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The helicopter skids a little as it touches down, the rotors chopping the night into heavy, shuddering beats. One by one, the team hops out—boots hitting the tarmac hard, movements stiff with exhaustion.
Soap lands with a grunt, knees bending just slightly to absorb the shock. His gear is caked in grime, and blood—some his, most not—dries tacky on his gloves. He drags a hand over his face, smearing soot across his cheek.
Ghost steps down beside him, slower, heavier. His mask is streaked with ash and the edge is torn slightly at the jaw. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath like he’s been carrying a world on his back.
“That was a fuckin’ rough one…” Ghost mumbles, almost lost beneath the whining rotors.
“Aye, but we did it.” Soap’s says hoarsely, more bone-tired than proud.
Ghost grunts. “That we did.”
Gaz hops off next, limping slightly, sweat glistening on his brow despite the cold. Price follows, puffing on a cigarette like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical. They all look like they’ve been dragged through hell and back—and maybe they have.
Their faces are drawn, shadows under their eyes, uniforms dark with mud and god knows what else. None of them speak for a while. There's only the distant thump of boots and the gentle roar of the helicopter lifting off behind them.
Soap sways on his feet, suddenly aware of how heavy his pack is. He rolls his shoulder with a quiet hiss. There's a strange ache settling in his chest—something soft. He doesn't know what it is, but it feels like more than just exhaustion.
“All right,” Price says, his voice rough but lighter than it had been in hours. “Time for some well-deserved R&R. Go get patched up in medical and, for the love of God, have a shower.”
There’s the hint of a smile on his face—just a crease at the corner of his mouth—but it’s the closest thing to warmth they’ve gotten all day.
Soap huffs, somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
He doesn’t bother with medical. He’s not bleeding that badly, and the idea of someone touching him right now makes his skin itch. He beelines straight for the barracks, the moment his boots hit the hallway floor feeling like a small personal victory.
The gear comes off in a trail—helmet first, vest next, then the heavy bag hitting the floor with a thunk. He doesn’t even make it to his bunk. He drops beside the pile of his things like a puppet with its strings cut, landing hard with a groan that echoes in the empty room.
He stares up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above him. Every part of him hurts. Not in the way broken bones or deep bruises hurt—but that bone-deep weariness that settles in after your body’s made it through something it maybe shouldn’t have.
He feels… weirdly hollow. The adrenaline’s gone now, bled out on the flight back, and what’s left behind is this aching emptiness in his chest.
What he would do for a fucking hug right about now.
Just someone’s arms around him, holding him tight, telling him it’s okay to stop bracing for impact. That he’s safe.
Instead, he gets a lukewarm communal shower that smells faintly of mildew and cheap soap. The water trickles over his shoulders, barely enough pressure to rinse the blood from under his nails. He scrubs harder than necessary, hoping the sting will make him feel something.
It doesn’t.
No matter how hard he scrubs, how hot he tries to make the water—no matter how much he tells himself he's fine—it doesn’t work.
The weight doesn’t lift. The ache in his chest stays rooted, gnawing quietly, like a splinter too deep to reach.
He makes it back to bed in dull grey sweats, his hair still damp, spiking wildly. The barracks are quiet now, low hum of the building’s ventilation the only sound. He doesn’t bother turning the lights off. Doesn’t even pull the blankets back properly. Just climbs under them, curls in on himself, and exhales a long, slow breath like he’s trying to empty out all the noise in his head.
It’s the first time all day he’s felt even a little safe.
Sleep drags him down fast.
He dreams of mud.
Thick, cloying, sucking at his boots. It’s pitch dark, but he knows there’s something out there—something just beyond the tree line. Watching. Waiting.
He's holding a rifle, but it feels too heavy. Like a toy in his hands. The grip is too big, the weight wrong. His fingers won’t close around it properly. He hears shouting. Distant gunfire. His feet won’t move fast enough. He’s small. Too small. Why is everything so big?
He stumbles, falls. The mud swallows him whole.
