Chapter Text
Soap tries not to fidget in his chair.
Tries.
He's passed all his testing with flying colors, has worked tirelessly night and day just to get to this moment.
It's much more subdued than he thought it would be, almost anti-climactic. But still, his nerves are frayed to the point that his leg has been bouncing ceaselessly until Gaz slid his chair close enough that he could put his boot on top of Soap's and still his bouncing. It helped, at least a little, having Gaz here. They'd met in basic and become thick as thieves. They'd drifted as their assignments took them different places, but they'd remained close over the years.
But right now, Soap needs to not fuck up the opportunity that's right in front of him.
"File lists you as a hybrid," Price says, looking up at Soap over the edge of the folder in his hands. "Class 5," he adds with an appreciative low whistle.
"Yes sir," Soap nods. He doesn't want to do this—doesn't want to get into this but he will be honest.
"But you tested as a human," Price continues, putting the folder down on the table. "Why?"
Soap is distinctly aware that Ghost's eyes have also come up from his copy of Soap's file. He's sitting at the complete opposite end of the table, closest to the door. He's not really in Soap's line of sight, but he can feel the man's gaze on him all the same.
His answer to this question matters.
"Wanted to prove I could, sir," Soap admits. "It's not always. . . convenient for me to shift. Testing as a human shows that you can rely on me under any conditions, sir."
Price hums for a moment. "Do you want to operate as a hybrid?"
Soap's resolution to be honest wavers for a moment. He doesn't want to operate as a hybrid. It will effect the way his team sees him. But if Price orders him to, if it means his spot in the 141 is guaranteed, then he will. But as he glances from Price over to Ghost, then Gaz, he knows they'll see right through him if he isn't honest.
"Would prefer not to, sir. If at all possible. But I will follow orders," he admits, meeting Price's eyes.
If it came down to it, gun to his head, Ghost reckons it's the way Soap moves that first caught his attention. He distinctly remembers watching Soap run an assault course for the first time and something in the back of his brain screaming 'danger, Will Robinson'. He's a large man, Soap MacTavish, not nearly as big as Ghost but broad and strong, built for hard graft.
Why, then, is it that he moves with the lithe grace of a fucking snake.
It's like watching a gymnast, watching Soap move up and over obstacles, Ghost has never seen that kind of control before. It's that that had reeled him in, in the end. The control. Something about the way it's pulled so taut makes Ghost desperate to see what happens when it finally snaps.
When he's the one who snaps it.
Then of course there's always the muscle and the beautiful eyes and the every other tiny thing that has kept Ghost strung along in the last year and a half since Soap first walked up and demanded to be allowed to try for the 141.
That's a part of it too, Ghost knows. The drive, the determination to be the best without even taking into account his natural advantages when shifted into…whatever it is he becomes. Soap has always been cagey about that. But Ghost has always been attracted to competence, and this insolent, insubordinate little shit is also probably the single most competent soldier Ghost has ever had the good luck to work with.
And then there's the fact Soap is a hybrid. A damned powerful one at that. The un-redacted files are above even Price's pay grade, but the redacted ones still share enough information that Ghost knows Soap is a Class 5 hybrid. Considering they only go up to Class 6 that makes Soap pretty impressive indeed. The idea of a creature that powerful submitting to Ghost's command as beautifully as Soap already does? Intoxicating.
"Sir!" Ghost is snapped out of his reverie by Soap's hand waving in front of his face. He's got to start coming to the gym at a different time to the rest of them, before someone notices that he finds it almost impossible to unglue his eyes from Soap's arse when he's doing squats. "There he is." Soap grins.
"What?" Ghost grunts, as though that will magically make Soap think he's been listening all along.
"I asked if you wanted to come to the pub with us later? We've got a big mission in the morning, might as well get our pints in while we can." Soap looks… well if he didn't know better Ghost would say he looked hopeful. He's not stupid; he knows they're friends. He knows Soap likes his company and wants him around, but this looks like more than that.
If he didn't know better Ghost might think this looked an awful lot like desire.
He does though, know better. At least, he knows enough to know that if Soap feels any desire for him at all he certainly doesn't want to act on it. As evidenced by the way they've spent all this time dancing around each other even though Ghost has openly tried propositioning him at least twice.
Soap isn't interested. Simon can take a hint. So why does Soap keep trying so damned hard to keep him around?
"Well, Si?" Soap is staring at him like he's losing it. In all honesty he might be, if this is the way he's behaving now.
"He'll come." Price's hand clamps down on Ghost's shoulder hard enough to have him snapping out of whatever ridiculous hold Soap has him in. He nods, leaning into Price's touch enough for him to feel it for the 'thank you' it is.
"Great!" Soap grins, and for just a second Ghost could swear there's a shift in his eyes. His pupils change just a little, the blue of his irises becoming so pale it's almost white, but it's over as fast as it began and then it's just them. Just him and Soap, grinning at each other before Price uses his grip on Ghost's shoulder to shove him gently into the lockers.
