter shit right there. I'm losin’ it.”
“Still just attraction, Simon. Still normal. I understand this is new to you, son, but welcome to the human race!” Price's smile is soft. Triumphant.
“But what if I do it, Captain?”
“What if you do?”
“You're not listening. I mean, I might touch him back, sir, one of these times. Never thought I’d ever be tempted but it’s getting harder not to.”
“Again, nothing wrong with that, Simon. As long as you're both in it.”
“Everything’s wrong with that, sir! You know what I am. What they did to me.”
“What they did to you isn’t who you are, Simon. Come on. You know, you’ve had the training to know, Survivors of abuse are not to blame.”
“I'm filth, Captain. Fucking scum. You know that better than anyone.”
What?
The air is greasy-thick from the self hate in Ghost’s words. It makes Soap want to scrape his own teeth clean of phantom fuzz just from filtering their shared air. He’s choking on it, tasting the bitterness of it. Simon doesn’t just have self-esteem issues due to his scars or worry a bit over the talk on base; he actually believes he’s some kind of monster.
“Simon.” There are layers of old pain in Price’s voice. “I will tell you as many times as it takes. You. Never. Deserved. Any. Of. What. They. Did.”
Ghost huffs a denial of the offered comfort.
“If I’m so innocent then why dad? Why his mates? Why Roba? Why those other times? Once or twice is an accident, or really fuckin’ bad luck, but even when I cover up everything but my eyes, people still - most of me is scars an’ they - I show less skin that Fatima and Shalini and they still - do - that to me. All of the possible tortures and they look at me and pick that. It’s in me somehow. It’s under my fuckin’ skin. It’s dirt I can’t scrub off even if you give me my own private shower. And you gave me him. When I'm like those creepy fuckin’ frogs in the jungle. The ones so fuckin’ deadly they poison you through touch.” This time, Ghost pours his own drink. A double. Then slams it back. “If he touches me, it - this - it will contaminate him. But he doesn't keep away. Everyone else sees it, everyone smart keeps away but him.”
Johnny’s whole body trembles as his heart shatters. He’s heard the stories, whispered in dark corners by men with greater clearance. He’s heard Simon’s nightmares through the walls. Heard him say no and stop and get off me in too many languages night after night. Dark rage turns his vision spotty. His fingers itch for a knife, a gun, a detonator.
“Simon, that isn’t true. I know your therapist will have told you that. I’m telling you as well. There is nothing about you that invites abuse or rape, nothing you did attracted it. Those were evil men. Evil! Them - not you! You are my responsibility, Simon. I can’t let you hurt yourself over a lie.”
“What about your responsibility to him? To Johnny? You’re supposed to be his Captain. Supposed to keep him safe. You can't do that if you let him think I’m safe or normal. Why didn’t you fuckin’ warn him about me? What the fuck were you thinking, pairing dirt like me with human sunshine like him? That’s what innocent looks like. Not me. Him. He’s so fuckin’ beautiful.”
Johnny bites down hard on his own clothed wrist as he battles sobs. Ghost sees him! Ghost likes him back! It’s all he’s ever wanted, but it’s causing the man he fell for nothing but pain.
“Don’t you think maybe you’re overdue a little sunshine?” Price asks, a playful note in his tone that sounds an awful lot like a green light for fraternisation. Ghost shoves up from the table and makes for the door, standing in front of it but not turning the key, just resting his gloved hands against the wood, his masked head thunking down between them. After a few shuddering breaths, he turns to glare balefully over his shoulder at Price.
“You don’t get it. You think I’m - you think I’m good.” Simon sounds winded. He never sounds that way, not even after racing through gunfire to a helo exfil with an injured teammate slung across his broad shoulders. Whatever he’s feeling is punching the breath out of him and Johnny’s chest aches in sympathy.
Then Simon’s body language shifts and the very air seems colder. That fast, he is stalking Price, moving with the deadly feral grace that makes him a legend in the field. The black of his head-to-toe ensemble absorbs the light around him, reflecting back nothing but an aura of bristling menace. Price tenses but holds his ground as Simon - no, Ghost - closes the distance between them, his head angled and his body coiled.
“Doesn’t matter if I was born wrong or made wrong, I’m wrong now. I’m toxic. Every part of me. Poisonous. Venomous. And I don’t just wanna touch him. I don't just wanna be his friend. His teammate. I'm a twisted fucker. I want everything."
It takes everything in Soap not to whimper at that. Ghost is such a good actor. He'd never have guessed all this want was seething under the surface. It makes him burn to be Ghost's.
"Everything?"
"I follow him and he doesn’t see me. I wanna go everywhere he goes. It’s takin’ all I’ve got not to fuckin’ stalk him. I watched - I - looked - I watched him - in the shower, Captain. And it made me - I got - I had - thoughts.”
“He’s an attractive guy and it seems you’re attracted to guys. It’s not surprising.”
"He never said I could think about him that way. I don't have the right to - it's - I shouldn't-"
"Simon, you can direct your thoughts sometimes, but you can't completely control random impulses or thoughts from coming, only stop yourself fixating or acting. And in this case, there might not be a need -"
“Oh, there's a need. He's trusting. He shouldn't be - not around a needy fucker like me. He leaves his door open and I - I haven’t. I haven’t. But I want to.”
“Want to what?”
Soap figures he must be wired wrong, that hearing this makes him horny rather than afraid.
“What exactly do you want to do, Simon?”
“Watch him sleep. When I can't. When the nightmares are bad. I like how his face looks, all peaceful. If I’m there, I know he’s alive and safe. I can hear he’s still breathin’. Bein’ in the same room makes everythin’ in me stop screaming sometimes.”
“That’s good, though, isn’t it? If he helps you feel settled?”
“I wanna hold him. I wanna have him. I wanna take him. Put my fucked up mouth on him. Never kissed anyone so why the fuck do I dream about it? S’fuckin’ cruel. I need a fuckin’ muzzle.”
“Would a kiss be so terrible? Not in his room while he’s sleeping, not without his consent, obviously. But if you knew he wanted it? He’s a soldier, so I doubt your scars would put him off if he wants you.”
“But I bite, Captain. Attack dog of the 141.”
“We’ve all got teeth, son. I know you can be gentle.”
“It wants in him, Price!” Ghost cries out then, in a tone Johnny has never heard him use. It’s pain and fear and anguish and hearing it from Ghost - from Simon - feels like being stabbed. “This fuckin’ monstrous thing -” He punches himself, hard, in the cock and balls, so vicious and sudden that Price winces and goes green and Soap barely contains his gasp, but Ghost doesn’t cry out or double over, just hisses a controlled breath through his teeth.
“Don't!” The Captain says sharply.
Ghost bristles again, with self hate so palpable Johnny can feel the force of it in his hiding place. Price holds up both hands, the surrender pose reminiscent of hostage negotiators, though the only hostage Ghost is holding is Simon Riley. “I’ve been dead for years, but the ugly fucker won’t get the memo. It’s been asleep so long I forgot about it - just a hunk of loose meat for pissing out of - but then he looked at me. He looked at Ghost and saw Simon and now everything’s wakin’ up again an’ now I have to make it stop.”
“What are you afraid of, Simon?” Soap doesn’t miss Price’s consistent use of Ghost’s real name, nor the aching gentleness in his voice. He’s the unofficial dad of the 141 and they all know it. He wonders how many times before their Captain has needed to talk Ghost off a ledge. He can’t believe he ever feared his LT was cold or unfeeling. The man’s a tornado of wild anguish barely held in.
“He made me like him."
"Roba? No, Simon. No. You're nothing like him."
"But I am though. He made me dangerous. I thought I had it in a cage, I swore I’d never. Ever. It's the torture I never threaten. Never use. Doesn't matter who's in front of me. I never would. Never wanted to either. It's been the easiest monster to lock away. But now it’s gettin’ out an’ I can’t hurt Johnny. I need you, Captain. Please. I’ll do anything you ask if you sign off on this."
"Simon, no -"
"I’ll beg. You know I will. I’ll see the fuckin’ shrink as many times as you ask. Do I need to get on my knees?”
“No, Simon.”
“I read the psychology of this. I’m depraved but I’m not stupid. Rape victims become perpetrators sometimes and I’m one of those bastards. I need you to make it so I can’t hurt him, Captain. Don't let me hurt Johnny.”
“You have never given me any reason to believe you can't control yourself, Simon.”
“You don't know what's in my head. I think about it. I think about doing what they did to me… to him.”
“What exactly, Simon?”
“I wanna put it in his mouth and…and the other place. Wanna put these fucked up hands on him. Touch him. Awful fuckin’ things, Price!”
“Simon, those things aren't awful. They're normal.” Simon jolts.
“I piss outta that thing, an’ I wanna put it in his mouth Captain! Tell me that's not ten kinds of fucked up!”
His outrage shouldn't be funny. It shouldn't. It isn't. But Ghost sounds so much like a ten year old boy just then. That age when everything is gross and fascinating at the same time.
Johnny is passingly familiar with the concept of arrested development thanks to one of his sister's friends who fosters. He wonders if there's an equivalent for sex.
Price is so, so smart with his next move.
“If Johnny wanted to put his cock in your mouth, would that be different?”
Hearing his Captain say those words should not be as hot as it is. This is disturbing, which makes Johnny’s guilt over the half chub he’s now sporting grow exponentially, but at the same time, hat tip to Captain balls-for-days Price for fronting up to the Ghost and suggesting that shit.
A head tilt. Almost canine. Wolfish, that little move: more animal than human.
“Maybe,” Ghost rumbles, not making eye contact. “Thought about it. His doesn’t look… bad. I'd like to lick it. Taste him. Hold it maybe.” His gloved hand curls as he talks, an involuntary move, and never mind half chub, Johnny’s cock is suddenly hard enough to pound nails. “But I don't like the unconsciousness part. I get some guys are addicted to danger but I don't like blackin’ out. It makes me violent when I come round. I don't wanna be scared of Johnny, not when he's always made me safe. And I'm never doing that to Johnny. Not bein’ able to breathe right is… it’s…”
Wait, What?
“Simon, handjobs and blowjobs don't usually end in anyone being unconscious. You're supposed to let your lover breathe.” Johnny watches as Simon does that little head tilt again, that means he's received and is absorbing new and startling information.
“Huh.”
Johnny wants to dig up some long-dead monsters and kill them again.
“Then why the neck bruises?”
“Hickeys are - Simon - it’s a love mark. A sucking little bite, like a kiss but more. Haven’t you looked close up at any?"
Blank.
"What am I saying? You don’t do close, do you?”
“Can't. It makes me… go away. Back there. Makes me cold and sick. I can't. When people go at it near me I can't watch. Have to unfocus my eyes.” Price sighs and kneads his forehead.
“I’m sorry. I’m not doing this as well as I could. Almost anyone else would be better -”
“I don’t have anyone else. You. You’re what I have. Please.” Price straightens then and Soap can see he's steeling himself.
“All right. For a start, choking on cock is usually a metaphor, son. Some guys like a bit of oxygen deprivation, but only if there's consent and negotiation first and they enjoy it. Most don't even try that sort of thing. Sucking cock is like… well it ranges from the way you’d suck a lollipop, gentle and sweet and taking your time, to the way those guys neck hot dogs in that obscene TV eating competition thing Gaz made us watch.”
It should be way weirder than it is to hear Price tutoring Ghost on how to suck cock. Briefly, Soap wonders if he hit his head or fell asleep and this is all just a really fucked up dream he’s having. Price is doing a great job though, and Soap is certain as he can be that the straight-seeming Captain of the 141 might be at least a little bit into guys. Gaz will be ecstatic.
“Forgive me, Simon. I'm trying to help you here. Do you have any sexual experience that wasn’t under torture? Women or men, or anyone else?”
“Does dad count?”
“Not really, Simon. I mean, have you ever had sex you wanted?”
“No.”
