Chapter Text
Soap wasn't drunk.
Not even buzzed, which was a real shame, because he could've used it. A little fuzz around the edges, something to slow his brain down and soften the raw, electric hum under his skin. Instead, he was just… awake. Exhausted, aching, but running on whatever amount of adrenaline hadn't burnt off yet. His mind felt like a room of flickering lights—some blown, some stuttering, all of them too damn bright.
How can I be this tired and yet this awake at the same damn time?
Somehow, the bar felt… too quiet. Like that hair-trigger second before a bomb went off—right when everything hung in the air, when his ears started ringing before the blast even hit, and all he wanted to know was whether the charge would scatter in orange sparks or that blue-white arc that meant he’d really fucked it. But it really wasn't that quiet here—music played in the background, mixing with voices murmuring and glasses clinking… it all felt so distant. Like he was still there: on the oil rig, in Las Almas, flying into Chicago… every moment of sheer fucking chaos in the last few weeks compounded into the world's most annoying headache.
His drink sat untouched on the bartop, condensation pooling in a little ring on the coaster. Maybe he should've started to drink it, that's what it was for. A reward, a wind-down, a congratulations on not dying after nearly getting blown to bits, shot to Swiss cheese, stabbed to death… just, having a very, very bad time.
They had made it out alive, at least. All of them—him, the captain, Gaz, Ghost, Laswell… all sitting here next each other like they were just friends catching a drink. Maybe in another life…
He rolled his whiskey between his palms, almost mesmerized with the way the amber liquid caught the bar's dim glow and swirled in slow waves. It sparkled with a warm and familiar glint—like something he almost recognized but couldn't quite place…
Bonnie eyes.
The thought struck out of nowhere, sharp yet not completely unwanted. Soap frowned, bringing the glass to his lips before he could think about it too hard, knocking back a slow sip. The burn was good, warm, curling in his gut…
And did fuck-all to quiet his head.
Ghost saved his life today. Again.
Soap's fingers tightened around the glass, knuckles white.
Gonna owe him more than just drinks soon, Soap almost chuckled. The smile didn't quite make it to his lips. His mind still moved too fast as it looped through the events of the da—no, not the day, the entire damn mission. Months of his life, gone in an instant.
God, he was so fucking tired.
He just wanted it to stop. Just for a couple minutes so he could get his head back on straight, because he was exhausted but somehow so bloody wired he wanted to ping-pong off the walls. The mission was over. Hassan was dead, the world still turned—but his mind might as well have been a dog with a bone for how little it wanted to let go.
How Price hit the ground—steamin' Jesus, that scared the hell outta him, thinking his beloved Captain had been shot clean through. His heart only started beating again when Price groaned.
The cold press of the missile controls in his hands, yet without weapons. Defenseless, again, with nothing but the voices in his earpiece to guide him through.
Frantically weaving through half-built walls while trying to not get stabbed again. Oh, not to mention having the fate of the entire free bloody world in his hands. How every moment felt like seconds and years all at once as he scrambled to follow Laswell's directions down to the letter—
The brutal relief of success before it all went sideways once more. Knocked out cold, for God only knows how long. Dragged to the window.
Helpless and knowing—in that split second—that he was going to die. Dropped to his death, nothing more than a splat of blood and viscera on the ground over fifty stories down.
He'd been seconds from it. Hadn't even had time to be scared, not really—just that single, sharp moment of this is it when Hassan had him dangling in his grip, gravity pulling at his back. How the wind rushed past him, how the city sprawled beneath him, how he'd felt the brutal awareness of the inevitable.
And then—
The shot.
Ghost's shot.
“Fuckin' beautiful, sir.”
So precise. So fucking solid, like Ghost never even considered missing. Not that he would, Soap knew he wouldn't. Field manual be damned, men like the Ghost simply didn't miss. He'd never doubted the lieutenant for a second but the relief in that moment might as well have been orgasmic.
Soap exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenched.
How many times was that now? How many times had Ghost reached through the chaos and caught him?
He didn't know what bothered him more—the fact that he kept needing to be rescued like some damsel in distress? Or the fact that he never doubted—not even for a second—that Ghost would be there?
Something—someone—nudged his foot.
Soap blinked, startled out of his own head for a split second, momentarily tense before he regained his bearings. He glanced down at his boot—at the thick thigh nearly pressed against his own, at the scuffed toe giving another nudge. Small and quiet, yet enough to make Soap's pulse thrum all over again.