Ghost launches himself at him to pull him into a headlock and by the time they're done tussling, Soap is gone.
"It's fucking hard to watch." Price says, running his hand through his hair. He's sweaty from the gym and he's starting to gather his shower things from his cubby. "You two interacting, I mean. Tell me why you've not got on with it and fucked him yet?"
Ghost doesn't have a good answer to that, so he flips Price off instead, knocks his washbag on the floor, and flees the room.
"You've invited him here," Price says, slapping Soap on the shoulder too hard. "And now you've left him over there while you play darts by yourself."
"I'm not by myself," John grumbles, throwing his dart much farther to the right than he'd intended. "You're here."
Price shoves him this time, rolling his eyes. "You know what I mean, MacTavish." He punctuates his sentence by throwing a dart precisely where Soap had wanted to. "What's the issue?"
Soap throws himself down on a bench near the dart board and shrugs as he finishes off his second pint. "No issues, sir—" Price sends him a withering look and he sighs, caught. "Should ye even technically be discussing this with me?"
"Dunno what you mean," Price sniffs, sitting next to John and throwing his arm across the back of the bench. "Would be hypocritical of me too, wouldn't it?"
Soap follows his gaze across the pub to where Gaz and Ghost are sitting in a booth. Gaz is laughing at something and Ghost is using his bourbon glass to cover his mouth, trying to hide his own smile.
"Dunno what you mean," Soap parrots.
Price huffs a gentle laugh, but sobers quickly. "What I mean is, it's clear to anyone with a pair of fucking eyes that you two are gagging for each other."
"Sir!" Soap chokes, feels a scarlet blush threatening to take over his face and neck.
"What I don't understand is why you've said no," Price continues, ignoring John's spluttering.
That blush does begin creeping its way over Soap's skin now, burning as it travels up to his ears and down his chest. "So he's told you, then."
"He has," Price nods. "Thing is, I don't think it's put him off in the slightest. And now here you are, all the way across the pub when you've invited him here. So, my original question stands. What's the issue?"
"The issue is he doesn't know what he's asking for," John grumbles. "He doesn't know what I am."
"And what is that?"
"You know what I am," Soap looks over and meets Price's eyes.
"I only know what you've told me," Price corrects. "I never did go searching for more, like I promised."
"I know," John sighs. "I didnae mean it like that. I only mean—he wouldn't be asking if he knew."
Price hums, and Soap decidedly does not like the tone of it. "Seems like you're making that decision for him."
Soap flinches, but can't argue with that, not really.
Price's hand comes down to rest on Soap's shoulder and gives him a firm squeeze. "You know why he wears the mask? Why he covers up like he does?"
Guilt grows in John's stomach, weighing him down. "Sir—"
"It's because he thinks when other people see the scars that they'll be put off. Yeah it works because he's a ghost operator—convenient enough, I suppose. But that's not really why and you know it." The look Price gives him is firm, but not unfair and Soap supposes he deserves it.
But Price softens and reaches over to pat John on the thigh. "Don't let yourself miss out on something good, Soap."
—
"Why is it you two aren't fucking yet?" Gaz asks, leaning into Ghost's shoulder and kicking his feet up onto the chair across from him. Ghost knocks their arms together to jostle him but doesn't move away.
"He's your best friend ain't he? You'd have a better idea than me." Gaz snorts and shakes his head gently.
"He's not a confident man, not about his appearance." Is all Gaz says, but it's enough; Ghost has always been a bit of an expert at reading between the lines.
Soap is proud of his body, shows it off often enough, but never certain parts of it. Never gets naked or uses the communal showers. Gaz doesn't mean he's shy about his human parts, absolutely nothing to be shy about. He's shy about the rest, the elephant in the room that won't budge, lounges there creating an uncrossable barricade between them.
Ghost knows, knows with everything he is, that if Soap gave him the chance to he could prove that there isn't a single part or form of Soap that he wouldn't want. He's just getting increasingly less sure that Soap is ever going to offer him that opportunity.
"Reckon it would've been easier for Price, he's better at this sort of thing." Ghost ruminates. "What about it, Gaz, wanna swap? Fancy a shag?"
Gaz barks out a laugh and Ghost pretends, badly, to be wounded by it.
"Oh please." Gaz rolls his eyes. "I like 'em a little more rugged." He adds, insult to injury, "And I'm a felid, and you aren't enough of a masochist to enjoy my cock." Ghost chokes out a laugh which he buries behind his tumbler.
"Oh well." Ghost heaves a sigh and then bodily shoves Gaz off the bench. "Pining it is then."
Gaz swears at him colourfully as he stands, but also leans down to bump his head gently against Ghost's in that way you have to get used to when you let any sort of cat hybrid into your life. Ghost leans into it and then turns just as Price gets to the table.