Soap jerks awake with a gasp, his heart pounding like it’s trying to claw its way out of his chest. His mouth is dry, his eyes sting, and for a moment, the world feels off.
Wrong-sized.
His blanket is too scratchy. The bed too wide. His hands—
He stares down at them, breathing hard. They look normal. Adult. But they feel foreign.
Like they shouldn’t belong to him.
He swallows hard, pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes. The urge to cry rises up so fast it scares him. It doesn't feel like him. It feels like something younger, smaller, helpless.
He clutches the blanket tighter, pulling it up to his chin. It smells like laundry detergent and military-issue sheets. It’s not comforting. Not really. But it’s the only thing he has.
He curls up, tighter this time.
Wishing for something soft. For arms around him. For a voice to tell him he’s safe. That it’s okay to feel like this. That he doesn’t have to hold himself together all the time.
But the barracks stay silent. And the hug never comes.
He lies there curled under scratchy sheets, clinging to the edge of sleep like it might still offer some kind of escape. But it doesn’t. He’s too aware now—too awake in the worst way.
So he just stays.
Motionless. Small. Waiting for something to shift. For the feeling to pass. It doesn’t.
Time blurs.
His body is stiff, muscles aching from the position he’s twisted himself into, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to. Moving feels like something an adult would do. And right now, he can’t be that.
He wants to disappear. Wants to melt into the mattress and never come out.
Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.
The alarm startles him. Harsh. Clinical. Unforgiving.
He flinches at the sound, face scrunching like a kid startled awake from a nap.
It's 5am.
He rubs his face with trembling fingers and tries to gather the pieces of himself back up, but they don’t fit quite right. Like his skin’s still not his, like the world’s just a little too loud and bright.
He turns the alarm off with a shaky breath, thumb lingering on the button like maybe if he holds it long enough, the rest of the day will cancel itself.
What’s wrong with me?
The thought comes uninvited—slipping in through the cracks before he can shut the door on it.
He doesn’t answer it. Doesn’t dare.
Instead, he moves like he’s on autopilot. Sits up slowly, his spine crackling in protest, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor bites at his bare feet, and he winces—not because it hurts, but because it feels. Too much, too sudden.
He gets dressed without thinking. Tactical pants. Regulation shirt. The usual. It fits, but it doesn't feel right. Like wearing someone else’s clothes. The fabric is stiff, dull grey and olive drab. Lifeless.
There’s a brief pause as he rifles through his locker. His fingers brush against an old hoodie tucked in the back—one he never wears out, too soft and faded, a blue just slightly too bright for uniform standards.
His mind flickers, unprompted, to something louder. Something warm and stupid and safe. Bright reds. Yellows. Cartoon patterns. Something soft enough to bury his face in.
He shuts the locker harder than necessary.
No.
The thought comes sharp and fast, like slapping his own hand away.
That’s not who he is. He’s a soldier. He’s tough. He’s capable. He doesn’t need bright colours or soft things or—
—Or comfort.
He swallows hard and shoves the hoodie to the back, out of sight. Out of mind.
By the time he makes it to the mess, his hands are in his pockets and his shoulders are hunched like maybe he can fold himself up small enough to be invisible.
The room is loud. Clatter of trays. Low voices. Scraping chairs. It grates against his ears, makes his skin crawl.
He gets in line. Takes food he barely sees. Sits down with it and stares at the tray like it’s a puzzle he doesn’t remember how to solve. Eggs, toast, some kind of meat. His fork feels strange in his hand—awkward, like he’s forgotten how to hold it properly.
He just sits there, head slightly down, shoulders curled in like he’s trying to take up less space.
A hand waves in front of his face.
“Earth to Johnny…?”
Soap blinks. Looks up.
Ghost stands across the table, still in half gear, mask slightly crooked like he yanked it back on in a hurry. His eyes are sharp, but not cold. Concern lives in the crease between his brows.
Soap swallows, stiffens. “Sorry. Zoned out.”
Ghost doesn’t sit yet. Just studies him for a moment longer, eyes scanning his face like he’s trying to read through the silence.