Johnny wants to burn down the whole world. And kick his own head in while he's at it. He's heard Simon banter. No, he's heard Ghost banter - on comms and at the pub. Yeah, his humour tends towards black and some of the things he's said have had Johnny assuming he's into hardcore BDSM which was a bit daunting but not a deterrent. Fit with the whole black clad, skull faceplate vibe. But the reality is the opposite. It’s been a cover identity. A cover, literally! Ghost - Simon - is for all intents and purposes a virgin. He might have the right words but, like a desperately faking teenager, no real understanding of the content. He’s also a Survivor and - fuck - Soap wants to kill and maim and burn everything down about that. How afraid do you have to be, to cover every inch of your skin for the rest of your life?
And what has it done to him, when Johnny has teased him? Frantically, he rakes over their past interactions in his head. What has he implied he wants to do to Simon? How would Simon have taken it? As a threat? Probably. Fuck. It’s not Ghost who’s the monster. No wonder he's so hot and cold. No wonder.
Price's shoulders have slumped infinitesimally.
“Have you done any research?”
“Fuck no. Last thing I wanna do is encourage it.”
“It could be good to find out what you like, though. Spend a little time with some porn and your hand.”
Simon’s full body recoil would be funny if it wasn't all so tragic. Johnny has given up on wiping his tears by now. He just lets them drip as he listens.
“No porn?”
“The panic’s fuckin’ exhaustin’ after that shit.”
“Ah. Yeah. I suppose it would be. Simon… may I ask a few more personal questions? You don't have to answer, but….” Johnny has never seen anyone stay still whose body language screams the need to flee so loudly. Price’s sigh is heavy. “Do you masturbate, Simon?”
Headshake.
“Have you ever?”
“Not since R- … not r - I don't think I - it - I -” Hearing the usually unflappable Ghost choking on his words Soap realises something. This is why his LT hardly talks. Why each word drops from his lips like a polished stone. Ghost isn't cold or aloof or scornful - he’s wounded. He stops, coughs a painfully dry little cough. Struggles to swallow. Price does not hurry him. Pours another shot of bourbon and nudges it across the scarred wood of his desk. Ghost takes a careful swallow, like it's medicine. When he finally speaks, his voice is scraped and small. “I don't like touching it.”
“Oh Simon.”
“I wash it!” Ghost snaps defensively. “I’m not a total freak!” He downs another swallow.
“Of course you’re not.”
Ghost coughs again. Drinks again. Looks down and away.
“I did some reading. One of the guys had a book. A novel about…two guys. Read over his shoulder through my scope. Threw up a bit in the bushes, but I finished reading it and… some parts were good. But it just made everything worse.”
“Worse how?”
“I had a dream.” Ghost’s voice drops to a whisper. “About… about Johnny. When I woke up I was - it had - everywhere - and I thought I did it. Was gonna shoot myself, but then I got the call that exfil had just picked up Johnny and Gaz from the Mexican border and I needed to meet in your room for their debrief and I realised there was no way I could have.”
Johnny, who had thought there was no way this could get worse, is horrified. Ghost almost died because he couldn’t keep it tactical.
“Simon, do you remember when you were a teenager, having dreams where you woke up like that?” Wisely, Price isn’t touching the confession of near suicide. Nothing he could do about it anyway. You can’t disarm Ghost. Even if you took all his weapons away, he’s the kind of guy who’d make a chokewire from his own hair or a shiv from a toothbrush or just bite out his own tongue.
“Tried not to sleep at home.”
“Why not?”
“You know. Wasn't safe. Dad put - the - the snakes - the - in my room - my bed - bites on my face - it was fucked up - the venom or - when he let people in or - all that - his friends were drugged - drunk - you know it w - when I was in bed out of it they - you know- they just saw small and blonde and - can't fight if - pinned - can’t get away if you don't - see it coming, if - if you're sleeping. Better not to sleep than to wake up with - that - on top - shoving and - yeah. Don't give me that look.”
“I’m not, Simon.”
But he is. And Soap knows he is too. There is no way to listen to what Ghost - Simon - has endured and not feel harrowed. He's sure Ghost would rather eat his gun than be pitied, but Price and Soap are only human and this hurts. It hurts. It just - hurts.
Chapter 4: HATING
Summary:
Rage, Tears and Tap Code*
Ghost issues an ultimatum, Price breaks, Soap flexes his Service Top muscles, Gaz's crush might not be as hopeless as previously thought and two members of the 141 assign themselves a new unsanctioned mission: save Simon Riley from himself.
*Tap code (aka knock code) was used by prisoners in wartime to communicate. See chapter end for detail.
Chapter Text
Soap can't see for tears, can't move for the rage that swells his cramped muscles. He wonders if the human heart can give out from too much anguish. Beneath his hiding place over the false ceiling, Ghost takes another swallow of his bourbon and Price knocks back a glassful like it's water, making Soap realise he's never really seen his Captain drink hard. He hopes the man has no duties for the rest of the day. The fact that Price needs that much alcohol after the revelations so far means he knows it's no over, but Soap is not sure how much more his heart can take.
And what a stupid, selfish, childish thought that is. If Ghost can endure it happening to him, surely Soap can endure hearing it. He's always suspected that something extreme must have formed Ghost. The man's unnatural stillness and silence, even in downtime; his focused stealth; his insight into the darkness at the heart of their enemies; his unparalleled ferocity in a fight; his uncanny ability to predict the tide of battle and the actions of those they hunt; the legends that swirl around him like mist... all of that has to have a superhero-level tragic origin story. But hearing all the ways Ghost has been abused when all he wants to do is cherish the man is messing with him on a level so deep even he doesn't understand it: all he knows is that hearing this is internally rearranging him in drastic ways and he understands now why Ghost has deflected his intrusive questions. He'd thought it was teasing at best, cruelty or indifference at worst, but really, he was being kind.
“You can’t fix me, Price," Ghost says softly into the quiet room. "It’s not your fault. I’ll never be normal. It's not gonna happen.”
“Who’s normal? No-one around here, that’s for sure. But you can be happy.”
“No.”
“Simon -”
“No. What I am doesn’t get to have that. But I can get close to it. I can be useful. You know I can. I need to find a way to stay. I need to keep him alive. I’m the best, usually.” this part rolls out smoother, like it's rehearsed. His LT’s practised, Soap realises. Gone through the arguments in his head. It’s not arrogance and doesn't come over that way: its undisputed fact in the 141, like C4 detonates or the sky is blue or MREs taste like shit: Ghost is the best there is. “And I know I don't deserve it, but I'd still like to see him. Just sometimes. Just on missions. I can confine myself to my room the rest of the time or you can put me in solitary or on cleaning or have me run drills. If you- if you let me get rid of this - thing - I won't be so dangerous. The thoughts… feelings… might even go away.” His voice tips up hopefully at the end, like a question. It's heartbreaking.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Simon. These thoughts and feelings are normal attraction to someone you want. You can learn to navigate them. Look at how much you’ve already changed, from when we first found you.”
“Captain. You brought me here. You helped make Ghost. You gave me a purpose and a team and a door I could lock and a way to act like I was good and you never asked me to pay for it. You helped. I promise you did. But some things are just too busted up.”
“Simon…” Price interrupts softly in a way that makes Soap’s back prickle. “Did anyone else try to make you pay for your new life?”
“Not talking about that. Not relevant."
Soap has a new scale for rage. Way beyond red and into purple-black. From the look on Price's face, he's guessing he might have company there. But Ghost is ploughing on as though he's not suddenly in a room with two unexploded bombs in human form.
"Point is, you took away my fuckin’ deathwish. Now here we are and you know I’m a liability as well as an asset and you don't know what to do with me. You can't send me on solos forever and I've still got to go somewhere in between even if you do. So. Back to what I want.”
“Simon, I think it would be better to take some time to -”
“No. I don’t need time. I need it gone. I don’t want it. It just - it moves. It moves and grows and it fills me up with thoughts I can’t have and I don’t like that it tries to control me. What if I walk in my sleep? What if we have to share a tent or a room or a bunk? What if I’m drugged with something? What if one day I can’t fight what it wants hard enough and I hurt him with it? It’s a risk I can’t take. I can’t do to him what they - I can’t. I won’t. Would you keep a grenade with a loose pin in your gear, Captain?”
“Do you have these worries about anyone else?”
“No!” Ghost almost wails, clutching at his head and rocking forward in his distress, the way Soap has seen him do a couple of times before. “Just Johnny. Just the best - the kindest - why does it have to be him?”
“Simon, perhaps you’re attracted to him because he’s kind. Because you know he’s safe. Because he’s shown you he likes you.”
“All the more reason to make me safe. Make me fit to be around him.”
“What you want us to do is impossible. Even if I were willing to let you mutilate yourself that way, it's not an authorised procedure.”
“There’s precedent.”
“The hell there is!”
“The dogs, sir.”
“Simon Riley, you are a human being-”
“Am I?”
“-not an animal.”
“Come on, Captain: we both know different. No-one really human survives where I’ve been.”
Ghost’s - Simon’s - voice is twisted and wrong and Johnny shivers. “You can keep calling me by his name, but you know Simon died a long time ago.”
“I don't believe that.”
“I’ll do it myself if you can't help me. Got enough knives. Cut the fuckin’ thing off. Or I’ll find someone. There's a backstreet guy for everything. Gotta be one for this shit, right? Didn’t think you’d want me to suffer, is all. You're the one always telling me to take my issues to Medical.”
“Fuck. Fuck. OK. OK Simon, let me…. Just… give me some time to find a way.” Simon nods sharply, his posture softening an infinitesimal amount from menacing to merely deadly.
“If you have to get rid of me, don't send me to Becker's squad. Sir.”
“Why?”
“Got history.”
“What?”
“He hurt a girl. I wrote him up. He sent me to psych. 28 day hold for delusions. Drugged me with some seriously bad shit and carved me up then said I did it to myself. Don’t trust him.”
“Fuck! Simon, did you tell anyone?”
“Told Laswell. Tellin’ you. S’why he keeps tryin’ to kill me. So if that’s the way this ends I’d rather do it myself, quick and clean, thanks. Don’t like being locked up.”
Tucked in his hiding place, Johnny is getting a crash course in what it means to hate. Nameless, faceless rapists. Captain Becker. Simon’s worthless father.
“I'd - I'd let you. Stay where you put me,” Ghost continues in staggering trust, considering the revelations of the last few minutes. “But not… not him.”
“Simon, I would never,” Price says, horrified.
“You might have to, sir. I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I wanted to be better. For you. I - yeah. Wanted to be better for you. But I’m not. I’m just… this. Sorry.”
“Simon Riley, I will never not be proud of you. You are a good man, son, you hear me? If you weren’t, would we even be having this conversation?”
“Find me a solo. Please. Something to hold me ‘til you can get me fixed.”
“I’ll do my best, son.”
“Thank you.”
Simon unlocks the door and leaves silently. Price slumps, expelling a long breath then pounding his fist on the table. Johnny listens as he curses up a storm. His thighs are cramped and his face is sticky and burning but he doesn’t dare move as Price dials Laswell and leaves her a terse voicemail before searching for something in his desk drawer. Just when Johnny’s starting to think it’s game over and he’ll have to move, a sudden knock at the door draws Price’s attention away and he can breathe.
Fuck. This is -
What is he -
Simon.
Simon.
He can’t tell anyone. Not even Gaz, his closest friend. Gaz who knows about his hopeless crush on his Superior.
It’s a miracle Ghost - Simon - trusts Price after having been betrayed so often. He finds himself wondering about the bond between them. Just how exactly Captain Price ‘saved’ him and what from that makes Ghost so terrifyingly open with the man. He had no idea their relationship ran this deep.
But Price would kill him for overhearing this, even if Ghost wouldn’t. He has to -
“Sergeant McTavish. However you got up there, get down here. Now.”
Soap freezes again. No. There’s no way -
“Don’t insult my intelligence, son. Or my hearing. You’re lucky Simon came straight here from the shooting range with his ears ringing or he’d have picked up on your sniffling too. Down. Now.”
Soap lifts the tile with shaking hands and drops himself clumsily through the gap onto the desktop then swings his legs over and scrambles to attention in front of Price. He doesn't bother to wipe the mess that is his tear-smudged face. Up close, he can see his Captain’s eyes are glassy with unshed tears of his own.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m - sir, I’m so far beyond sorry. Fuck. I really fucked up. Sorry.”