"You just assault my boyfriend?" He asks.
"Yeah." Ghost grins, taking the sharp swipe to the back of the head he receives in good part.
"Little cunt." Price tells him, only half joking, he's a protective bastard.
"And he propositioned me." Gaz says, just to stir. Well, partly just to stir, mostly for the dark and hungry look of jealousy that Price gets, no matter how much he knows Gaz is joking. He doesn't even bother answering, simply grabs Gaz by the arm and drags him away to the bathrooms while Ghost and Soap chuckle softly at the display.
As they trail off Soap shuffles from foot to foot, looking awkward.
"Sit down." Ghost offers, and it's just enough of an order that Soap scowls and makes a point of leaning on the table instead. "Buy you a drink?" Ghost tries.
"I'll do it." Soap tells him, and turns on his heel.
For all that he knows it's wildly cliche, Ghost really does love the view as Soap walks away and leans on the bar. His t-shirt is just tight enough for Ghost to be able to see the knobs of his spine, a little more prominent than one might expect from a man that well muscled. His jeans are painted on, showing off that gorgeous arse, his boots black and just heeled enough to make the lines of his body that much longer.
Ghost could stare at him all day. He could stare at him all day in a potato sack, in fairness, and not like the view any less.
He's furious about it. This stupid infatuation. This cheap desire that has somehow simmered and burned itself out of control, a constant roiling in his gut.
And he could have Soap, really have him, if only he could prove how much he wants him.
For now, he thinks as Soap comes back with their drinks and actually does sit down beside him, for now he'll settle for as much as he can get.
It turns out, Ghost thinks several hours later as last call is ending and the two of them are being ushered out of the closing pub, that as much as he can get is actually quite a lot. They've only had two pints, what with the mission tomorrow, but when Ghost let his hand rest casually on Soap's knee he'd blushed as if he was far drunker.
By the second hour Soap had been leaning into him, eyes bright and a smile that could almost be called desire playing prettily on the corners of his mouth.
Ghost knows arousal when he sees it too, and he'd seen it on Soap's face when he'd let his hand drift higher, let it squeeze at the solid muscle of Soap's thigh. It had been buried almost as soon as it had flickered into life, Soap smothering it beneath carefully crafted friendliness. He'd shifted and Ghost had let his hand fall away, had carried on speaking as though nothing had happened.
It hurt that Soap had looked so grateful for that.
'He's not a confident man', that's what Gaz had said.
"You know I don't think I've ever seen eyes like yours." Ghost says, leaning closer and relishing the way Soap leans closer too, like a moth to a flame. He means it, the blue is a pearlescent, shifting thing. Up really close Soap's pupils aren't truly round either, there's a strange wobble to them that Ghost knows means they must be very different when he's fully shifted, the way goat shifters have square pupils that lengthen into rectangles.
"I shouldn't think so." Soap says, already squirming uncomfortably, as though bracing for a hit.
"They're amazing." Ghost tells him, "I could look at them forever." Soap's eyelids flutter softly, his mouth dropping open before he shuts his eyes and turns his face away. Ghost catches his chin between thumb and finger and turns his face back ever so gently.
"Oi, lovebirds, pub's closing and you need to be on your way." Soap pulls away properly and Ghost scowls up at the landlady, who doesn't look the least apologetic and in fact looks utterly bored by the whole interaction. "Out." She repeats, "Now."
"C'mon, Ghost." Soap mutters, sliding out the booth and leaving a long strip of cool air along Ghost's side. He runs boiling hot, Ghost notices now that his warmth is gone, several degrees hotter than a normal human. Certainly hotter than any of the mammal hybrids Ghost has ever spent much time around.
"Fine." He answers, glaring at the utterly unphased proprietor as he slides from the booth and lands a hand on Soap's shoulder, unwilling to lose that last tether just yet.
He walks Soap as far as his door, long since having let go of any hope he might be invited inside. Still, he wants this rare closeness that Soap is allowing to last as long as he can get away with. They've walked largely in silence, since coming back through the barrack gates. Ghost had traced a thumb across the top of Soap's spine, along the skin above the neck of his t-shirt, and Soap had immediately flushed a red so bright Ghost can see it even in the low evening light.
"I had fun tonight, Ghost." Soap says, leaning a shoulder against the door jamb.
"Yeah?" Ghost lets a little tease float into his voice. He's pleased, embarrassingly so, and he refuses to hide that from Soap.
"Don't let it go to your head." Soap rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his mouth.
"Too late." Ghost leans in to whisper that into Soap's ear and enjoys the shiver that runs through Soap when he does. Notes the way Soap's goosebumps feel under his hand, a little larger, more discernible than a human's, maybe.
"Goodnight, Ghost." Soap says pointedly.
"Goodnight." Ghost grins, an answer to the one on Soap's face. He slides his hand away, letting it trail across Soap's shoulder just to feel the strength in the muscle there. He doesn't move away though. If Soap wants to call it a night, he's going to have to be the one to do it.