Ghost.
Close, sitting just within Soap's space, mask on, dark eyes watching. The remnants of his grease paint still clumped around his pale eyelashes, shimmering in the light as he tipped his head ever so slightly. The weight of his attention pinned Soap in place for a few long seconds before he spoke.
"You alright, Johnny?"
Soap huffed and tipped his glass in a lazy salute, even though his brain started to short-circuit once again. Of course Ghost would notice—nothing escaped him. At least… not when it came to Soap, it seemed. "Still alive, aye?"
Ghost merely hummed, gaze flicking over Soap again before looking past, scanning the area like someone would charge them at any second. Not out of the question with our track record…
"Barely."
Cheeky bastard.
Soap snorted, shaking his head and not even attempting to disguise it. "Fuck off." There was no bite to it, just exhaustion, just the slightest amount of humor still lingering in the shock and awe of surviving something big.
Ghost didn't fuck off. Not that he would, and wasn't that something? The Ghost, willingly spending time with his team?
He didn't move away, either. If anything, he shifted closer, angling his legs into Soap's space a little more. And maybe it was exhaustion mixed with relief—or some fucked-up form of trauma bonding—but Soap let himself lean into it, just a little bit. Sharing warmth, and absolutely not wanting to melt under the feeling of something solid and real beside him.
How could he feel unmoored when Ghost was his anchor, tethering him to reality? Lost and adrift when his lighthouse guided him through the storm—and literally, too, that night in Las Almas…
Fuck. He couldn't take his eyes off the man. Couldn't stop buzzing. Tired, sure, but his body still didn't get the memo that maybe he should've calmed the fuck down a bit. He wasn't ready to slow down, still caught in the sheer what the fuck of the last twenty-four hours.
And still not drunk.
Laswell and Price talked amongst themselves, still thinking ahead, still planning their next move. Gaz looked half-asleep, head drooping and shoulders sagging, clearly not up for conversation. Instead, Soap turned his attention fully back to Ghost, lightly nudging him with an elbow.
"That shot today? Steamin' Jesus, LT. Could've kissed you for it."
Soap wasn't completely sure what possessed him to say that. Maybe it was the whiskey finally settling in his belly, or the relief still raw in his chest. He'd been seconds from death—helpless, completely out of time, end of the line, his fate once again in someone else's hands.
And for him, there wasn't a single other person he'd want on the other side. Not now, not ever again.
Well, okay. Maybe Price and Gaz. Hell, even Laswell.
But Ghost—
Simon—
He hadn't missed. It made something deep in Soap's gut curl tight, a little wild thing wanting to purr over the entire ordeal for some fucking reason. It left his body running hot at the memory of Ghost's voice in his ear, steady as ever, with that perfect shot, LT.
So fucking beautiful, sir…
Ghost didn't flinch, didn't even blink, just turned his head slightly. Dark eyes flickered over Soap's face. He didn't seem surprised in the least, the bastard, not like he'd show it. The words settled for a beat, then—
"Think I'll pass on that, Johnny."
But his weight shifted as he spoke, angling a little more into Soap's space, just enough that their arms brushed over the bar. His shoulders relaxed, and it couldn't be a coincidence.
Soap grinned, knocking back another sip. "'S'a shame, sir. Could've been life-changing. Kissin' the hottest Scotsman at the bar."
Ghost huffed out something that might've been a laugh, a quiet hmph that barely made it past the fabric of his mask. He liked this—the easy give-and-take. Something far beyond Ghost just humoring him, something more into the territory of the brooding bastard letting the fuck go for once. Letting that tension slip, even if only a little bit.
And a smarter man would've left it there, gone back to the conversation the rest of their little rag-tag group was having—
Except Ghost lifted a hand and rolled his mask up.
And Soap's brain stopped.
Because Ghost had freckles.
Not just a few—a lot. Scattered across sharp cheekbones, a strong nose, faint but visible under the bar's dim light—and how the fuck did he not notice them back at Alejandro's safehouse?
Not to mention that strong jaw, that mouth set in something just shy of a smirk. Chapped lips—a scar cutting through the corner of one and revealing the slightest hint of teeth—that had no business looking so kissable.
Soap stared. Full stop, brain gone, nothing but static.
Now that they weren't fighting for their lives, no one was bleeding out or about to be dropped to their death, he finally got to take it in.
Fuck, he's pure bonnie.