“You alright?”
Soap forces a smile. It's thin and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just tired.”
Ghost hums, unconvinced.
After a beat, he slides onto the bench across from him, his tray landing with a quiet clatter. He doesn’t push. Just starts eating in that quiet, steady way he does—like he knows Soap will talk when he’s ready.
Soap stares at his own tray again. The food still doesn’t look right. He picks up his fork, hesitates. His hand shakes a little.
He puts it back down.
From across the table, Ghost doesn’t say anything, but Soap feels it—the weight of his gaze. Not judging. Not pressuring. Just... watching. Steady. Present.
And somehow, that makes the pressure in his chest tighten even more.
He doesn't want to cry. Not here. Not in front of him. But God, he's so close to breaking, and he doesn't even know why.
Without warning, that all-encompassing fuzz in his head spreads—soft, thick, quiet. It rolls in like fog, and suddenly everything feels... different.
The mess hall blurs around the edges. The chatter, the clatter—it all fades into the background like someone’s turned the volume down on the world. He blinks slowly, body still, like moving might shatter whatever strange state he’s in.
His eyes drift to his tray. He can’t quite remember what he was doing with it. The fork sits just off to the side, forgotten. His fingers twitch toward it, but don’t pick it up.
His uniform feels too big all of a sudden. His feet don’t reach the ground right. His hands look too large and clumsy. Everything’s... wrong-sized.
He shifts in his seat, shoulders curling forward, a quiet pressure behind his eyes—not quite tears, but close.
What…?
He frowns, but even that feels sluggish. His brain isn’t giving him answers. It isn’t even giving him words. He just feels… fuzzy. Distant. Like he’s drifted somewhere softer, smaller. Somewhere where being in a loud, grown-up cafeteria with hot food and tactical gear doesn’t make sense.
Ghost says his name.
“Johnny?”
Soap blinks, looks up at him—but his face doesn’t register the same way it usually does. He knows it’s Ghost. Knows he’s safe. But it’s like watching from behind glass. The recognition is there, but muted.
He shrinks down in his seat a little without realising, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. His mouth opens like he wants to say something—but nothing comes out.
A heavy, floaty smallness that wraps around him like a weighted blanket he didn’t ask for.
"Are you having a panic attack?" Ghost's voice is quiet, careful—too careful. Like he’s trying not to startle him.
Panic… attack?
No…
Not that…
Soap shakes his head, slow and uncertain, like the movement is happening from somewhere far away. He isn’t panicking. It’s more like—
Like everything’s gone soft inside his skull. Like his thoughts are jelly, hard to grab.
He presses his lips together. He wants to tell Ghost something, anything, but the words just... don’t come. They’re stuck. Not behind fear, but behind something else—something younger.
He ducks his head instead, looking down at his hands in his lap, still fidgeting with the edge of his shirt. His fingers curl into the fabric like maybe it’ll ground him.
Ghost doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, gently, “You look a bit out of it, mate.”
Soap gives a tiny shrug. Not because he’s being evasive, but because it’s the only answer he has. He doesn't know what’s happening.
He wants to rest his head on something. Wants to tuck himself away somewhere warm, where no one expects anything from him. Especially not words.
Ghost shifts, ever so slightly—still across the table, still watching. But something in his posture eases. Not pity. Not alarm. Just… quiet awareness.
“All right,” he says after a moment, softer than usual. “You don’t have to talk. Just sit with me a bit.”
Soap nods, tiny and automatic.
That’s good. That feels good.
Someone is here, and they’re not asking anything from him. Not making him explain. Just staying.
He focuses on that. The quiet. The presence. Ghost’s steady calm across from him like an anchor in a sea that suddenly feels too big.
But then—
Chairs scrape. Boots thump.
Gaz drops into the seat beside him with a long sigh. “Bloody hell, finally. I could eat a horse.”
Price settles across from them with a tray of his own, nodding to the lot of them. “Good work out there. Eat up, you’ve earned it.”