"Right then." Soap says. "Goodnight."
"Night." Soap rolls his eyes again - he's going to sprain them one of these days - and opens his door. Mutters something that sounds like 'idiot' and throws one more quick smile Ghost's way before he's closing the door between them. Ghost lets his head fall forward to rest on the wood, grin so wide it aches a little.
That was flirting. Soap had flirted with him.
"Ghost, I can see you through the peephole." Comes Soap's voice, muffled through the door.
"Why were you looking?" Ghost teases.
"Good. Night." Is all Soap says, and Ghost goes, throwing his hands up in surrender as he does.
The next morning Soap brings a travel mug of tea for Ghost to drink along with briefing, as is their usual ritual. This time, when he hands it over, their fingers brush together and Ghost gets a hint of that glorious heat even through his gloves. Soap stays by his side, shoulders bumping together. Ghost notes with a great deal of pleasure that Soap's sitting on one edge of his chair so that they're closer. Ghost rewards him by leaning into him, letting some of his weight fall onto Soap's more than capable shoulders.
He glances down a few times during the meeting to look at the doodles Soap is sketching around the edges of his mission brief. There's weapon schematics and bomb components. There's a few drawings of Ghost, scattered among the rest, mostly of the mask but there is one cartoon face with scars suspiciously similar to Ghost's.
Most interesting, though, are all the images of the sea. There's a pirate ship and a treasure chest in one corner; spilling out of the chest are all manner of jewellery and shells and trinkets. Swimming among the treasure are a variety of fish and eels and what looks like a very angry crab. They're detailed, all of these, so well done they could be in a textbook. Soap must have spent a long time studying them, to draw them this well. Then again, Ghost supposes he did grow up on the Scottish coast, hardly surprising he'd have developed any sort of affinity for the ocean.
They're headed to an oil rig for the coming mission, Ghost wonders if Soap is excited for a chance to be near the ocean again.
Maybe, if they get any down time from their base on the Mexican coast, Ghost will drag Soap to the beach. Make him teach Ghost about all the things he loves. Ghost has never been great with deep water, but he thinks with Soap to hold his hand it mightn't be so bad.
Soap falls into place behind Ghost easily. Price and Gaz should be infiltrating the other side of the oil rig as they speak, but they've gone dark. Last thing the four of them need is the enemy picking up comms traffic not intended for them.
"We get in, set the charges, get out," Price said just before infil. Soap had walked Gaz through the steps to set the charges at least five times, then made Gaz repeat it all back to him until they were both sick of hearing it. He then did the same with Price, just in case something happened to one of them. By the time he'd turned to walk Ghost through it, the man repeated it back to him flawlessly, having been listening the entire time.
Smug bastard.
Ghost stops in front of him, holding up a fist, meaning they'll be waiting where they are until some danger Soap can't see passes. He looks down, through the metal grates beneath his feet. Hundreds of feet below them the ocean is beginning to stir; foamy white caps just starting to appear on the swells below. Soap looks to his right—West, and can't see the setting sun for the dark wall of clouds that's lazily rolling their way.
He nudges Ghost and waits about thirty seconds before the man turns his head, regarding Soap from over his shoulder. Soap only tilts his head in the direction of the storm and watches as Ghost's amber eyes flick that way. He doesn't say a word, but he does heave a long but quiet sigh. From anyone else, Soap wouldn't consider that a response, but from Ghost he knows exactly what it means. They're already pressed for time with this mission and the storm is only narrowing that window further.
If there's anything they can't fight, can't change, it's mother nature herself.
Ghost's focus returns in front of him, and now Soap can hear two guards talking on the deck below as they casually walk by. Neither of them are in uniform, and don't have weapons. Given the hour and their unhurried pace, Soap figures they're heading towards whatever mess hall they may have on this rig. He watches as they walk beneath them, completely unaware of their presence.
The predator in him can't deny the inherent thrill of having prey so close; the satisfaction of remaining undetected is a high he'll never get sick of. It's something he believes Ghost must relate to, at least on some level. Though he's strictly human, Ghost is stealthier by far than any other Soap has met. It's probably why he's so pathetically infatuated with the man. He mentally shakes himself, returning to the mission at hand as he and Ghost both watch the men beneath them until they enter a door and are out of sight.
Then they move.
As one they silently make their way to the first beam where Soap is to plant charges. He drops to his knees, quickly working to attach the charge to the bottom of a fuse box where it won't be noticed while Ghost stands guard. It takes him less than a minute and then they're moving again, the silent pressure to work as fast and as flawlessly as possible a palpable tension between them.
It takes nearly seven minutes to reach their next target. They had to pause and wait on another guard except this time, he was on the same walkway as Soap and Ghost. Ghost had turned suddenly, snatching Soap by the front of his tac vest and shoving him backwards into an equipment locker and closing the door. Then Ghost disappears.