Scars littered the pale skin—which wasn't unusual, not when no one in their line of work ended up spared from the marks—in silver and pink lines. One particularly large one cut from the side of his upper lip all the way up his cheek, maybe even to below his eye, leaving him a permanent sneer and the slightest hint of a pearly white tooth. Another one cut across his chin, much like Soap's own; a third peeked out just beneath the mask—he knew it crossed the bridge of Ghost's nose…
Soap had seen his face before, once. In that safehouse. But this?
God, he wished he had his sketchbook. He knew his memories wouldn't come close to capturing the scene before him, every detail, but it wouldn't stop him from trying.
Back then, they'd all been exhausted. Bleeding, hiding behind the weight of what they'd just been through. But here—in the dim glow of the bar, with bourbon at his fingertips and Ghost at his side…
Fuck, he wanted to see more. He wanted—
Ghost's eyes flicked back to him. Catching Soap red-handed as he took a slow sip before setting the glass aside.
"Something on your mind?" Ghost asked flatly, expression still frustratingly neutral even as something more twinkled in his eyes.
Soap swallowed hard, quickly shifting his attention back to his drink. Desperate to pretend that he hadn't just been staring—well, more like mentally stripping—his bloody Lieutenant in his mind. Not even in a sexual way, either!
Well.
Maybe not entirely sexual. More just.. he wanted to see Simon. That little sliver of his exposed mouth? The faintest hint of stubble, the quick flash of teeth? He might as well have been a man starved with how he stared.
"Nah," Soap finally managed, dragging his gaze back to his own drink like nothing happened. "Just… not used to seein' you drink, is all."
Ghost hummed, clearly unconvinced.
Soap downed the rest of his whiskey, using the glass to hide his face, but still felt the man's eyes on him. Heavy. Assessing. An odd sort of charged silence hung heavy between them—charged with the weight of words unspoken, of the millions of questions he wanted to ask, to understand. To know the man that somehow, some way, became more than just a teammate or CO.
Maybe even more than a friend.
"You're allowed to enjoy yourself, y'know," Soap finally muttered, voice lower, rougher than he'd really intended. He didn't look at Ghost again, setting his gaze firmly on his glass and letting his fingers trail through the condensation, urging the drops to merge and race each other. "We just saved the feckin' world."
Ghost didn't respond right away. A beat, two, and then—
"There's always another mission."
Soap frowned, finally glancing back up. The words weren't sharp, weren't even really heavy or tired either. Just… blunt. Matter-of-fact, like the man just told him the sky was blue or it snowed during the winter. Like… like it was just…
Life.
Did Ghost’s life just boil down to… this? The next crisis, the next mission, the next time his hyperactive sergeant nearly got himself tossed to his death? Soap always knew Ghost was a bit of a recluse at the best of times. If the man didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be. Buried himself in work, barricaded in his office, even if Soap now got the chance to glance in and make sure he'd eaten.
Nothing seemed to tether Ghost. The very definition of 'no strings attached', unattached in every sense. The exact opposite to Soap, who felt too much, too loud, weighed down by questions he couldn’t shake. He glanced over again, catching a sliver of Ghost’s profile in the low light. Mask firmly in place, posture relaxed but eyes still sharp. Here, but not really.
“Ever gonna let yourself breathe, mate?” Soap muttered under his breath, words not meant to reach, even if part of him hoped they would.
He didn’t get an answer. Not that he expected one, but still. He wanted one. Wanted to know the man behind the mask, not just in passing, not in bits and fragments during mission lulls or shared glances over burning wreckage. Wanted to know if Ghost ever got a moment to just be, if he even wanted that kind of peace.
Ghost only ever stopped when forced to.
And precious few people could manage that.
But why?
That thought rattled through his head, nagging like a loose wire sparking in the dark. The night started to wind down, edges soft and hazy, but he couldn’t let it go. They weren't done, not by a long shot, not with bloody Makarov on the loose, a bloody shadow hanging at their backs. For now, at least, for tonight, they'd managed to carve out a few moments to feel human again. And Ghost was still around, so that had to count for something, right?
Soap stretched his arms above his head, rolling the tension from his shoulders as he surveyed the room once more. The atmosphere shifted—what little energy they'd all been clinging to was draining fast, pulled down by the waning hours. The conversations slowed, the laughter faded, even Laswell's sharp focus started to slip.
She still had her phone wedged between her shoulder and ear, a quiet murmur in the room, but Soap caught the way she muffled a yawn with the back of her hand. The professional mask cracked, just a little—Watcher, who always had an answer, a plan, finally looking human. He'd never seen that before, foreign in the same way peace was in their lives.