Soap stiffens. It’s small, but Ghost notices. His fork is still untouched. His shoulders are curled in like he’s trying to fold himself out of sight.
He doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t speak. The floaty pressure in his chest just keeps expanding, and now the warmth of Ghost’s presence is getting drowned out by the others. Too many voices. Too many eyes.
Gaz glances at him mid-bite, frowning slightly. “You alright, mate? You look... kinda pale.”
Soap blinks, fingers twisting the hem of his sleeve tighter. He wants to answer—he does—but the words are like molasses in his throat. Nothing comes.
Price pauses, sets his fork down with a quiet clink.
“John?”
That name, said quietly and careful in Price’s voice, makes his stomach twist.
Soap slowly shakes his head—not a no, not a yes. Just... movement. It’s all he can manage.
Ghost speaks up, voice steady. “Think the op knocked the wind out of him. He’s wiped.”
There’s silence for a beat too long. The kind that carries weight.
Price leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, eyes locked on Soap. “You look worse than just tired, Sergeant.”
Soap shrinks under it. Not scolded. Not scorned. But seen—and he’s not ready for that.
His hand lifts, slow and uncertain, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie like it’s the only thing holding him together.
“I don’t think he’s feeling well,” Gaz says, quieter this time. Concern softens his voice. “You need to go to medical?”
That makes Soap flinch—not visibly, but something in him recoils.
Ghost catches it. “He’s not hurt,” he says, still calm but firmer now. “Just needs a bit of quiet.”
Price nods slowly. Still watching. Still frowning. “Alright. But if anything changes, you let someone know.”
Soap doesn’t respond. Just keeps his eyes down, hands fidgeting in his lap. There’s a strange weight in his chest, something fragile and uncertain, like glass sitting on the edge of a table.
He drifts again—not far, just deeper into that fuzzy space. The conversation at the table becomes background noise, like a radio playing in another room. Words reach his ears but don’t land right. Too fast. Too grown-up.
His fingers keep fidgeting, nails scratching softly at the fabric of his sleeve. The texture feels grounding, but also… wrong. He wants something softer. Something warm. Something safe.
A little voice in the back of his head whispers it—blanket. Hoodie. Stuffie.
...Wait what?
He shuts his eyes for a second, trying to quiet it. But it doesn’t go away.
It only gets louder.
“Here.”
Soap opens his eyes. Gaz is holding something out across the table.
A small packet of Haribos.
He blinks at it.
“They’re mine,” Gaz says, with an easy shrug, like it’s no big deal. “But you look like you need 'em more than I do. If you're not gonna eat your breakfast.”
Soap stares at the packet. His chest twinges.
He takes it—slowly, carefully. Like it might break.
“Thanks,” he says, but it’s barely a whisper. The word is small, clumsy on his tongue. It doesn’t sound like him.
But Gaz just smiles like he didn’t notice. Like nothing’s weird.
Price watches too, but he doesn’t say anything. He just leans back in his seat, like he’s weighing something. Observing. And quietly deciding to trust whatever Ghost is seeing in this.
Ghost doesn’t comment. Just keeps eating, eyes flicking to Soap every now and then. Silent. Steady.
Soap clutches the packet in both hands. The plastic crinkles under his fingers.
A comfort he didn’t ask for. A gesture he didn’t expect.
He can feel that lump rising in his throat again, thick and hot and hard to swallow around.
So he focuses on breathing. On staying in his seat. On the gummies in his hand, and the quiet presence of someone across from him who knows—even if they don’t understand it all.
Maybe later, he’ll be able to explain.
But right now, being allowed to be like this, without question?
That’s the closest thing to a hug he’s had in weeks.
Ghost leans toward Price, murmuring something low and brief—too quiet for Soap to catch. Price nods once, slow and thoughtful, his eyes still fixed on Soap like he’s trying to read something between the lines.
Then Ghost stands.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t demand. Just smooth, measured movement. Controlled.
“Come on then, mate,” he says, voice quiet, almost gentle. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
Soap blinks up at him, unsure.