Soap knows better than to move when Ghost puts him somewhere, so he stays still, watching through the little slits in the locker as an armed guard saunters by. Which confuses Soap. According to their intel there shouldn't be any armed personnel on this level. They've been meticulously sifting through satellite images for weeks to ensure they knew the guards' patterns. Up until right now, there hadn't ever been a guard on this level.
It makes him uneasy.
But the man walks by casually, without incident, and doesn't seem to be on particularly high alert according to his body language. Soap tells himself maybe this is simply the quickest way to his assigned station for the day, nothing more.
A low whistle calls him out of the locker and, as he pokes his head out, he finds Ghost standing in a shadowed alcove not far off. It's dark, too dark for anyone with human eyes to see him there. But, for Soap, it's no problem. Something Ghost likely knew from their time spent together. Quickly Soap makes his way over and looks at the small tablet in Ghost's hands.
It's their model of the rig and, as he looks where Ghost is pointing, then to the wall across from them Ghost points at, he realizes they're on the opposite side of the beam Soap originally planned to set his charge. He pulls off a glove and zooms in on the model on the screen, doing some quick mental calculations and looking at it from every conceivable angle, trusting Ghost is keeping watch while he does so.
Eventually he looks up and nods. "It'll do," he whispers, but waits for Ghost's nod of approval.
"On you," Ghost nods once.
Soap turns and looks at the wall, trying to find a place he can conceal the charge long enough for them to get off the rig and to a safe distance. Ghost snaps from off to his right, then points to a small vent once he has Soap's attention. Together they pry the vent cover loose and Soap sets the charge inside. Ghost crams the vent cover back into position enough that someone walking by likely won't notice.
"Last one," Ghost says, knocking Soap on the shoulder as he walks past.
They make their way to the final charge's destination and Soap sets it without incident. Then they turn and begin heading to their exfil point where they'll meet up with Price and Gaz. It all goes flawlessly and Soap is more than a little relieved when he spots Gaz's red eyeshine in some shadows across the last walkway.
Soap and Gaz both wait for Price and Ghost to give the command to move forward. It's nearly dark now and they should have enough cover to exfil undetected.
Hopefully.
Gaz's reflective eyes dart out over the choppy surface of the water and Soap can see him watching something, something Soap can't see yet. It's likely Gaz can't even see them yet, he'd probably only heard some gear rustling. He wouldn't have heard their wings.
Soap allows his pupils to shift and he spots the owls the same time Gaz does. There are four of them. The largest is a dark mottled gray colour and will be Ghost's. It's considerably larger than the other three though all of them sport a reinforced harness that the 141 will clip into. The next largest owl is more resemblant of an eagle than an owl with its pointed, angular face and dark brown feathers and will be carrying Price. The other two owls are similar in size and colour, though they have repeatedly informed Soap they are not the same type. They're both a mousey brown with gray dappled throughout and have long feathers that seem almost as if they have ears on the top of their heads. They will be carrying Soap and Gaz respectively.
They're Class 5 hybrids, just like Soap, and their ability to fly silently and carry heavier loads than most other flighted hybrids makes them an invaluable tool for tricky infil and exfil.
Price and Ghost give the signal to move forward and, just as they're taking the first steps, Soap spots something.
He hadn't noticed it before, too distracted watching the owls approaching. But now he sees it. On the other side of the gangway, one of the sections of handrails is a different colour than the others. It's only off by a shade, maybe two, and Soap likely wouldn't have noticed it at all if he hadn't shifted his pupils. But now that he has, he can see the metal grate that makes up the floor is also just a shade different than the rest.
Soap watches Gaz and Price step onto that section of the walkway in slow motion, sees Ghost's foot as it touches the same section of metal at the same time.
Soap shouts in the same instant he reaches for Ghost, blowing their cover but at the moment, he can't be pressed to care.
Because the gangway has been rigged to collapse and is plummeting out from underneath their feet.
His shout is enough to warn Gaz, ever quick on his feet, and Soap sees him snatch Price by the vest and leap to safety just in time. But he turns his focus away, to Ghost, who is falling ahead of him, hurtling towards the water below. Out of the corner of his eye he sees two of the owls diving for them; a last ditch effort to reach them. But they veer off at the last second to avoid being crushed by the thousands of pounds of metal hurtling towards the water behind them.
If Soap doesn't act fast, he and Ghost will get pinned beneath the walkway as it sinks to the ocean floor.
He can see Ghost trying to right himself enough to hit the water feet first, but he doesn't have enough time. His angle of entry is poor, and he knows it judging by the way he brings his arms up to shield his head. Soap is shifting then without giving much conscious thought to it. Yes, he worries it will change the way his team sees him, but he'd rather have to transfer out of the 141 than live with the fact that he could have done something more and didn't.
He won't be a coward.