“At ease.” Price sighs heavy and long. Soap doesn’t understand why he’s not screaming at him already.
“Sir?”
“I knew you were there before Ghost came in,” Price says. “Told them this was a stupid temp office. No security. I was waiting for one of you to try your luck. Laswell’s money was on Gaz but mine was on you.” He doesn’t even sound disgusted or disappointed, which should make Soap feel better. Why doesn’t he feel better? Why is his chest getting tighter? Why is - oh. Oh. He’s mad. No, beyond mad. Livid.
“What. The. Fuck. Captain?”
“Pardon?”
“How could ye dae tha' tae him? Let him - let him - wi' me - how - how fucking could ye dae tha' tae him?” His hand is balling into a fist. He’s never struck a superior officer outside of sparring but now he feels like an unexploded bomb and Price’s finger is on the dead man’s switch-
“Sit!” Price barks back and the chair is under Soap before he has time to process whether he wants to obey a man who would betray Ghost like that. “Listen! Not another word ‘til I’m done. Your heart is in overdrive and your head’s out of gear, or you’d already know why. Think, son. You’re one of the smartest guys I know. Think about why you might have needed to hear that. Think about how much I trusted you just now. Think about why you of all people need that intel.”
“Ye wanted me tae hear?”
“How else are you going to help the man you love, eh?”
“Captain?”
“Don’t play dumb. You’re arse over teakettle for Simon Riley and breaking hearts all over base over your unavailability. We work in intelligence, Soap, I can read a fucking room. Anyone with a normal emotional range and half a brain can see it. The two of you are not subtle.”
Outside, in the distance, someone’s shouting at someone. Guns are firing, but faintly. Closer, a bird sings a scolding sort of song and the wind throws a handful of rain at the glass. Through the window behind Price it’s grey-bright out and the trees are neon under the swelling stormclouds. And Ghost is somewhere on the roof, most likely, curled up like a seed of mayhem and misery, getting rained on and chilled and not inhabiting his body enough to keep himself warm. He can’t be indoors when he’s feeling things. Soap guesses it reminds him too much of captivity. Ghost has always needed a wide sky when upset. Soap’s similar. But Soap’s in here, looking out, wondering what happens next, now his world is blown to bits and the debris of his hopes is still pelting him.
“Is this a shovel talk, sir?” Soap asks quietly.
“No.”
“Am I leaving the 141?”
“And this is why I said don’t open your mouth yet.” Price rubs both hands over his face in a weary gesture, dislodging his ever-present hat. He shoves it the rest of the way off onto the desk and scrubs shaking hands through his hair too, leaving it sticking on end.
“Sorry, sir,” Soap says, contrite.
“Look, Soap, as your Captain - bloody hell, as your friend, mentor, anything - I ought to be telling you Simon’s not a good bet. He’s - well, damaged it putting it mildly. But as his….”
“Father?” Soap chirps up, unable even in this fraught moment to pass up the opportunity to be a cheeky sod.
“Father,” Price says then. “Or the closest he’s got, God help him… I want to know your intentions.” Soap blows a controlled breath out and decides to follow Ghost’s lead in trusting his Captain.
“To love him forever, sir, whether he lets me or no'. As long as we’re alive, longer if the nuns were right about what comes after. I want him, ye ken sir, in whatever way he’ll let me have him. Friend. Mo leannan if he'd ivver allow. If I had the choice, ah'd look after him. Mak' a bonnie home fer him, no' some clarty ol' safehoose where nothin' matches. Grow old wi’ him, git a cat or a big braw dog if ah' must - an’ a cottage somewhere wi' a good pub that does bourbon and beef an’ yorkies fer ‘im when it’s dreich out and a big sky so he feels safe an’ jus’.....be. If a bullet doesnae find us first.”
“That’s… very specific. You been thinking about that long?”
“Honestly? Since ah met ‘im. Ah ken it's difficult to believe, but it's true. There's jist somethin' aboot tha' man - took moments tae want 'im. Grew frae there. More since Las Almas... since Hassan..."
“Because he saved you?”
“Aye. But it’s no’ hero worship. No’ anymore. We’ve saved each other, sir, too many times in the field for it to be that way. But aye, hearin’ his voice on the com, it’s like… like ah'm hame. Ah wanna be that fer him, sir, but ah cannae. No’ if he’s scared o’ me. Ah nivver… ah didnae ken the half of it. Fuck. ”
“Don’t give up on him, Soap. There has to be a way. I’m not going to lock him up and I can’t give him what he’s asking for.”
“Absolutely not. But ye ken he’ll go lookin’... ye cannae stop ‘im. He’s a fuckin’ weapon. Stubborn as all hell.”
“I know - I know - but under it all, he’s -” and to his horror, his Captain just breaks. Price, indomitable Captain of the 141, fearless under fire, staunch in danger, unflappable in a crisis, is just a sobbing hunch of anguish in a desk chair, crying so hard he can’t drag in a proper breath. Some switch in Soap flips with a quiet ping. It’s the same switch in him that Ghost flips when he’s in the grip of a PTSD episode or a nightmare. Calm washes through Soap and everything is clear as mountain air or pure water, a trail in snow or a perfect circuit.
Quickly, he gets up and locks the door, then shoves Price’s chair away from the desk and drops to his knees in front of his Captain. Hoping he's not about to get punched, he puts a firm hand on each of his Captain's knees and forces himself to calm, to speak clearly.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry you've had to carry this alone so long, sir. But I'm here. You're not alone now. Can I help? Can I forget our rank, just for a moment, please?"
He's not sure if that strange shuddery move is a nod or if Price is too far gone in his misery but either way, Soap takes the risk of standing and wrapping his Captain slowly, gently in his arms.
He's never been this close to Captain Price outside of combat. He's hauled the man over his shoulder a couple of times when he's been injured and been carried by Price the same way. He's slung an arm under him as support when he twisted his ankle and they had to hustle to exfil. He's been crammed up on helos with him, jammed into caves and rooms and cars and cupboards. He's even held Price down once when they had to yank shrapnel out of an ugly leg wound and he's had his hand literally inside him when he had to dig a bullet out of his arm. But none of that felt as potentially invasive or intimate as this.
Surprisingly, there's no resistance beyond a brief tensing of muscles where his Captain clearly considers pulling away before giving in and giving Soap his whole, exhausted weight. Soap rubs careful circles on his back, breathing in the familiar scent of cigars and Farenheit aftershave, bourbon and gun oil, paper and leather. Price's tears soak into his shirt. The convulsions of his strong muscles tear at Soap's already bruised heart. He tightens his hold and it seems to help a little, but Price is still struggling. Words then.
"Captain Price. Sir. You need to breathe. Cry all you need to, but breathe too. I know it hurts. But you're not alone with this now. We can help him. Breathe with me..." he leads his Captain in a ritual as familiar to all the 141 as the parts of a sniper rifle or the contents of an MRE. They've all needed therapeutic breathing. They all get the nightmares, the PTSD, the panic attacks. They don't talk about it, but it's the unseen extra at every briefing and the unwelcome guest at every downtime social.
In a moment of inspiration, Soap starts a steady tap on Price's right shoulder. A message. 2,4 - 3,1/3,4/5,1/1,5 - 2,2/2,3/3,4/4,3/4,4 - 4,4/3,4/3,4
He repeats it, over and over until a slight shift in Price's body language indicates that he is paying attention.
They all know and use tap code. Ghost's influence, that. He'd used it with his fellow prisoners in Roba's custody. It was useful in situations where verbal communication might be intercepted or anything spoken out loud might give away their position. They all know Morse, but tap feels more intuitive and it's also become a bit of an in-joke too, a way to make comments in public places just between themselves and, since occasionally their hearing can be compromised by proximity to explosions, a way to cope with temporary deafness too. For Soap, though, it was primarily an excuse to touch Ghost on missions. Tapping messages into his forearm or in the back of his hand never stopped carrying an illicit thrill.
Now, he uses the touch inherent in the medium to ground Price and give him just enough decoding work that it diverts him and dilutes the overpowering flood of emotion just a little. Enough to give him breathing space, while not making him push it down.
2,4 - 3,1/3,4/5,1/1,5 - 2,2/2,3/3,4/4,3/4,4 - 4,4/3,4/3,4 - I - love - Ghost - too.
2,4 - 3,1/3,4/5,1/1,5 - 2,2/2,3/3,4/4,3/4,4 - 4,4/3,4/3,4 - I - love - Ghost - too.
2,4 - 3,1/3,4/5,1/1,5 - 2,2/2,3/3,4/4,3/4,4 - 4,4/3,4/3,4 - I - love - Ghost - too.
Then Price is tapping, as his breathing calms.
4,4/2,3/1,1/3,3/1,3 - 5,4/3,4/4,5. Thank - you.
"You're welcome, Captain." Soap holds on, not moving except for a return to tracing circles over the Captain's broad, muscular back. Broad circles with his whole palm pushed firmly but not roughly in the same shape over and over, predictable and safe.
"When you're ready, I'm going to dry those tears and we are going to stand at the window and stretch. Then you're going to sit and unless you object I'm going to massage out some of that tension you're carrying in your neck and shoulders while you get your speech and breathing all the way back. It's all right if it takes a while. You've been in a dark place. And you don't worry about me right now. Helping you is helping me and you'll get to return the favour sometime if this takes as long as I think it will. So, let's get you sorted, eh?" He disengages slowly and Price releases him. Feeling one-handed, Soap snags the box of tissues on his Captain's desk and yanks out a few to gently mop that weathered face. He's done this for his mother and sisters and nieces and nephews and girlfriends so many times he's barely selfconscious about it. Grabbing the bottle of water on the desk corner, he moistens a couple more of the tissues and lays them carefully over his Captain's swollen eyes. Price makes a tiny, low sound of relief and doesn't resist the care.
After a few minutes of silence, Soap moves al the way back and stands, keeping one hand on Price's shoulder to ground him with touch.
"Come on, sir. Up we get. You need to shake this out and eat something." He puts his arms under Price's elbows and Price obligingly braces and lets himself be lifted up and walked to the window. Despite the fact that it's still raining outside, Soap shoves it open and the damp, chilly air defuses the thick tension or grief, sorrow and anger in the room. He helps himself to a cigar and lighter from Price's hidden stash, pushes a half-smoked cigar into Price's hand and, when he fumbles it to his lips, cups his hand around his Captain's to steady him and lights it. From his own pocket, he pulls an energy bar and he puts that in Price's free hand then brings over the bottle of water.
"Smoke, eat, drink and we'll talk later."
Price obeys, in silence. A silence Soap fills with gentle chatter about how the new recruits are shaping up and the latest news from Alejandro and Rodolfo and their efforts to clean up their corner of the world and drive out the drugs and cartels.
When the cigar is a stump, ground into the ashtray, and the bar gnawed down to the wrapper, and Price has taken a swallow of water, Soap encourages him to drink more. "You need to rehydrate or you'll get a worse headache. Here." He holds out a couple of Ibuprofen, briefly moved when Price takes and swallows them without even checking what they are. Trust. It's heady stuff. On the strength of it, Soap manoeuvres his sore and weary Captain to a chair and sets to massaging the knotted tension out of his powerful shoulders. Price lets out a low groan of appreciation that Soap is sure Gaz would pay good money to hear and he thinks he'll share this particular weakness of their Captain with his ever-hopeful and besotted friend.
Soap feels nothing for Price but affection, admiration, respect, a shiver of the right kind of fear and a little guilt for the times he turns to him more than his own father, confides in him more, dare he say sometimes likes him better. Price's muscular form does nothing for his libido though, not like Gaz. All Soap's longings are wrapped around Ghost. He's the only one he wants, only one he sees. He wonders if that will ever change.
When Price is finally a bonelesss, blissed out puddle in his chair, Soap steps back and rounds the desk to resume the seat he occupied earlier.
"Thank you." The words are heartfelt. "Drink?"
"Could stoop to bourbon just the once, Sir, thank ye."
"Wouldn't ask it of you. Cabinet on the far wall, bottom right, in the old ammo box. Bring the bottle."
Delightedly, Soap unearths a 20 year old Speyside, a third empty.
"Noo tha' whit ah'm takkin aboot!"