Ghost tilts his head slightly. Not pushing. Just waiting.
Soap’s hand tightens around the packet of gummies, crinkling the plastic. He nods. Barely.
Ghost doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften in any obvious way. But there’s something careful in his stance, something patient. He waits as Soap stands, slower than usual, moving like his limbs are heavy and don’t quite fit.
Gaz watches with quiet concern but doesn’t say anything. Just lifts two fingers in a subtle wave, like see you later. Price gives a small, approving nod. Like whatever this is, it’s allowed.
Soap follows Ghost out of the mess, the hallway outside mercifully empty. Their boots echo softly on the tile. It’s quieter here. Dimmer. Easier to breathe.
Ghost leads them to his room—not Soap’s. That fact registers, faint and distant. He unlocks the door, steps inside, and holds it open without a word.
Soap crosses the threshold slowly, like entering somewhere sacred. It feels different here. Not because it’s warm or soft—it’s still military quarters, still spare—but it’s his. Ghost’s space. Clean, ordered, quiet. And right now, safe.
The door clicks softly shut behind them.
“Sit wherever,” Ghost says, as he moves to pull the curtain over the small window, darkening the room.
Soap gravitates to the bed. Not the chair, not the floor. The bed. He perches on the edge first, still clutching the packet of gummies in one hand.
Ghost says nothing about it. Doesn’t look at it, doesn’t ask. Just crouches down by the footlocker at the end of the bed, rummages quietly for a second, and then tosses a soft, well-worn hoodie onto the bed beside Soap.
It’s faded black. Smells faintly of laundry detergent and something… familiar.
Soap looks at it. Then looks at Ghost.
Ghost shrugs one shoulder. “Figured you might want something a bit softer.”
Soap presses his lips together, eyes burning with something tender and aching. He picks up the hoodie slowly, like it’s breakable. Holds it to his chest.
Ghost shifts where he stands, scratching absently at his arm.
“You can put it on… if you want.”
A pause. Then, quieter, “Just want you to be comfortable.”
Soap doesn’t answer right away. He just sits there, fingers tightening in the fabric. The weight of Ghost’s words sinks in slowly. Comfortable. It feels foreign. Like something from a dream he’s not sure he’s allowed to have.
He nods, small and shaky.
Then, after a moment, he stands—just long enough to pull Ghost’s over his head. The fabric is softer than he expected. Warm in a way that sinks into his skin.
It’s too big, of course.
It hangs off him in that way that makes him feel safe, swallowed up in something that smells like clean laundry and Ghost’s aftershave. Familiar. Steady.
He doesn’t sit back down—he crawls, slow and unsure, up onto the bed. Pulls his knees in and tucks himself against the wall, hoodie sleeves hanging over his hands like they don’t belong to him. He presses his cheek to the inside of his arm.
Ghost doesn’t stare. Doesn’t question. He just moves slowly to the chair in the corner of the room, dragging it a little closer to the bed, and sits with a soft sigh.
“You alright there?”
Soap nods again, barely.
But his body says more than his voice could right now—the way his shoulders loosen, the way his fingers twitch inside the sleeves like they’re finding something to hold onto.
Ghost leans back in the chair, one leg stretched out, hands resting on his thighs.
“Y’want me to talk?” he asks gently. “Or just sit with you for a bit?”
Soap’s eyes flicker, like the question needs to travel a long way before it gets to where it needs to go. He’s quiet for a moment, the kind of quiet that isn’t refusal, just searching. Like he has the answer—he just needs to figure out how to say it.
He swallows.
“S…” His voice is barely there, the shape of the word catching in his throat.
He tries again, slower this time.
“Small.”
Ghost tilts his head, brows pulling together slightly in confusion.
“Small?”
Soap’s grip tightens on the hoodie sleeve. His lips press together like he’s scared of saying too much, but he forces one more word out.
“Feel…”
Ghost blinks. Then—careful not to move too fast, not to spook whatever fragile trust is hanging in the air—he echoes, soft and slow, “Small… feel…”
A beat.