He knows he won't be able to live with himself should something happen to Ghost that he could have prevented. So he shifts, allowing his body to take on its most natural form.
Time seems to slow as his body changes; what only takes a second feels as if it takes several minutes.
It doesn't hurt, though by all appearances it absolutely should. But Soap feels his body growing, stretching to more than double its usual length. As his legs shift, he feels his trousers rip and fray. His tentacles shoot out, ripping the tattered clothes from him and slinging his boots off to fall somewhere into the sea below. Soap's gear, vest, and clothes are all ripped from him too—the tentacles working with a mind of their own to free him from the confines of clothes not made to fit his shifted form. The only pain John feels is a slight ache in his jaw as his head shifts; but it's fleeting, and his shift is complete before they even hit the water.
The smaller tentacles on his face wrap protectively around his mouth and eyes just as his other tentacles group together tightly, forming a point where he'll hit the water. Falling from this high, he knows there will likely be damage. At this point, all he can do is mitigate it.
Ghost hits the water first, at an odd angle but not nearly as bad as Soap thought it would be. Soap rockets into the water after him, a tentacle reaching out to wrap around Ghost's torso and yank him deeper on his way by.
Soap's only concern is getting them out of the path of the tons of metal that's just crashed into the water behind them. Ghost is limp in his grip, a fact Soap tries not to focus on as he rapidly propels them deeper, swimming at an angle until he's fairly sure they're well clear of the debris raining down through the water.
The second John knows they won't get trapped by any sinking metal, he gets them to the surface. A tentacle rips Ghost's mask off as he does, unwilling to let the man drown in it. That same tentacle works at getting Ghost's vest and gear off too while Soap uses his hands to shake and prod at Ghost, hoping to illicit some kind of a response from him. The rest of Soap's tentacles focus on swimming out of there as fast as they can.
In the distance Soap can see the four owls flying in the opposite direction, Price and Gaz peppering gunfire back towards the oil rig as they go. There's shouting above them, and Soap looks up just in time to see the muzzle of a gun pointing in his own direction.
Without a hope of rendezvousing with the others, and with enemy fire turning towards him, Soap holds Ghost tighter to his body and swims into the darkness as quick as he can. It's not as fast as he'd like; the sea is rough and Soap can smell rain in the distance. The current and waves pull his body to and fro, but he keeps his course.
He swims for hours through the storm without a response of any kind from Ghost. He keeps a tentacle held slightly aloft over Ghost's face, shielding it from the worst of the rain as he swims. The man is breathing and his pulse is steady; which leads John to assume his head hit the water, rendering him unconscious. He prays it isn't anything more than that. Using his arms and two of his tentacles, Soap has wrapped as much of Ghost's body in himself as he can. They're somewhere between the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean, so the water isn't cold and the rain is nearly as warm as the sea. But humans lose heat quickly in water and John's not going to take any chances. His shifted form runs even hotter than his human form does, and he knows he'll be able to keep Ghost warm until he can find somewhere safe for them.
Using the currents, Soap has been navigating them back towards the Caribbean, hopeful he'll find an island or atoll or something similar. He knows there are quite a few peppered throughout this region, and he's keen to get Ghost out of the water and to shelter. There's a small current he's been following that he thinks he remembers noticing in their briefing. With any luck, it will take them to a small string of islands where he can make do until help can arrive.
The rain has only just started to ease, and the current has just intensified slightly around Soap when Ghost shifts against him, grunting something incoherently.
"Easy," John murmurs, belatedly remembering he needs to uncover his mouth so he doesn't sound like he's talking with a mouthful of rocks. "Easy," he repeats. "I've got you."
Ghost tenses against him, tries to get his arms up and, when he finds he can't, he grunts a little more panicked sound. Soap releases his arms and moves the tentacle that had been shielding Ghost from the rain, and Ghost's hands immediately start feeling their way over his own body, up to Soap's hands. As soon as they make contact, Ghost pauses, pulling his hands away and Soap braces for the disgust he knows will come.
"S'ry," Ghost mumbles instead, letting his head fall back against Soap's chest.
"I'm the one should be apologizing," Soap sighs, watching the way his breath ruffles Simon's damp hair. "Took your mask off so ye wouldnae drown in it and now I dinnae where it's gone."
That gets an honest to God chuckle from Ghost and Soap could cry with relief at that. But the moment is short lived as Ghost goes limp again. Immediately Soap's feeling for a pulse, and finds it, steady and strong under his fingers.
"Yeah that's fine," he grouses with no heat to it. "I'll find us someplace, LT."
The rain stops completely and the sea slowly calms and Soap does eventually find them a place. The current he's found is the one he'd spotted from the maps in their briefings and it carries them to a series of small atolls. Soap takes his time surveying them, willing to spend the time to find the best one and not rush his decision. Ghost is going to need shelter while they wait for help, and he's not keen on trying to move the man from place to place if he can help it.