Gaz, on the other hand, was barely holding himself together. He swayed where he stood, only kept upright thanks to Price's steady grip on his shoulder. The pair was too far away for Soap to hear what passed between them, but whatever it was made Gaz's brows furrow, his lips failing to hide a smile.
Soap rolled his eyes. It was so obvious—the way Price hovered just a little more when Gaz got himself hurt, how Gaz's sharp wit softened just a bit when it came to their captain. A perfect bloody parallel, Soap thought, to my own life. Least they're not too blind to see it.
And Price—
Well, the bastard hardly looked tired at all. Standing firm, shoulders squared, seemingly unfazed. Soap might've believed it—still half-convinced his captain had been forged from pure steel—if he hadn't caught the smallest twitch in his eyes. Or how his jaw clenched just this side of too much.
Price isn’t invincible. Just damn good at pretending to be.
Soap tried to not let the thought unsettle him. Tried to not remember how Price looked being laid out on the floor—
He's fine. Kyle's fine. Simon's fine. Everyone's fine.
And then… Ghost.
Soap's gaze drifted toward him again, like it always did, because he couldn't fuckin' help it.
Ghost moved, standing near the edge of the group, lost in his own world and unreadable as ever. He never looked tired, but it had to drag on him, right? Every mission—success or failure—left a mark on all of them. He'd learned that much in Las Almas, when Ghost’s bare hands pressed gauze into the hole in Soap's arm. Wrapped it tight, careful but firm, and not even remotely clinical. How he'd hesitated for a few brief moments at every one of Soap's winces, took extra care tying off the bandage…
He'd been exhausted then. Had to have been, had to have been running on the same cocktail of adrenaline and spite that they all did. But it didn't show.
"Show my face?"
"Yes, sir."
"Negative."
What else was he hiding? Soap swallowed, studying him closer. He's just a man, isn't he?
Not a ghost. Not an attack dog. Just flesh and blood and bone, same as the rest of them.
But fuck, was he good at pretending otherwise.
Soap caught the small tells, the things most people wouldn't bother to see. How Ghost's fingers never fully relaxed when he reached for something, always tensed, always bracing. How his head moved just slightly, checking exits, tracking bodies like they were always on an op. The way he always took his tea with two sugars, no milk. Little things.
Things Soap picked up over time, stowed away in his thoughts without him even meaning to.
The realization gave him a strange kind of relief. Most feared the unknown, and Ghost was exactly that. But now? Soap had seen him, glimpsed the person beneath the mask, gotten closer and deeper than anyone else.
Ghost wasn't some untouchable legend, not really.
He was just Simon.
An incredible, dangerous, brilliant man. But still, at the end of the day, a man.
The group started to move—fuckin' finally—peeling themselves off barstools and chairs, a sluggish herd pulled forward by exhaustion. Soap scrubbed a hand down his face, feeling the grit of sweat and stubble catch against his palm as they stepped out into the night.
The hotel Laswell secured for them wasn’t far—only a few doors down, standing proud against the Chicago skyline. Almost too big, its wide, glass-paned entrance gleaming under the streetlights. The kind of place that whispered you don’t belong here before one even made it through the doors. Soap’s steps faltered slightly as they entered, white light pouring across pristine floors. No scuff marks, no clutter, just polished edges and manufactured peace. He fucking hated it. Soap clenched his jaw, following the others inside.
This—this—was normal to most people. Regular, average even. A world of polished floors and automatic doors, soft lighting and freshly pressed linens. A place where no one had to think about how fragile their lives really were. It was all expected, not earned. He just couldn't wrap his head around it. Sure, it had four walls and a roof. But it didn't make any sense. His gaze wandered—habit, instinct—searching for threats and exits and places to hide. And then, his attention snapped back to Ghost.
Just like it always did. Watched his lieutenant move through the space: controlled, alert, as if expecting a knife to the ribs from one of the staff. "Shepherd's not gonna pop out from behind the front desk, mate," he murmured, voice low and dry and entirely meant for Ghost.
Ghost didn’t look back. "Not takin' chances.”
“Aye. Wouldn’t be you if you did.”
They stepped further in, the scent of citrus cleaner and expensive cologne hitting his nose like a wall. Too clean, too fake. But something shifted, catching his eye. A framed painting hung near the elevator blank. Minimalist. Abstract. Lines swept across like fractured bones, tense and sharp. For the briefest moment, he wanted to call it ugly.