“You feel small?”
Soap nods.
And it’s like a light clicks on behind Ghost’s eyes.
He doesn’t look surprised, not really. More like… something makes sense now. Like all the little pieces he couldn’t name have finally slid into place.
He leans forward in the chair, elbows resting loosely on his knees, voice quiet.
“Alright,” he says. Not teasing. Not pitying. Just accepting. “Feelin’ small’s okay.”
Then, after a moment’s pause, Ghost lifts a hand to his face. Slow. Unhurried.
And pulls off his mask.
There’s no grand reveal. No dramatic pause.
Just skin. Freckles. Tired eyes. The face of someone who’s spent years building walls, slowly lowering one for someone who needs it more.
He sets the mask down beside him like it’s nothing. Like it’s safe to do so.
Soap’s breath catches in his throat. It’s not about the mask. It’s about what it means.
Ghost runs a hand through his hair, voice barely above a whisper now.
“Might surprise you…” he starts, glancing toward Soap. “Sometimes I feel small too.”
Soap watches him, wide-eyed.
Ghost shrugs, like he’s not quite sure how to explain it.
“Doesn’t happen often. Or maybe it does and I’ve just gotten good at pretendin’ otherwise.” He huffs softly, almost a laugh, but not quite. “Sometimes it’s in the quiet after a mission. Sometimes when it’s too loud. When I’m so tired I can’t think straight, and everything feels wrong.”
His eyes flick over to Soap again.
“Feels like I’m not Ghost. Not even Simon. Just… some kid pretendin’ to be a soldier.”
Soap blinks at him, something flickering in his expression—recognition. Relief.
Ghost smiles, just a little. It’s small, but real.
“So if you feel small,” he says, voice warm now, almost like a secret, “you’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re just… human.”
Soap clutches the hoodie a little tighter around him, cheeks puffing as he takes a deep, shaky breath.
He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t need to.
Ghost leans back slightly, letting the quiet settle again.
“You want me to keep talkin’?” he offers. “Could tell you something stupid. Or somethin’ old. Or maybe just… keep you company.”
Soap nods slowly, still half-curled into the blanket.
“Alright then. Story time.”
Ghost stands, quiet and steady, and crosses the short space between them. He doesn't ask—just moves with a kind of careful ease, like he knows not to startle something fragile. He sits on the edge of the bed, close but not too close. Leaves space, but makes it clear he's there.
“Did you know I had a little brother?”
Soap’s head tilts just slightly. Not quite a nod this time—more of a quiet shift of attention. The kind that says, No, I didn’t. But I want to.
Ghost glances down at his hands, fingers idly brushing his knee. His voice is softer now, like he’s telling a story by firelight.
“Name was Tommy. Little pain in my ass, but… good kid. Always had too much energy. Drove my mum up the wall.”
Soap breathes, slow and quiet, his eyes fixed on Ghost’s face.
“He used to follow me around everywhere. Wanted to be just like me. Had this toy rifle he’d carry over his shoulder like he was on patrol. Called me ‘Sergeant Simon.’” A tiny, nostalgic smile flickers on Ghost’s lips. “Thought he was the toughest lad in the world.”
Soap’s fingers fidget in the hoodie sleeves, silent.
Ghost shifts slightly, gaze distant, as if he’s seeing it all unfold again.
“There was this one time—he couldn’t have been more than six—he tried to make his own ‘ration pack’ from stuff in the kitchen. Put crisps, marshmallows, jam, and a slice of cold sausage in a sandwich bag and told me he was ready for deployment.”
That gets a soft puff of air from Soap’s nose. Barely there—but Ghost catches it. His smile lingers just a second longer.
“Sat beside me on the sofa, feet dangling off the edge, munching on that monstrosity like it was gourmet. Didn’t even flinch when the jam leaked on his shirt. Told me, ‘soldiers don’t care about mess.’”
He chuckles, just once.
“Can’t tell you why I thought of that just now. Just... made me think of you. You’ve got that same stubborn spark. That softness under all the grit.”