After a while he settles on the second largest atoll. It forms a ring with a deep blue pool in the middle and a thin strip of land around it. There are large piles of volcanic rock interspersed between the thick trees that grow on the atoll. Many of them are coconut trees and that plays a large factor in Soap's decision making.
While he can survive on seawater, Ghost cannot.
A cave made from the volcanic rock is what Soap eventually deems good enough. It faces towards the inside of the atoll, meaning anyone cruising by won't be able to see into it unless they round the island, giving Ghost and Soap ample time to hide themselves should they need. The water extends about halfway into the cave before sloping gently upwards to a small sandy beach. The sun is just beginning to rise, kissing the sand in the orange early morning light. Gently he drags himself and Ghost up the beach.
He gets Ghost settled, lying on his side in case he vomits when he wakes. During his swim, he hadn't realized one of his tentacles had held onto Ghost's vest and pack. Soap had belatedly thought about holding onto it as he'd ripped it from Ghost's body, knowing it would come in handy, but he hadn't honestly afforded too much thought to the matter in the moment. He'd been rather busy trying to keep them both from dying.
A little irritated that he hadn't had perfect control, he snatches the vest from the tentacle and bundles it underneath Ghost's head as a makeshift pillow. Checking Ghost's pulse one last time, Soap makes to leave the cave to see what he can find in the way of supplies when Ghost's eyes snap open.
When his eyes open the first thing Ghost thinks to be grateful for is the semi-dark he's in; his head fucking hurts and he's certain any light would only make it worse.
Then he sees the shadows shift in front of him, a roiling, thunderous undulation as they begin to take the form of something massive.
Someone massive.
And then they turn, a writhing nest of tentacles furling and unfurling over one another as they do, and Ghost knows those eyes. Even in the half dark, even with a head injury and probable concussion Ghost knows them.
He's looking at Soap, in his True Form, and Soap is looking back at him.
The wave of feeling - desire and awe - is too much for his stressed and injured body, Ghost supposes, because the warm hands of sleep are beginning to drag him back under. Just as his eyes slip shut he thinks, beneath the surprise in Soap's gaze, he sees something far worse.
He thinks he sees fear.
Soap sits in the corner of the cave farthest from the sunlight that's pouring in. It's sunset and the cave apparently faces west; meaning he's on full fucking display for Ghost whose eyes have just fluttered open again for the first time in hours.
For the first time since he saw Soap in his fully shifted form, tentacles and all.
It's been almost a full day of Ghost being unconscious. Soap has been worried sick, but Ghost's vitals have been strong every time Soap has ventured over to check, so there's been little else he can do.
Little else except apparently occupy himself, he thinks as he looks at the pile of stuff sitting not far from Ghost. The pile of, what can only be described as, loot. Because John had found a few shipwrecks around their atoll and in his plan to keep himself distracted until Simon woke up, he'd gotten curious. Nevermind the fact that he stopped to bring back loads of treasures that reminded him of Simon. He hadn't meant to the first few times; his tentacles had reached out and snatched an old knife with a mother of pearl inlay in the handle. He hadn't even realized he'd taken it until he got back to the cave and noticed his tentacle curled tightly around it.
Sure he'd thought about taking it, but hadn't actually intended to. John didn't want to try and explain to Simon why he felt so compelled to bring him gifts.
But there they all are in a rather substantial pile next to Simon. John can't help but feel like he could have done better, gotten him more treasures if he hadn't needed to continually come back to the cave to check that Simon was still alright.
Not that any of it will matter. As soon as Ghost is fully awake, it's all going to come crashing down around Soap.
Just like it has every time he's shown someone his True Form in the past.
Which was all of once as a teenager and then once again when he was tested for entry into the SAS. The officers testing him had seen all manner of hybrids, but even they couldn't hide their shock and disgust when Soap had shifted in front of them. A couple of them had even left the room rather quickly and simply never returned.
All of this influenced his decision to shift back to his human form for when Ghost woke up. So he wouldn't scare the man but also so that maybe they could go on pretending Ghost had simply never seen him in all his horrible glory. He'd rummaged around in Ghost's pack and found the man's extra pair of trousers and has them on now even though they're much too big.
He can see Simon's eyes as they slide open, squinting against the orange light of the sunset. They slip closed again almost immediately and Soap watches, fascinated, as Simon simply lays there and breathes. Before too long he notices his fingers wiggling, then subtle shifts of his arms, then his feet, and lower legs. A huff of appreciation leaves Soap as he realizes that Ghost is checking over himself for injuries before he tries getting up—endlessly thorough in everything he does.
"You all the way over there because I stink?" He asks, voice gruff with disuse.
"Minging," Soap fires back, relieved to see a smirk grace Simon's features.