"English, McTavish," Price volleys, imitating Ghost's growl. It pulls out a shadow of Soap's usual grin but he appreciates the effort. After looking a question and receiving a nod, Soap snags Ghost's glass, then Price's, fills both and drinks from Ghost's, something about him loving that he's putting his lips where Ghost's were. The Scotch slides down rich and smooth. It's sooo good.
Price drinks too, saluting Soap minutely with his glass as a wordless, surprising gesture of respect. Soap's head spins with the reversal - from tumbling grubby and infantile from his boss's ceiling braced for the bollocking of his life to expensive Scotch as equals and even more priceless trust and confidences. It's as heady as day drinking on an empty stomach. But Price knows what he's about. He can drink all of them under the table so there's no way this is the result of his superior's judgement being compromised. No. This feels instead like he's just survived a shovel talk with his boyfriend's father.
Because he has.
"So. Captain. We have a piece of work ahead of us."
"That we do, John. That we do."
*Tap code (aka knock code) was used by prisoners in wartime to communicate. It's based on a 5x5 alphabet grid (with C and K interchangeable). Words can be spelt out letter by letter, first knocking or tapping the number of the row, then the column. So 2,3/1,5/3,1/3,1/3,4 is h-e-l-l-o
0 1 2 3 4 5
1 A B C D E
2 F G H I J
3 L M N O P
4 Q R S T U
5 V W X Y Z
Chapter 5: HOLDING
Summary:
Soap dares to comfort his Captain.
Price has a revelation.
They both have a plan.
Chapter Text
"So how the hell are we gonna fix this?" Soap ponders, raw grief on his face.
"Are you absolutely certain you want to? It's going to be hard and ugly work."
"Did you miss the part where I'm in love with him? I'm in this. Whatever it takes. Ghost - Simon - deserves to be happy. And you can't keep carrying the weight of this by yourself." As he gives his Captain orders, Soap's voice drops down deep. Steady. Calm. Authoritative in a way Price would not normally associate with the man. Where has the sunny Scot been hiding this? No wonder all the Greenies practically worship the ground he walks on and vie for his attention. How much has he been failing as a Captain, caught up in the big picture of International espionage and terror plots and missing the dynamics of his own home base? He's lost his touch.
He ought to have wondered how Soap was such an effective training instructor. What in his manner made men willing to hurl themselves into peril at his side without hesitation and also seek him out socially? He's seen them gathering around him, his personality vibrant like a warm fire, yet the socialising and playful banter off duty doesn’t seem to affect their obedience or levels of respect for him on duty. Price isn't stupid enough or prejudiced enough to believe a Sub can't also be an inspirational leader, but the level of authority Soap can pull on outside of the chain of command is somehing else. Price is a Dominant used to playing hardball with Politicians and Generals and feeling nothing, yet he can feel Soap's effect on him: feel his own muscles, which had begun to tense in preparation for movement and a return to duty, relaxing again.
"You carry so much already, for all of us. It's all right to break sometimes. I'll keep your secrets, keep you safe...."
Price pauses his conversation with John McTavish, feeling completely blindsided. He'd honestly expected to be comforting his Sergeant, not to get comforted by him. He can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he has broken down in his life.
It’s not something you can really do as Captain. You have to lead. Be stronger. Keep it together. In the field, at least. Of course he’s human. They all have their moments. A particularly gruesome sight that has them heaving up their breakfast - though those are fewer these days - or the death of a fellow soldier or the truly awful things some of their enemies do to women and children or being covered in a team member’s blood and feeling their grip slacken and their skin temperature change and the light go out of their eyes as you hold them through their last moments.
He’s always been able to keep it in. Fall apart later in his room. He rarely cries. There’s little point to it. Punching and screaming is more his modus operandi or, very occasionally, getting drunk alone or with Laswell or one of the other handful of people who feel the same weight. But Soap’s a wildcard. Not someone he would ever look to, ever choose, ever disarm for.
And yet.
And yet there was something about him just now. Something startlingly solid. Frighteningly commanding. He was letting go before he realised and Soap… held him together. Huh. Didn’t see that coming.
Honestly, he was really worried when Soap fixated on Simon. It was so cliche- the classic opposites attract grumpy/sunshine trope - and in reality those friendships and relationships just cause friction most of the time. At first, he thought Soap was being provocative or posturing, or trying to prove something - to 'collect' Ghost as others had tried, for the kudos of bagging a living legend as a friend or conquest, or his ego or insecurity was trying for a 100% hit rate in the popularity stakes.
Once he saw Soap's big heart a little clearer, Price figured the lad was just being nice. Then his theory changed as Soap's emerging saviour complex made him consider the possibility that Simon was a pity project to the younger man - a fixer upper for a lad who thought that socialising and friendly support always helped.
But Soap was deeper than that, too, as evidenced by his consistent ease in Ghost's company even when the two were alone and silent for hours. These days, Price is not sure what is more surprising, Soap's capacity for silence with Ghost, or Simon's capacity for conversation and banter with Soap. Their jokes and flirtations over comms are certainly a side to Simon Price has never seen. If that makes him ridiculously lenient when it comes to their nonsense, so be it.
In the quiet now, Price acknowledges that at every stage of this developing romance, he has underestimated Soap. He wanted to protect Simon from him. Then he wanted to take the lad aside and warn him off before Ghost’s dark and menacing aura squashed all the bright bounciness out of him. But it seems Soap’s uncrushable and undaunted.
Of course, he’s known for a while that Soap’s sunny disposition is hard won - not childish, not fake, not a mask or a pretence, not innocence or inexperience. The lad is extraordinarily resilient and, underneath all the lighthearted clowning, terrifyingly mature. How he got that way, as the youngest sibling and only boy in a doting family, is a mystery. Though he supposes an early coming out in a conservative town would explain a lot of it and multiple bereavements from missions gone wrong the remainder.
Still, Price feels like he’s missed a piece here, and it’s an uncomfortable feeling. Only an idiot expects a personnel file to be a complete accounting but he feels there should be more lines in there to read between.
The lad’s a prodigious talent and a quick study, but to be the youngest SAS member by such a wide margin suggests something else in play too: some hidden grit and drive not easily accounted for in the official mission narratives. Before accepting him on the task force, Price dug a little: spoke to past commanders who complained of cockiness and flirtatiousness, a fast mouth, a tendency to interpret orders broadly, take unwise risks to get results and innovate unnervingly, too great a fascination with destruction, an excess of stubbornness and a significant rebellious streak - but most of those are practically necessary qualifications for membership of the 141. Add to it that no-one could dispute his perfect scores on empirical tests and he was head and shoulders above the others in the pile of potentials. A firm handshake, confident eye contact, fearsome sniping and demolition skills and an energy that was attractive if tough to quantify had sealed the deal and Price has never regretted the decision.
When Soap bounded up to Ghost and chirped, Let’s get ourselves a win, LT, and shoulder punched him and offered to save him a seat, Price braced for the flash of a knife, but Ghost just froze. Honestly, seeing the legend flabbergasted was hilarious!
Watching Soap circle Simon for months on end, advancing and retreating, testing, testing, has been better than reality TV and Price is not the only one hooked on tracking the unlikely pairing’s every move, but for him it’s never been entertainment. Simon is… precious to him. Fragile in a way he was sure no-one else would ever fully see or understand. Except now, there's Soap.
Perceptive was not Price’s first impression of the lively, loudmouthed Scot, but he learned soon enough that Soap doesn't miss much. He certainly interprets Simon unerringly, despite the mask and gear. These days their synchronicity borders on uncanny. Or it did, 'til Simon got this weird hitch in his stride that all makes sense now. If Soap ever doubted Simon wanted him, at least that doubt is gone, but what it leaves in its place is a seething, oozing mass of tragic darkness that will be tough to overcome, Simon's brain a hellscape Price realises he's only ever skirted the edges of, even as long as he's known the man.
But never let it be said that the Captain of the 141 can't adapt to new intel or learn from past errors. He's not underestimating the Scot again. If Soap can pull him out of an unprecedented spiral, he may just have what it takes to master Simon.
And oh.
Click.
Of course.
And oh no.
And Yes, but...
And it all makes horrifying sense as, with one mental choice of phrase, a lens from a past life slots over the current tangle and realisation strikes.
Simon's not a Dom. His kill stats and menacing demeanour aside, Simon needs orders and a command structure. Simon's not a Dom. All that black and bristle is just window dressing. Price realises that despite the training of his youth in the leather clubs, he's committed the primary error of mis-categorising due to judging a book by its cover. He knows - he knows - that's not how power exchange dynamics work. Still, he'd pegged Soap as an eager pup like Gaz because of their instant, playful rapport and sibling-like jockeying, and Ghost as a fellow Dominant because in the field he's exactly that.
But off the field....
Ghost is a Dom, but not Simon.
If he's a Switch, then at least that's something - at least some of his needs are met in some ways through his command - but if he's a Sub....
If he's a Sub, his deepest nature has been subsisting on scraps....
If he's a Sub, Price is his Dom and he's been a very poor one indeed....
If he's a Sub, he's had trauma after trauma with minimal aftercare for a terrifyingly long time....
...been dropping alone, uncomforted after each perceived failure...
...been without affirmation and tenderness...
...been avoided and regarded with fear by his fellow soldiers...
If he's a Sub...
Oh, that realisation hurts. His father, his father's friends, Roba, others, they took so much more from Simon than his choice, autonomy and safety. They took his submission. In forcing it, they poisoned the very dynamic Simon needs for stability. For safety. For survival.
Now he can't submit and therefore his touch hunger goes unfed, and his service to his country is a paltry substitute for a relationship with a human caregiver and, being officially dead, he gets neither praise nor chest candy to affirm he was good and he's too scared to even show an inch of flesh let alone be kissed or held or pleasured or bathed or cherished...
As a young Sergeant, Price once met a soldier fed poisoned food repeatedly over a month of torture, who could no longer trust his rations. Eating meant panic and nausea, things he couldn't afford in the field, so his solution had been to fast. He starved himself to a dangerous degree and no-one realised until he collapsed and almost died.
Now Simon is collapsing because he can no longer contain his hunger.
Price re-runs their conversation in his head... Simon's horror at the thought of topping but the need, the ravenous need, for contact and comfort and touch that came out as whispered confession of longings and dreams he felt were shameful.
When was the last time anyone but Soap touched Simon Riley?
Soap figured it out. He took one look at a terrifying legend in armour and mask and black and just knew what Simon needed. Connection in the us, touch, scaffolding his next move - a seat to come to, saved for him. More contact as they sat together, pressed against each other. Attention. Presence. Service. Care. Praise. I wanna be like you when I grow up and, That's why I love the Ghost, and, I learned from the best, LT, and, Perfect shot, LT. Nobody else would think to praise Ghost. Or save him a seat. Or bring him a drink.
No wonder Simon fell fast and hard.
And how heartbreaking, that Simon gives out the very verbal affirmations he most needs to receive. Every encouraging word to Soap in Las Almas must have been giving Soap more and more insight into what Simon thinks comfort is. The fact that Ghost waited for Soap - oh. Yes. That, too. Price goes cold, thinking of the missions when Ghost hasn't made it to exfil due to cleanup and they've just confidently left him to make his own way home. Or it would feel that way to a Dom, while to a Sub perhaps it landed more like, abandoned him because he failed in punctuality so he was left to make his own way back alone as punishment.
Fuck.
No wonder Soap was so mad that time and insisted they go back for Ghost. Price had almost written him up for insubordination, he'd been so loud and obnoxious about it. He expected Ghost to mock him for worrying or be insulted by the implication that he needed an ordinary thing like a routine exfil but instead Ghost was... surprised. And he'd sat in his saved seat by Soap and actually slept on the helo for this first time ever - how had Price missed that?
And Soap - how could he have got that one so wrong? Because after the encounter they just had, Soap's deneanour screams Service Top and how the hell did Price miss his dominance? No wonder they have butted heads!
But does Soap know this about himself?
"I can hear the wheels in your head turning, Captain. Come on, breathe with me again." And Soap scruffs him. Fucking scruffs him, hand hot and heavy on the back of his neck. "That's it, good man... just let it go. Breathe it out. Whatever it is, we can solve it together. Just stay with me. That's it... yes... good... and relax..."