Soap shifts again, hoodie bunching up around his shoulders. He looks smaller somehow—but lighter, too. Like something heavy’s been set down, even if just for a moment.
Ghost watches him with that soft, steady expression. The one he rarely lets anyone see. The one without the weight of rank or walls or masks.
And then, almost too quietly to catch, he says:
“I wish you could’ve met him.”
The words land heavy in the quiet between them. His voice doesn’t crack, but it bends—like something folding inward under its own weight. There's a smile on his face, but it’s the kind of smile that doesn’t reach all the way. The kind people wear to keep from unravelling.
Soap lifts his head, eyes flicking up to Ghost’s face.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
Just moves.
Carefully, like approaching a skittish animal. One small shift at a time—blanket falling from his shoulders, sleeves too long, feet dragging across the thin bedding.
He kneels in front of Ghost on the mattress, eyes locked on his like a silent question. Can I?
Ghost doesn’t answer out loud. But he doesn’t move away, either.
Soap leans in, arms hesitant at first, one hooking around Ghost’s side, the other slow to follow. He presses his face against Ghost’s chest, right over his heartbeat, and breathes in deep.
Ghost goes still.
For a long second, neither of them breathes.
Then Ghost’s hand lifts—tentative, almost unsure—before settling gently against the back of Soap’s head. His other arm comes around his back, holding him close with all the care of someone cradling something precious and breakable.
“I think he would’ve liked you,” Ghost says eventually, voice muffled in Soap’s hair. “Would’ve thought you were daft as hell. But he would’ve liked you.”
Soap lets out a tiny sound that might be a laugh. Might be a sob. It’s hard to tell.
They stay like that for a while—no words, no questions, just quiet breathing and the steady comfort of closeness. Soap’s body has gone slack against Ghost’s, small and warm and pliant like a kid who’s finally stopped fighting sleep.
Ghost shifts just slightly, enough to press his chin gently atop Soap’s head.
Soap curls into Ghost’s side like he’s not entirely aware he’s doing it, more instinct than thought. His eyes are glazed, blinking slow, like his brain’s been muffled under layers of cotton.
He doesn’t speak.
Hasn’t, really, for a while now.
It’s like his mouth has forgotten what it’s for, too many thoughts tangled in fuzz he can’t quite push through. And Ghost—somehow, somehow—seems to get that.
Doesn’t ask him anything. Doesn’t need anything from him.
Just gives.
Warmth. Steadiness. Space.
His fingers drift down, absently toying with the edge of the sleeve covering Soap’s hand. He catches it gently and tucks it back around his fingers, snug.
Soap stares at it, fascinated, like it’s the most caring thing anyone’s done for him in days.
His eyes burn.
He blinks hard. Tries to bury the feeling.
But then Ghost moves again—shifts back just far enough to stand—and Soap’s hand reaches out before he can stop it, gripping weakly at his sleeve.
A small, desperate sound leaves his throat. Barely more than a whimper.
Ghost pauses immediately. Crouches beside the bed.
“Hey, hey—‘m not goin’ far,” he says quietly. “Just gettin’ something for you. You’re okay.”
Soap lets go, reluctantly. Watches him move across the room, rummaging in a drawer. He returns a second later with something Soap can’t quite make out at first.
Then Ghost kneels again, setting something small and faded beside him on the blanket.
A stuffed bear.
Old. Frayed at the ear. Well-loved.
Ghost doesn’t explain. Doesn’t need to.
Soap clutches the bear on instinct. His hands are trembling.
And it’s like something clicks in his chest—some ache so deep and wordless it pushes past all the fuzz, all the quiet, all the swallowed noise he’s been carrying.
His lips part. Barely.
“...dada?”
It’s quiet. Almost inaudible.
But Ghost hears it.
His hand stills. Eyes flick to Soap’s face—open and tired and sounding so, so young.
He doesn’t look surprised. Just something soft settles into his features. Like understanding.
He leans in, voice low and steady.
“Yeah. I got you, little one.”