But he couldn’t look away.
It reminded him of tension. Of something barely holding itself together, one step from shattering. Weird, because he didn’t even like abstract shit, it almost always gave him a headache. Except this one. It stirred something in his chest, the old itch to create instead of destroy. Soap hadn’t gotten to sketch anything in weeks. Couldn’t find the time, the calm, the space to sit still long enough to do it, and even so… he liked drawing faces. They were easier, interesting in a way that buildings and landscapes weren’t. So many stories hidden in wrinkles and scars, but places like this seemed good at hiding things, too. Like this hotel, this fucking weird beacon of untouched safety in the middle of chaos.
Maybe he would sketch this. Commit it to memory, another night where who dares wins.
Price nudged him forward, shaking him from his thoughts and enough to steer him forward. The elevator dinged as they filed in wordlessly, the weight of exhaustion pressing against them all. They split off without ceremony. Routine. Comforting in its familiarity. Price and Gaz to one room. He and Ghost to the other. A sense of normalcy, something steady in his world, not that he really gave a fuck right now. Not when his thoughts only went as far as there's a bed over there and I need to be in it right fucking now.
Still, in the back of his mind, he carried the image of that painting with him. The stark reality of how everything could shatter in a single breath.
Fuck, he was tired.
The beds were huge—comparatively speaking, of course. Just a standard American bed, sure, but after months of sleeping in cramped barracks? Leaning against walls or on floors or each other? They looked massive. Twin islands floating on a carpet lake that he almost felt too dirty to partake in.
Soap glanced at Ghost, silently wondering if he thought the same.
Especially because the man stopped short, standing stiff beside his own bed. The way he stood… maybe it was the same thought—maybe he didn't want to ruin the pristine sheets with the remnants of sweat and blood and gunpowder.
Maybe he just doesn't know what to do with comfort.
Soap swallowed, dragging his gaze away for the umpteenth time that night. Trying to focus on anything other than how strange it felt to be in a bloody hotel.
Far too late to unpack that heap of traumatic bullshit tonight.
A muffled thump, and Ghost dropped onto the bed nearest the door. Back to Soap, watching their sole exit with a sniper’s patience.
Of course.
His usual spot—always placing himself between the exit and whoever else was inside, like some unconscious form of protection. Or… habit, maybe? Something so deeply ingrained in his psyche that he couldn't break out? Soap wanted to know. Wanted to be the one to cover their backs, to protect Ghost as he slept instead of the other way around. Give him a good night's sleep.
Soap sighed, kicking his boots off before sinking down onto his own bed.
He needed to shower—they both did.
For a moment, he had the distinct urge to scratch at the layer of grime over his skin, to physically claw it off of his body. His body ached in that dull 'we're getting close to crashing' way, which meant that if he didn't get his dumb arse up now, he wouldn't be up until morning.
"Gonna rinse off," he muttered, dragging himself up and toward the door. He didn't get a response—not that he expected one, he knew Ghost needed time to be a broody bastard—but managed to not stare at the lieutenant's hulking form for too long before slipping away.
And fuck, what a difference a good shower could make. Soap almost wanted to kiss whoever came up with the term 'shower thoughts', because now that he felt like a human being again?
Fuck.
Proper water pressure, steaming hot, washing everything away in a way that almost felt criminal as he braced his hands against the tile. The spray beat down on his back, and as much as he wanted to linger, he tore himself away after a few quiet minutes.
The room was quiet when he stepped out, steam curling behind him. At once, Ghost brushed by him, their shoulders just barely touching before the door closed, no words exchanged. Typical.
Maybe if he'd had more energy he'd care a bit more, but right now? His world began and ended with this room. The sheets cool against his skin as he sank into the unfamiliar comfort. Barely aware from the moment his head hit the pillow, until the bathroom door creaked open once more, listening to the soft shuffle of Ghost's movements throughout the room.
(And certainly not thinking about how his movements were looser, like the water melted away the last of his tension. How Ghost didn't hesitate to drop onto his own bed. That soft, barely there sigh.)
"Should get some rest, LT," Soap wasn't even totally sure he'd spoken. Too tired to care about the long pause before—
"You did good today, Johnny."
And maybe it was the exhaustion talking, maybe it was the warmth curling in his chest at the low rumble, but Soap couldn't stop himself from saying, soft and sure—
"Aye. So did you, Simon."