Yes, he's guessing Soap knows a lot about a lot of things and Price is realising he doesn't know himself quite as well as he thought he did, as a whimper climbs up and out of his throat for the first time in decades and Soap pulls him up and in for another firm embrace.
Minutes pass and with each one, as he feels himself calm and loosen, Price knows he can't put off the vital conversation that might make all the difference. Soap has what Simon needs. He is what Simon needs. They fit together like two puzzle pieces.
"Soap, we need to talk about something."
"Of course, sir." Soap slides seamlessly back into the chain of command as though his Captain’s tears were not still drying on his shirt.
"What do you know about power exchange in relationships....?"
Chapter 6: HANDLING
Summary:
Price and Laswell are scheming.
Ghost is dreaming.
And Soap is playing to win.
Chapter Text
So. That happened, Soap thinks numbly as he stumbles out of Captain Price's office feeling like he's aged several decades in the last couple of hours. In his head, he is mentally rearranging the new intel that has upended his world.
Ghost - Simon - likes him back.
That's the neon headline. Flashing. Gleaming. He's thrilled. Ecstatic. Sure, part of him had been stubbornly hopeful: most of him had been resigned to a broken heart though. It’s beyond fantastic to discover hope wins and the connection he has forged with the 141s enigmatic LT is not just a product of his overactive imagination.
But…
Also, Simon's trauma is terrifyingly extensive.
Also, Simon's probably a Sub.
Also, Price was a Dom. Is a Dom? Do Doms retire? And single and gay, so yay for Gaz.
Also, it appears his own interests align with that end of the sexual spectrum… making him the perfect fit for Simon, in Price's opinion.
His Captain's opinion.
Who is not only giving him the green light for fraternisation but giving him pointers and homework.
All in the interest of Simon not multilating himself in some hideous way because he believes he's some kind of sexual predator for feeling normal attraction.
Because Simon is a virgin. The Ghost has never had consensual sex.
And now Soap's off the books mission from his Captain is to pop his LT's cherry.
Ridiculous.
Madness!
He's watched daytime soaps that were more plausible.
So… did that happen?
It is not completely outside the bounds of possibility that he fell climbing up into the crawlspace above Price's desk, smacked his head and is currently dreaming all this from the safety of an unconscious state.
“Oh shit. He caught you.” Gaz's voice rattles him from the track his thoughts are hurtling down.
“Ah….yes.” Soap takes a moment before he turns toward his fellow prankster, suddenly afraid that the journey of the last few hours will be written across his face.
“How bad?” Gaz asks, reaching him.
“Bad.” Soap requires no acting skill for this part. All he has to do is think of Ghost - Simon - saying I'm filth, I'm fucking scum and his face has all the oh shit vibes he needs to convince Gaz as he finally faces his friend.
“What did he do?”
“I'm on night cleaning duty for a month.”
“A month!”
“Aye.” The punishment was, in fact, his own idea. Ghost haunts the base at night, a perpetual insomniac, and putting Soap on nights is both a logical punishment for the gregarious Scot that will convince Gaz and a way of putting him in proximity to Ghost.
Now, he just has to figure out how to make that work for him. And Price has to break the news that they will be keeping Ghost on base.
Of course, Soap’s got the hardest task. Ghost might hide, but he won't run, or render himself unfit for duty in any way that might mean he couldn't be there to watch Soap's back. One thing Soap does understand is that Ghost is fanatically devoted to the welfare of those he considers his. They've already agreed that telling Ghost his next mission will be essential overwatch for a risky infiltration led by Soap will ensure Ghost’s physical safety and presence on base and within the rules for the foreseeable future.
To really push Ghost's buttons, they've made the target a sex and arms trafficker specialising in young men and black market AK47s. It's not a lie, because Ghost is far too smart to be fooled by that and will do his own digging: this guy is on their hit list but the mission had been about to be assigned to another team. Laswell has diverted it because, yes, they went there.
It was Soap's idea. He pointed out that, in his concession that he'd take speed over discretion, Ghost had given tacit consent to her involvement.
Even over the grainy video link her utter devastation over Ghost's crisis had been clear. She'd pulled it together fast, her tactical brain kicking in as she, Price and Soap spun ideas into a plan of action, but there was something bruised in her eyes and Soap had never liked or admired her more.
If Price is the daddy of the 141, Laswell has always been Mother. Soap is sure she has already pulled multiple strings for Simon Riley, from his non-regulation attire to his single room with its own bathroom to his almost never leaving the base, there's no way Price even as Captain could have weathered the inevitable pushback without her standing shoulder to shoulder with him.
It settles something in Soap, knowing his superiors have got his back, but it also ramps up the pressure significantly and having to negotiate something so essentially private and personal and raw with an audience of two of his superiors ought to be incredibly daunting. The reality is, though, after a lifetime of his fledgeling relationships running the gauntlet of Ma McTavish and his sisters, he is not nearly as daunted as he should be.
“I just need to check,” she'd said right at the end. “Soap, you matter in this too. You are not just a means to fix Simon Riley. If you need to step away, I need you to know you can do so at any time with no consequences.”
“Thank ye,” he'd managed, surprised by her sudden fierceness.
“If you need to, I will understand. This is more than most people would even contemplate signing up for. I'd be grateful for a heads-up if you do decide to step away though. I'll give you a number that will reach me direct, anytime. I'll do what I can for him. And for you. Use it if you need any other support too. It's for that and all the things we can't predict. God knows, there's nothing in the field manual to cover this. For even having this conversation, each of us has the others’ careers in their hands. I trust you, Soap. Got it?”
“Yes ma'am.”
“I think you can call me Kate,” she'd smiled, weary but sincere.
“Thank ye. So, codes? I send you a 1, all's well. 2-4 scale of difficulty. 4 means backup required. 5 means I'm out. That work?”
“That will work. Keep us both in the loop. I know you already have Price's numbers.”
“I do. One other thing…” He'd stopped. Breathed. Started again carefully. “I need a final option. A room prepped to my specification. High grade restraints. Total soundproofing. Steel reinforced door, no windows or barred and blacked. On or near base. No-one else to have access. Lights dimmable. Bathroom with bath and shower. Full med kit. At least one chair bolted to the floor. Other details will be in a zip file.”
Price and Laswell had shared a look that told him they were all three on the same page. Both had nodded.
What surprises him is that he wasn't surprised.
They are just as unhinged as he is, he thinks now, wondering what they'll make of the cell he plans to have them set up. He'll need to empirically prove a few things to Ghost. Simon. That even pushed to limits, he won't hurt Soap. That he can be a good man. That he can be loved and safe.
He hopes Simon's Sub side is strong enough to accept the temporary removal of his autonomy in the interest of his wellbeing.
“Cheer up,” Gaz says, nudging him out of his introspection. “Maybe you'll get some Ghost-watching in…”
“Aye… a man can dream…”
They part company at the mess hall, Soap heading inside because all the trauma and intensity have had the predictable effect of leaving him ravenous. To his utter surprise, Ghost is there. Back to the corner, head on a swivel, no food or drink in front of him, just a stack of reports as a prop, but clearly uncomfortable. Oh, not clear to anyone but Soap or Price, but to the two of them who have made a study of him, Ghost's body language is screaming discomfort.
Why is he here? Soap thinks he knows and the answer, if true, is heartbreaking. He knows Soap will be in at some point and he’s braved the noisy crowd to catch a glimpse of him.
Ghost has stalked Soap for so long now, he's become used to a dark shadow in his periphery and begun taking it for granted. Whenever Ghost has no other duties, he is wherever Soap is. Not interacting. Not asking for anything. Just there. How has he not realised the depth of Ghost's feelings for him? He feels like an idiot now and a blush burns across his face as he busies himself with a tray. His LT has trailed him like an abandoned puppy for months and he is only just realising it because the man's strength and power, masked the full extent of his vulnerability.
Ghost has spent a terrifying amount of time pretending. That he's slipping now is significant. If Soap were not so busy trying to control his own reaction he might be able to figure it out, but he's struggling with looking at Ghost through the overlay of everything he now knows about Simon.
The man is not aloof, he's borderline disassociating in his panic. He's not silent, he's choked. Not disinterested, overwhelmed. Not being dramatic in a costume but trying to protect himself from - fuck! He can't let himself think about it here, when his own face is not masked. Instead, he grabs all the food he needs then boldly plonks himself down next to Ghost.
“How ye doin’, LT?”
“Solid, Johnny. What's wrong?”
“Got a bit on my mind.” He feels Ghost's attention sharpen, the tense readiness coiling in black clad limbs.
“Need an assist?”
“Negative LT but thank ye. Got in some trouble.”
“Gaz talked you into a prank?” How well he knows them both!
“Aye. Cap just ripped me a new one. On nights fer a month.”
“What'd you do this time, Johnny?”
“Infiltrated that shitty temp office. Got caught.” Ghost jolts. Soap pretends he hasn't noticed, Munching and rambling as though every bite didn't taste like adrenalin-laced sawdust. The honesty is calculated. He assumes Ghost will search the security footage and delete his interview with Price. If Price hasn't already erased it, there's a chance he'll catch Soap's appearance. Even if not, he wants Ghost on edge, thinking about him and wondering. He ups the ante then, leaning full body into Ghost's space and batting his eyes, “Don’ s'pose ye c'n git me out of it…?” He reads Ghost's turmoil in the way that black-clad body is braced.
“Negative, Johnny.” Ghost's voice sounds strangled.
“Awww…. Worth a try.” Soap adds an exaggerated sigh. “Gonnae head t' th’ range. New batch o’ greenies. Ye free t'scare the shite outta ‘em?”
“Might drop by.” That's Ghost for yes and they both know it. Time for a little more positive reinforcement.
“Thanks. Ye're the best, LT!” Soap thunks his head into the side of one meaty shoulder then pushes to his feet. “See ye in a few.”
—
He shouldn’t.
He really shouldn't.
But he already knows he will.
It's getting harder and harder to refuse Soap anything and Ghost knows that's dangerous. Soap makes him feel like a person and that feeling is addictive but he's not a person - or, at least, not as most would understand the term - and deceiving the best man he has ever known feels more wrong every time he does it. If it weren't for the fact that Soap seems to derive pleasure from interacting with him, he'd have put in for a transfer, but somehow picturing Johnny's face if he got that news feels worse than being stabbed. If it will upset Johnny, it's not an option, as far as Ghost is concerned.
It's strange to belong to someone again. He hasn't had that kind of tie since his family were slaughtered, and it's never been someone he's in love with, because he's never been in love before. Problem is, his fucked up brain won't let it just be that anymore.
He was fine with the longing. Fine with Soap crossing his boundaries. Fine with being claimed in all the little ways Soap does it. Better than fine, actually. It's not Johnny's fault he's a filthy fucking animal who can’t be trusted around decent people.
If he wasn't dead with his whole life classified, maybe he'd be able to get therapy to fix what his dad fucked - figuratively and literally - but it's not an option for a ghost. He huffs out a humourless chuckle. He'd be better off if he actually were an animal. They could just slice off his balls, collar and leash him, and he'd get to protect Soap on and off the field.
It's a sick little fantasy he has. The darker parts of his brain coughed it up after watching Soap's determination to overcome his fear of dogs by spending 6 weeks with a canine unit. Ghost was so jealous of that dog. It even slept in Soap's room. After the first couple of days being wary, the two were practically inseparable, and he lost count of the amount of times he looked at Soap only to find him stroking the beast.
In his fantasy, he's the dog at his Sergeant's feet. Docile and safe unless his master is threatened, then lethal at Soap's command. He imagines what it would be like if Soap's fingers stroked through his hair the way they stroked through the dog's fur. He'd lie there all day for that kind of treatment every once in a while. He's never been stroked. It looks so fucking nice.
If he were a dog, he could wear a collar with Soap's name on the tag and no-one would ever wonder whose he was. And if he got out of hand, Soap could tie and muzzle him until he calmed down. But he wouldn't let Soap down like that. No, he'd learn every trick and be perfect. Be good. And be at Soap's side all the time with no-one looking at him like he's a psycho.
And this is why he doesn't belong among decent people.
He really hopes Price finds him a solo soon. The added temptation of Soap on nights will test his resolve to the limit. He might need Price to find a cell to lock him in, while he still has the will and remaining tatty rags of a conscience to make that call.
For now, though, Soap has unwittingly given him a safe way to sate his cravings. In public, training a bunch of greenies, he needn't worry that he'll lose control. He's not that far gone. Yet.
Chapter 7: HUNTING
Summary:
Soap turns the tables to stalk Ghost
CW: brief mention of 'suicide'
(I prefer the term taking one's own life in my personal conversation, but the thought is in character)
Brief mention of very rough sex, not explicit, and just as a thought not something that is wanted or takes place
Chapter Text
It's 03:00 and Soap is wide awake. Couldn't have slept even if he'd not been on night duties. He is buzzing from the homework Price set him, information swarming in his brain. That and the results of his earlier small experiment while training the new recruits with his LT.
The greenies had done well, perhaps spurred on by the silent scrutiny of the deadly black-clad menace lurking like a shadow off Soap's right shoulder. Together, they had tweaked the targets in the range to stretch the newbies' skillset and they'd risen to the challenge. It had been fun and Soap had been proud of them and generous with his praise as he always tried to be.
He had not missed the impact of that on his companion either. Every time he praised a rookie's progress, Ghost reacted. Minute, but discernible. He leaned in slightly. Soap's sure Ghost doesn't realise he does that, any more than he realises that he braces slightly when someone's getting an ear bashing for shoddy performance. These tiny tells seem highlighted in neon for Soap now that he knows what he knows and for a moment that afternoon the guilt had been crushing, but he reminded himself that he would only be using the knowledge to benefit Ghost, never to harm him.
He'd tried a small experiment. Half way though the shooting exercise, when a slight edge of frustration and grumbling had begun creeping in among the rookies and he'd caught the tail ends of comments suggesting that he was asking the impossible, he'd nudged Ghost.
"Up for a demonstration, LT?"
"If you like. Give me a few." Ghost had skulked off to retrieve his sniper while Soap set the rookies one more round then called them to order, catching Ghost's return in his peripheral.
"So... some pleasing results, some things to work on, but ye'll get there. In the meantime, I've a treat fer ye. Ye might have noticed my LT has joined us. Ghost has agreed to a wee demo of this... impossible task." The recruit who made the remark had shifted uneasily until Soap had tipped him a wink showing no hard feelings. He'd known the lad would have been unable to enjoy the demo if he'd stayed on edge, worried about a possible reprimand or humiliation for his smart mouth. Soap, owner of an equally smart mouth, recalled the feeling too well to be unnecessarily cruel. "Ye'll no doubt be aware Ghost is a legend in the field. Saved my life too many times to count, honestly. No-one I'd rather fight beside. In battle, accuracy saves lives and Ghost has saved so many. I want ye to see what to aspire to because he's the best."
He had watched his words land. Ghost was ostensibly setting up, but his little shiver at Soap's praise had been very promising. "I cannae beat 'im, an' I've tried..." he had continued, noticing his Scots' accent bleeding through, his own tell that he was excited for what was about to happen. "Mebbe today's the day though, aye?" The rookies had all clustered in, watching Ghost's efficient moves, staring unabashedly as his bulky body took position and stilled.
Several shots had passed through the centre of the target, Ghost relaxed and not really even trying. With a twitch of black fabric which Soap knew to conceal a grin, Ghost had sent the target further back then sniped a smiley face. The laughter of the recruits was heady stuff, but headier still had been the knowledge that Ghost was being playful for him. Because he liked him. When the target was retrieved, he had set it aside to keep.
"Your turn, Johnny," Ghost had invited as a new target was set up. There had been an unmistakeable sharp intake of breath at that from the other officer on duty, experienced enough on the ranges to know even an average sniper never shared his weapon of choice, let alone the Ghost.
"Sure, LT." Soap had striven to keep it casual. It had been, in point of fact, not the first time Ghost had made such an offer, but was still rare enough to be a privilege. The gun had been warm from Simon's handling and the sad, wise part of Soap that came from his grandmother had tugged on his heart to whisper that perhaps this was the closest Simon Riley could come to offering a hug. Objectively, as he had fiddled with the settings, Soap had known his chances would be better with his own custom weapon, but the chance to use Ghost's was always too precious to pass up.
This first part of their contest had been purely for show. Soap is Ghost's alternate in the 141 for a reason. He had easily replicated Ghost's feat and the rookies had cheered. Then Soap had upped the ante because really, how could he not? The sun was shining, the birds were singing (all right, not anywhere near the ranges, but somewhere on base) and Ghostie had started one of their favourite games.
Soap smiles into the dark, remembering the awe of the gathered trainees as he and Ghost had pushed the targets further and further, until Ghost had trounced him definitively with a shot that seemed to defy the laws of physics and had brought even the hardened soldiers who racked up hours at the range to gawp and marvel.
"An' that piece of world-savin' excellence," Soap had said, breathless, as he turned back to the assembled rookies, "is where hours and hours and hours of practice might get ye. One day, one o' ye might be as good as our Ghost. There's the bar. So let's get back to it."
The resounding, "Yes Sir!" and resulting scramble was endearing enough that even Ghost had shaken his head over it as he packed up, but Soap had noted the renewed energy in his LT's movements, the way he stood a little taller, the angle of his head prouder under Soap's gaze. Like a dog knowing he pleased his master, Soap had thought uncomfortably, wondering in his mind whether, if Ghost had a tail, it would have been wagging. It had been a beautiful moment though, there was no denying it. And if he kept every one of Ghost's targets from their match, that was his business. If he pinned up Ghost's smiley face in his room before going on duty, that was his business too. And if his whispered, "Awesome as ever, LT," had resulted in the most adorable pink flush in the pale skin visible through the tiny gap around the eyes in Ghost's skull mask... well, that was both their business, he supposed. He did not fail to notice Ghost taking his targets either, though, and he had made sure to be looking away so that he could.
They ate together after, just sharing impressions of the most promising recruits and bantering lightly about nothing in particular. Soap had deliberately put out of his mind the darker information he held about his LT and focused on reading him instead. It had always surprised him that others couldn't get a read on Ghost. For him, the man was practically broadcasting, albeit on low volume and with incredibly mixed signals at times. Then again, he had missed Ghost's desperation, dialled all the way up to a suicidal and self-mutilating 11. He knows - rationally, he knows - it was because he wanted Ghost to be attracted to him so much that he couldn’t believe it, and that Ghost doesn’t give off the usual signals someone attracted to him would give because his past and his emotions are a minefield. Knowing what he knows now, though, certain things are so obvious he’s barely refraining from kicking himself.
He didn't try to touch his LT all though their meal and the stroll they took after it. It would have felt too much like torture. As in committing it, on Ghost. Ghost doesn’t understand yet that the feelings he is battling are not the enemy or that his attraction is reciprocated or that attraction and sex and even love can mean something other than pain. Before he tells Ghost he loves him, he needs to give that word love some appropriate context and content for the man, or what he is saying and what Ghost will hear will be too far apart for any consent to have any meaning. He’ll be saying, “I love you and I want you,” and there’s a chance that Ghost might hear, “I want to ram myself inside you ‘til you bleed and choke you while you beg for death,” or something worse.
He would despair, except he already has a whole space in his brain crammed full of what Ghost likes and enjoys and what helps Ghost relax and what makes Ghost feel safe. He reminds himself that all of that intel will be useful for infiltrating his LT’s heart. And unlike before, where he wasn’t sure his incursions would be welcome, now he is certain they will be. None of what went before today is wasted time. Besides, as he sits in his darkened room preparing to go on a Ghost hunt and reviews the last several hours' eye-opening reading, he is overwhelmingly glad he didn't tell Ghost he loves him, or initiate anything physical, before this moment. It’s terrifying how much he didn’t know. His foot has been inches from an IED that would have blown up both of them and any chance of a happy ever after and he’s checked the map in the nick of time.
The good thing about all he’s been reading is that it seems he's been instinctively getting quite a bit right. Careful, slow movement. Checking in. Consent. Accepting varying levels of response, from hostility to indifference to tentative advances with equilibrium and patience, on the outside at least. There were times he’d thought about calling Ghost out for blowing hot and cold but now he realises the man has been drowning all this time, with no idea he was signalling anything at all, let alone what.
He's also learned a scary amount about himself and what he needs. He's had girlfriends and boyfriends complain of feeling smothered by his attention; been called too much; been laughed at by hookups for offering what he now realises is aftercare but he'd always just thought was human decency. His lack of a long-term relationship, which his family had chalked up to his tendency to bring home 'the most broken screwups on the planet', looks different in the light of this new information. Sure, he's always known he has a caretaking, mentoring streak. He loves kids, enjoys coaching, is one of the few soldiers on base who actually chooses to spend time with the new guys. But now he knows he’s a Service Top. That part of him needs to take care of his partner. Or anyone who needs care, really.
Is that why he's drawn to Ghost? Does he have some kind of inbuilt radar to detect the most damaged person in a room and fall for them?
Yet everything's different with Ghost. Ghost has always seemed big enough to hold him. Strong enough to take the impact of him at full pelt. Self-assured enough to hold his own against him. Sure, they're opposites: Ghost is quiet to his loud, introverted to his extroverted, subtle to his flashy, secretive to his open, grumpy to his sunshine, but he's always liked that. He’s worried less and less lately that he’s too much for Ghost. The man just soaks up everything he gives, like it’s easy. Like he’s easy. Welcome even. Everything between them has felt easy.
That might be because Ghost is just rolling over and taking it, though… He shouldn't kid himself: deep down, he's known from the start that Ghost is damaged. It's just that he's so much more than only that, until truthfully it's almost been the least interesting and important thing about him as far as Soap's concerned. Besides, Ghost is the first person he's pursued who seems like an equal. Their strengths balance each other out, in the field and back on base. Each needs what the other provides.
Everything in Soap's soul resists labelling Ghost - Simon - as another screwup. He's stronger than Soap, better than him in the field most of the time, self-contained and self-controlled. He's not an addict or a gambler or an alcoholic or a narcissist or a gold digger or an adrenalin junkie and after what Soap's learned today, highly unlikely to become a serial cheater. Sure, Soap knows now he's a self-harmer with a suicidal streak, and a Survivor, but none of those things are a deterrent.
He examines his soul as thoroughly as he's ever searched any target site, needing to be certain those things aren't an attraction in the wrong way either. Does he need to be needed? He fears the answer might be yes. He likes to be useful. Trusted. Part of things. Being the youngest sibling and only boy might well play into that. He's had enough therapy over the years to know he has a desire to prove himself, a need to know he has a place and a longing to be taken seriously as an equal and an expert that's at war with his sense of fun. He needs to be important to someone others consider important and Ghost is a legend.
Is part of this ego for Soap? Either wanting to prove himself by mending the most broken or wanting to be part of the legend too? If it is, is that a reason to step away, or just evidence he’s human and broken too? Even before all he just found out about BDSM, he’s aware that any healthy relationship is a two-way street. Realistically, he knows there's no way he'll be able to make this not about him at all. There are things he wants from Simon Riley. The question is whether Ghost's wants and needs - Simon's wants and needs - matter more.
They do.
If there's one thing being gay in the military has taught him, it's self-control. Soap knows he's good in bed. He's been told enough, pursued enough. He's never lost himself so much that his partner’s comfort hasn't come first. He's almost never judged a partner for what they like - apart from one guy who'd confessed he wanted to film the act because he was doing it to manipulate his ‘frigid’ partner into giving in and having sex or he'd find it with guys like Soap - Soap had thrown that guy out of the hotel room before anything went further then spent the next hour washing off his touch in a too-hot shower feeling rattled and violated, though they hadn't done much at all beyond take off their shirts.
He figures, with Simon, his partner's fidelity is the very last thing he has to worry about right now. He lets his mind revisit that feeling of violation, though. Wonders if that's how Ghost feels sometimes. Lets the sadness and rage of that fill him up and flow through and out of him ‘til he re-finds his calm. There is no way he can bring inner turbulence to any interaction with Ghost right now. Only when he’s sure he has unpacked and examined all of his own shit - questions and doubts and feelings and struggles - does he re-pack it all neater in the box in his head and leave the safety of his room. He taps out a message to Price on his phone. Receives a location back. Sets his shoulders.
Ready or not, Ghostie....
Here I come...
He calls in to the mess, snags a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits and makes a thermos of tea as bait.
Then he goes hunting.
Chapter 8: HOPING
Summary:
Soap hunts down Ghost and makes the first move.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ghost has never really slept well. He doesn't know how the others do it - how they just surrender to unconsciousness every evening on schedule without a fight. Some of them don't even lock their doors. It's terrifying. He wonders how they have managed to stay alive so long with that kind of attitude.
As for him, he has the next best thing to sleep: safer places and routines.
As the day winds down, and at other times too, if he's not busy, he often helps Nik clean down the helos and repack and replace gear and check and pack chutes. Sometimes, Nik's good for giving him several hours of purposeful activity without the necessity of conversation, as long as he puts up with the guy's taste in music. It's not so bad. Fills the screaming void.
Sometimes, he does vehicle checks too. Bit of mechanics. Just basics. Polishing headlights, bashing out dents. It makes him think of his nephew, Joseph, who would have loved all that if he hadn't died because his uncle wasn't smart enough to keep him safe.
Early evening, he can be found smoking on the roof. Ghost likes to watch the sunset. Torture wouldn't drag that out of him - the only two people who know are Price and Johnny. Johnny because he often joins him there, Price because it's his base and he's almost as much of a paranoid bastard as Ghost is. Sunset was Beth's idea - his sister-in-law. She always made sure to watch either sunrise or sunset, whatever life threw at her. She said it gave her hope. All it gives Ghost are memories but he does it for her because she was nice and he liked her and sometimes the colours remind him of her hair.
He almost always raids the mess for leftovers. He doesn't like eating in front of others who aren't his trusted people, so he eats most meals cold as leftovers. Still better than the slop his dad used to feed him, when he remembered to feed him. Not as good as his mum's cooking, but nothing will be like that ever again. It died with her and that feels right - every time he chokes down crap, he remembers that what she made when dad's boot was off her neck long enough was so much better. Since he's not allowed to visit their graves, it's the closest he can get to a memorial.
After the mess, he heads to the range. In exchange for an extra hand tidying, he can shoot past hours. He and Tommy, his brother, used to spend hours chucking rocks at cans to perfect their aim 'til they stole their first pellet guns. Hitting targets he aims for over and over is repetitive and restful and he can justify the use of resources because it keeps his skills sharp, which keeps his team alive. The minute adjustments of his scope are a world he can both comprehend and control.
The armoury often draws the line at midnight, though, so it's then that he goes for a run. He does the perimeter. No harm in an extra check - he knows he sees things others miss. Sometimes, he's stealthy, walking the wooded parts instead of running if they're on home soil so as not to scare the wildlife. He feeds the badger that comes after 01:00 hours: a well-armed fellow predator who is also a creature of the dark with a routine and who loves whole almonds and raw eggs. They have an understanding.
Simon likes the dark when he can be outdoors in it. Doesn't even mind the rain or the snow. His dad's punishments inured him to cold and discomfort long before military training. It's why he loves listening to Johnny complain. Every time he moans about the weather, it's a reminder that he's never been homeless or locked outside drenched in the snow or strung up in the shed naked in winter. He likes that Johnny's never suffered that way. It makes a tiny ember deep in Simon glow just a bit brighter. If he can’t have had the kind of childhood he’s seen in films, the next best is that Johnny’s had it.
He knows, deep down, that the reason he’s a monster is that he’s hollow and has no tethers. He’s had to build his own with his family gone. Price. Johnny. Gaz. Alejandro and Rudolfo. The feel of his rifle and the scent of rain and the dance of light on water and the night badger waiting for his almonds and the photos he takes and the gym and his music and the things Johnny gives him sometimes, offhandedly, because he thinks Ghost might like them.
After his run, he hits the gym. Occasionally, there are other insomniacs to spot or spar with but not usually. Lately, Johnny has been around more and it’s been hard not to watch him. He’s had to make himself unfocus his eyes or leave.
Sometimes, he breaks into the pool and swims laps. The mask he keeps for the purpose is pale grey from the bleaching effect of the chlorine. He avoids swimming during the daytime, knowing his wetsuit and mask draw attention when everyone else strips down. Plus the light reflecting off the water makes the place brighter than he likes. He prefers swimming in the dark.
Sometimes, instead of the pool or gym, he cleans the mess kitchen or does a bit of sneaky baking: a skill he learned for Joesph because Tommy was busy fighting his demons and winning and Beth was an amazing woman but she could burn water. He does smirk a little under the mask at his colleagues’ guesses regarding their mystery baker. No-one has guessed him and only Price knows. He suspects if the others knew, they might not eat his cookies and cakes with quite so much enjoyment. Well, Johnny might. Gaz maybe. The others? Not so much.
After his chosen exercise, a shower and another trip to the roof with a protein bar or cookie gets him through the toughest point - the panic as his body starts shutting down. He has photos on his phone for this bit, taken with the miniature surveillance camera he stole long ago from a Russian base and adapted. He hides it in his gear and takes shots whenever there's something he wants to remember. Most of it is Johnny. The rest is nature or other members of the 141 or little interesting things that catch his eye. He spends his time with the ones of Johnny and the others, practising mashing his concealed, twisted face into a facsimile of the expressions on their faces. Trying to guess what they were thinking. Practising being human, in case he ever decides to take off the mask. Or in case he has to.
Johnny can draw. Simon wishes he could. He has one of Johnny’s drawings. He wishes he had more. It’s a sketch of the 4 of them with Rudy and Ale, done on a visit to Los Almas after the worst was over, in a rare bit of downtime. It’s one of two things he’d save in a fire, the other being a family photo from before. Johnny's drawings are alive in a way his photographs can't quite manage to be, even though they are more accurate because they are an exact copy. He likes Johnny's version of the world much better. It's softer and warmer and he wishes he could take that journal Johnny carries and look through it, but his phone is the closest he can get to that because he is a destroyer not a creator like Johnny is. He can only steal moments and hide them in tech behind firewalls, not make them more beautiful and touchable so they stay forever.
Eventually, after setting his tripwires and alarms in his room or current bolthole, he lies still in the dark and shuts his eyes and goes somewhere else.
It's not a real place, it's a mixture of places. There's a lake but there are no bodies in it, just fish (and a scuba set hidden under a dive platform a little way out in case he ever has to go deep because the house is compromised), and behind it rises a mountain with no hidden bases, just rocks and trees and wildlife and snow up high (and a couple of caches of ammo, supplies and spare guns in places only he knows, in case his enemies track him and he has to go on the run). It's quiet. By the shore there's a house with a small boat tied up next to it (the place has a perimeter that's wired and booby trapped and safe, but that perimeter is wide so nothing disturbs the serenity of nature close by).
The house is solidly built of stone and wood and cosy inside. The detail of that is blurry, because Ghost doesn’t know much about interior design, but the part that's clear is the porch with two rocking chairs, looking out over the water. He sits in one and imagines Johnny in the other, armed and on watch. It used to be Price in the other chair, but now it’s Johnny. Price is somewhere else with Gaz, but Johnny is watching over him and there is a blanket over his knees and tea and biscuits somewhere close and he is not warm or cold, he just is, and he shuts his eyes and rocks and rocks and rocks.
Some nights, the monsters and the nightmares don’t come and it’s just blackness.
Those nights are the best.
He sighs.
Tonight is not going to be one of those nights.
He hasn’t eaten. Couldn’t.
The storm that rolled in obscured the sunset and he just got wind-whipped and soaked.
He couldn’t shoot again, having shot earlier. It’d look unnecessary and set off alarm bells.
He doesn’t dare risk bumping into Johnny in the gym. Not when he feels like his insides are still on the outside, and raw. He knows he ought to wish Johnny would see he’s dangerous and stay safely away, but everything in him shrinks from the actual moment their eyes lock and Johnny sees the monster in the depths. It’s enough to make him contemplate eating his gun.
Hope is hard when you’re not a full person, but he does it anyway. Badly. In juddering fits and starts. But it’s there, labouring away in his chest like a badly tuned engine. If Price will just give him what he needs, just take away the part of him he fears and make him safe, he can sink back into whatever this is between them for as long as it lasts and be the closest to happy he’s ever known. He might even be able to touch Johnny back without the other thoughts taking over. They might even be friends if Ghost can figure out how to be one of those.
And if Johnny ever wanted relief of the sexual kind, there’d still be ways Ghost could be of use. If it was Johnny doing the asking, he could endure it as long as his own urges couldn’t get involved.
He just has to hang on alive a bit longer. Couple of solos back to back - nothing he hasn’t done before - then the medical intervention he’s requested. They won’t refuse him, he’s sure. He’s too useful to be decommissioned and they know - Price knows at least - that he’ll take himself out of the equation if he doesn’t get what he needs.
For tonight, he’s grateful to Nik, who gives him tasks and doesn’t ask questions. He can avoid Johnny here and purposeful movement keeps the voices at bay. He hasn’t managed to sleep for the past several nights, but he’s used to the deprivation. He can still complete this task safely.
He’s still useful.
___
Johnny and Price know Ghost has a bedtime routine. He mixes it up a bit, sure - paranoid as he is - but some parts rarely vary because they are driven by others' routines and the availability of resources. They have divided the base between them, keeping in touch via smartphone when it comes to sightings. Tonight, Simon is checking and packing chutes for the rookies' training jumps in the morning. It looks like he’s just finishing up.
“Evenin’ LT,” Soap greets him cheerily after making enough noise on arrival not to set off his startle reflex. “Since you’re doin’ my job, you wanna share a cuppa?” He waves the flask and biscuits.
“All right. Your job?”
“One o’em, aye. Dinnae let tha’ stop ye. ‘M glad o’ the’ help. Price’s crabbit wi’ me an’ my list is long.”
“English, McTavish!”
“Price is still mad. I’ve too many jobs on my list.”
Ghost had tensed at his arrival, but is doing his breathing and forcing himself into a facsimile of a relaxed posture. Soap is not fooled. He deliberately doesn’t push into the man’s space too far, but pours Simon a tea then himself another, in the metal mugs that come with the flask, and looks away to undo the biscuit packet. After a darted look around, Ghost slides up his balaclava, revealing lips Soap longs to kiss and scars he’d kill to avenge, and blows softly across the surface of the drink to cool it. Soap wills himself to stop staring at his LT’s mouth.
“Biscuit?”
“Thanks.”
They munch well over half of the double pack of biscuits and drink in silence, then set the remaining biscuits and the flask and cups aside. Soap doesn’t comment on the fact that Ghost is clearly ravenous, eating three biscuits to his one, and he doesn’t try to start a conversation yet. He’s not sure what he’s going to say. His LT looks exhausted. His tells are very subtle but there if you know what to look for: a certain extra economy of movement, slightly more blinking, a bit more darkness in the skin around those expressive eyes, the whites of them tinged with more pink than they should be.
Soap is glad Price has no intention of sending him out on a solo in this state. The myth may be that Ghost is superhuman but the reality is far from that. Simon is all too human. All too vulnerable and in need of care. Soap’s heart aches for his LT. He wonders what would make him feel safe enough to sleep and whether he can find a way to offer it that wouldn’t just make everything worse.
—
Johnny starts clearing and inventorying a shelf while Ghost inspects the leg of the chute rack. Someone clearly had a rough mission and kicked it, hard. He gives in to his ever present compulsion to mend things rather than reporting them broken. He isn't stupid: deep down he knows why he does it, hears it in his therapists's voice as reaches for wood glue and sandpaper. If he reports it broken it'll be thrown out and replaced but if he mends it in secret it gets to stay, so in the dark, small hours he enacts over and over again in wood and metal and canvas the fairytale he wants for himself. To be mended. To stay.
It doesn't take much for things like table legs and engines. People are harder.
His therapists's voice reminds him that he should extend the same compassion to himself that he offers to others, even inanimate things. She's never seen him kill, though, so what does she know? Ghost is not a creature of compassion, he's a feral wolf in a shock collar and choke chain. He knows he's fooling himself to pretend otherwise. Knows that mending the aftermath of violence is the closest he'll ever come to creating something good. It's why he's a certified field medic too.
Thankfully, this kind of leg just requires a bit of effort and some glue. He works slowly, meditatively, and Johnny doesn't question his choice of activity. The tea has warmed him inside where he hadn’t realised he was cold, and the pain in his stomach is less. Johnny always seems to know what he needs. Maybe he should take the medic course.
Ghost smooths out the splinters in the wood, swipes glue over the crack then shoves the section back into alignment, using his own body to keep it in place while the glue sets.
He likes kneeling while Johnny stands. It feels the right way round for things to be, though Ghost is taller. He likes the strength and balance in Johnny’s stance. Likes the way he smells, likes watching his muscles bunch and shift without worrying that their eyes will meet and he will have to hide his strange hunger and pretend not to be a monster. He likes that if he slips his leash and does the wrong thing, Johnny has the advantage like this and can get away.
He thinks again about Johnny’s hand in the dog’s fur. It’s a good thought. Until it isn’t, because his mind spoils everything. Of course it does. He shifts his swelling cock to crush it at a painful angle and the pain helps a little.
This close, he can feel the warmth of Johnny, feel the air stir as he moves, methodically counting and checking the equipment at shoulder height. He wishes he could lean into that strong muscled thigh and rest his head. Wishes Johnny would ruffle his hair - hair no-one has seen in a long time, let alone touched.
He drifts, imagining, while the glue sets.
It’s peaceful.
“You all righ’, LT?”
There is a hand on his shoulder. Johnny’s hand. For a moment, Ghost tenses, waiting for a blow that never comes because Johnny can’t see his horrible thoughts.
Johnny’s hand is warm.
He’s not sure if he was cold or if Johnny is hot or it is the usual burning feeling he gets with touch. This feels more like warmth than burning and it doesn't hurt.
His words get stuck.
“Ghost? Ye with me?”
He looks up, helplessly, from somewhere down deep. Words feel like a lot of effort right now, like shoving boulders uphill. He’s tireder than he thought. The glow of the lights gives the storage area a greenish underwater tinge and time seems to move slower, softer.
Words.
Make words.
“Are you all right?”
No would be true but dangerous. Yes would be safer but a lie. He knows there’s a word inbetween that he uses, but that word won’t come.
“Simon…” Johnny’s hand approaches slowly and Simon knows he should move. That there is a really good reason not to let it make contact. But then Johnny’s hand is cradling his face and it’s like all his strings have been cut.
His head feels heavy on his neck. Johnny’s hand is helping him hold it up now. It must be tiring, but there's no strain on Johnny's face. His eyes are full of softness and secrets and a kindness Ghost has felt the edges of. Being the focus of that gaze is like a drug or like being drunk. Normally he'd look away but it's peaceful and he's really tired, isn't he? Johnny smells so good. Even when he's sweaty and filthy from days in the field Ghost wants to be near him, but like this - warm, freshly showered and soft - he's irresistible.
Ghost knows absolutely that he doesn't deserve this, but Johnny murmurs, “Come on Simon. Do you trust me?” And he's nodding because of course, of course he does and that smile - that smile - then - “Good. Please, rest a minute. You're safe. Relax. Please. For me.”
His resistance is shredded and he gives in to the light pressure and lets himself be pulled in, still kneeling, to rest against his Sergeant’s strong side. Johnny’s just wearing soft sweatpants and a softer t-shirt that smells like citrus and sunshine. Up close, it's even more delicious. Still wordless, he breathes in as deeply as he can.
“It’s OK…Ye can rest, if ye want…I’ll keep watch.” He loves the way Johnny speaks when he’s being gentle. It makes him feel small and safe. He curls careful fingers in Johnny's clothes and holds on.
“OK…” that’s the word. Johnny found it. Of course he did. He always fixes what Ghost breaks, finds what he loses, fills in what he’s missing.
“Good man, that's right, just close yer eyes.”
Good man? He’s being good? He must be, or Johnny wouldn’t say it. Johnny doesn’t lie. Johnny is safe.
The words pour over him like a warm shower after a bitter night’s overwatch, unknotting his tension. It’s a blissful sensation - borderline overwhelming in the best way, so much so that he can’t process anything else alongside it.
And then he feels it: Johnny’s hand moving slowly, gently over the back of his head over the mask in gentle strokes.
Now he's nearly certain he's dreaming, because it is as perfect as he imagined.
___
Ghost is almost boneless against him, so relaxed Soap is the only thing keeping him upright, and he’s leaning into the careful stroke of his hand like an exhausted child or a worn out puppy. It’s shocking, how right it feels, how easily he went down, how painfully sweet it is, and Soap resolves not to move until he must. Simon needs rest badly and it appears Price was correct in his reading of his needs. Simon needs to feel safe, and he feels safe with Soap.
He keeps his hand moving gently over Simon's masked head in even strokes that don’t vary and hums a little under his breath, an old Scots tune his mother used to lull him to sleep. Simon heats up as he dozes and even that is endearing, reminding Soap of his nieces and nephews. He's family man enough to have been at the bottom of a cuddle pile many times.
He lets his mind drift, imagining Simon beside him on his mum's sofa, buried beneath a fidgeting blanket of cats and kids while an old movie plays in the background. He aches to make it a reality. It's heartbreakingly easy to imagine. He's sure Ghost would be skittish at first, but if he could only get him into the heart of his family they could wear that away with enough time and love.
He's been aware for a while that Ghost drifts around at night putting the base to rights and there's a painful irony to that now he realises how broken Ghost himself feels. He remembers Gaz once bitterly joking that someone with Ghost's heroic capabilities must have a tragic backstory. They'd spun out the jest a little, talking about alien origins and spider bites, before diverging into what superpower they'd most want for themselves if someone was dishing them out. He'd said the ability to heal anything, on anyone, not aware at the time of just how revealing a choice that had been. Gaz had picked time travel.
If he could travel back in time, he'd rescue Simon.
But then, would Simon be the person he loves and admires if his life had been different?
It's a conundrum.
Maybe he'll stick with healing after all.
Not for the first time, he contemplates the field medic course. He only didn’t go for it before because his CO at the time had mocked his overachieving, asking him sarcastically if he planned on leaving any jobs and accomplishments for anyone else. Embarrassed, he'd declined the opportunity. So many times since, he's wished he'd stood his ground. He's picked up bits of knowledge here and there - quite a lot of that from Ghost - but he hates the gaps.
These days, he cares a lot less for what others think of him. He's got nothing to prove. He gets the job done and goes home. The group of people he cares to impress has narrowed to just family and a very small handful of those he has served under and alongside. Ghost and Price head the list. As he stands tall in the darkness, Simon’s weight against him feels less like a burden and more like a bond - the beginning of something he would sacrifice almost everything else to keep. Simon is his to care for and claim and defend, he just doesn’t know it yet.
An hour or so later, Soap's muscles are starting to protest the weight and the angle, but he stays rooted in place. The duties Price has assigned him as cover for his nocturnal experiments are unimportant things he can well afford to ignore in favour of breakthroughs like this. The silence is almost pristine, so his own thoughts should be loud, but Simon's trusting weight quiets and orders them into planning all the sneaky ways he's going to soak this man in love and care and glue his splintered pieces back together. He's used to staying in place despite discomfort: countless hours of overwatch have baked that skill into his skin and muscle and bone. He detaches from his own aches and runs through steps in his mind, comparing Simon’s reactions to things he has read and contemplating what to do when he wakes.
He does not have long.
In the distance, there's a faint noise of metal on metal and Simon is instantly alert. Pressed together, Soap feels the transition from lax trusting slumber to coiled readiness. As Simon's situational awareness reboots, his breathing picks up a bit.
“I'm sorry,” he blurts when he realises his face is nuzzled into Soap's side. Soap makes the tactical decision to change nothing. He keeps up the gentle movement of his hand.
“You don't need to be sorry. I'm not sorry, Simon. Stay.”
“I can't,” he slurs. “I'm - I - gotta go. I shouldn't have -” but tellingly, he hasn't moved away.
“You didn't do anything wrong. I wanted this. I want you. Holding you is lovely.”
Simon makes a small noise, a sound like a child would make.
“Sshhh. S'OK. Nobody here but us.”
“You shouldn't trust me.” That deep voice is shaking. “I'm dangerous.” Soap pushes down the sounds of sorrow and pity rising in his own throat.
“We all are, Simon, but you've never done me anything but good. You're a good man, Simon Riley. So good for me.” He feels the rolling shudder in the big body under his hands. He feels something else, too. A warm dampness at the point where Simon's masked face is pressed into the fabric of his clothes. Is Ghost crying?
—
I'm not sorry.
I want you.
Holding you is lovely.
Holding you is lovely.
Lovely.
Lovely.
Lovely.
Ghost has never been wanted. Nothing connected with Ghost has ever been lovely.
Lovely.
It's as close to love as he's ever been in his life. It's terrifying, what Johnny's risking. Close and warm and kind and soft. The kind of soft that gets you killed.
You're a good man, Simon Riley.
A good man.
Good.
Good.
Good.
How can he be good? Johnny knows him. Better than anyone has ever known him.
But Johnny doesn't know what he craves, does he?
Johnny doesn't know his thoughts… doesn't know this is a fantasy… does he?
Everything swirls, confusing. Thoughts that feel important, connections and vital intel, hover just out of reach.
“Sshh… haud yer wheesht,” he knows that one. It means be quiet. Simon can do that. He's good at quiet. “That's it. Jus’ breathe a ghaol…” he doesn't know that one, but it doesn't sound like an insult and that's enough.
Simon breathes, feeling the tightening knot in his chest loosen and dissolve and Johnny's hand makes wide sweeps over his scarred back while the other cards through his hair. The absolute onslaught of sensation is overpowering. Involuntarily, he presses closer, a small whine leaving his lips that he'll be ashamed of later. He braces, awaiting the pain.
“Good.That's it. Good.” And Johnny pulls him in closer. “I've got ye. I've got ye, Simon, a ghràidh.”
He's rocking them gently. Cradling him. What the fuck? His voice is that warm tone with a smile in it: the one he uses on the phone to his family. The one that always makes Simon feel like he's being vivisected again. But there's no panic now. Is he drugged? He doesn't remember.
His face is in the crease of Johnny's neck and he can smell him, far stronger and more heady than the occasional stolen whiff when they're jammed up in the helo. Oranges and grass and sunshine and happy with a little sweat and machine oil. He's sucking that scent in, breathing in great uncontrolled gulps, but rough hands don't rip him away. No knuckles crash against his face. No knee rises to smash a world of pain through his flesh. No knife slides between his raggedly patched ribs.
“That's it…” Johnny rumbles. “So good, so good Si.”
Si?
Ghost has never had a nickname. In childhood, there were insults, inside and outside his family, but nothing so benign or friendly as a nickname. As a recruit, he was Grunt before his new life was upended. He didn't screw up, followed orders, was good at everything, didn't socialise much and spoke as little as possible, so they struggled to find a name for him. Grunt was fair he supposed: was about the level of his communication skills aside from essential information for missions. But it was also a backhanded punishment for the perceived crime of being aloof, since Grunt in the army was the equivalent of calling a dog Dog. It had him forever on edge, making split second calculations about whether he was being addressed specifically or generically.
Even his current callsign didn't come from an amusing or embarrassing moment to be laughed over with comrades of the same seniority: it was coldly assigned post mortem by some CO or other. He doesn't even know who named him. Until this moment, he didn't care. Now, to Soap, he's not just Simon but Si.
He likes it.
He likes it far too much to be safe.
In a moment of overwhelming gratitude, with a throat too swollen with emotion to even croak out a thank you, he turns his masked face towards Johnny, presses his cloth covered lips to the place on his Sergeant’s neck where his pulse beats, vivid and strong, and changes everything.
Notes:
To be continued in the sequel (already mostly written and being edited)
Kudos and comments always welcome. Thank.you all for your encouragement, insight and positivity!
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