Though he violently doesn't want to cross the space between them, his instincts push him to care for Simon. Before Soap can even fully process what he's doing, he's stood and picked up a coconut he'd cracked in half earlier and walks it over. Simon pushes himself up onto his elbows as he hears John coming, and gratefully takes the coconut as Soap stoops to offer it. Greedily he drinks all of it, and John can't help but watch the droplets that trail from his mouth off the edge of his chin a little too closely.
He's rarely afforded looks at Simon's bare face like this and, though he knows he shouldn't stare, he can't quite help himself.
Simon is staring right back at him. He doesn't mention anything though, and merely sits up more to take a second coconut Soap offers him and drinks that entire thing too.
"Got some fish," John mumbles, going back towards where he'd been seated earlier. He'd managed to catch some fish in one of the shipwrecks and brought it back to cook over an open flame once he'd realized Simon was beginning to stir. They're simply gutted and skewered, then roasted over the open flame until done. He takes them to Simon and watches, trying not to preen, as the man eats the whole lot, finally sitting back with a sigh as he places the last pin bone atop the small pile he's accumulated next to him.
"I was right, you know," Simon says, looking far too closely at John.
He doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to talk. All he wants is to disappear beneath the surface of the sea and wait somewhere Simon can't see him until someone comes to exfil them.
But he's always been a glutton for punishment.
"About what?" He asks.
"Never seen eyes like yours."
And there it is, flopping between them like a fish tossed onto a dock.
Some part of John had held onto the hope that Simon wouldn't remember what he saw earlier. But Soap's always had shit luck.
"How much did you see?" He manages to whisper, drawing his knees up to his chest and looking at the sand between them; can't bring himself to meet Simon's eyes.
Simon hums and is quiet for a moment before he speaks. "Not enough. Will you let me see you?"
John promised Price when he signed on with the 141 that if push came to shove, he would use his True Form. He would never deny Price or Ghost if they asked it of him. Over time he's grown to trust their judgment, grown to regard them and Gaz as family. Even grown to realize he's arse over end for Simon.
Soap would rather be shot at point blank range than let Simon see him in broad daylight in his True Form. But he's the one that's dragged Ghost here; he's the one that took his mask off him, leaving him exposed. He's the one that Simon's stuck with on this atoll and feels it's only fair that Simon know the full scope of what he's dealing with. That way, when he sends Soap away, he won't have to feel guilty about it.
So he stands, brushing at the sand on his trousers in a futile attempt to waste time as he jolts towards the sea.
Simon stands too, though John isn't sure why. As his feet reach the edge of the water he turns and glances over his shoulder towards Simon.
"Will ye turn around?"
Simon gives one nod and then dutifully turns. John lets his eyes linger over his tall form, in case this is the last he'll see of him before he shatters the careful reality they've built. Then, he sheds the trousers, tossing them back onto the dry sand, and steps out into the sea.
He tries to be quiet as he shifts, but producing ten tentacles from a human body generates quite a lot of. . . rather unsavoury noises. John can see Simon's head turn a fraction of an inch towards him, listening. He's sure that in any other circumstances he'd be making a joke about the noise but, thankfully, the man has half an ounce of tact in this moment and doesn't.
John doesn't venture very deep into the water, staying where Simon can see him from just below the waist up. It means he's mostly reclined on the sand, using his tentacles to brace himself upright. It's far more of himself than he'd like to show anyone, but he respects Ghost, cares for Simon too much than to make a mockery of him by not showing his full self. But Soap doesn't think he'll be able to stomach the look on Simon's face when he turns.
He allows himself that small bit of cowardice and lets one of the tentacles on his face come up to cover his own eyes.
"Johnny," Simon calls gently. It's been too long now, he knows. "Can I—"
"Aye," Soap whispers.
He hears the sand shifting, hears the sharp intake of breath and braces. But then it's silence. Not a breath of air moves inside the cave, and Simon doesn't make a sound. Until John hears a splash just in front of him, followed by another, then another. Then hands are on him. John instinctively jerks away, begins moving deeper out into the water where he can be away from Simon's gaze, where he can hide his shame in peace.
But the splashes only follow, accompanied by Simon grumbling for him to, "Wait a fucking second."
But John can't, won't stay and force himself to listen to whatever lecture Ghost has for him. He keeps going, deeper and deeper, but Simon is relentless. Soap is forced to use a tentacle to push the man back towards shore, and hears the gasp Simon lets out when it wraps around his arm in order to haul him back into shallower water.
"Let me go," John pleads, despite the fact he knows his tentacle is likely wrapped tightly enough around Simon's arm to bruise.
"You aren't listening to me," Simon snaps, trying to wrestle his arm out of John's tentacle and failing miserably.
"It's okay, sir," John mumbles, irritated when some of his tentacles reach out to try and pull Simon closer. Because truthfully, when Simon rejects him, John knows it's going to ruin him. "I'll just go. It's alright."
"You'll do no such thing," Simon commands, and instead of trying to fight Soap's tentacles anymore, he goes lax for a moment. Then, carefully, John can feel him tracing a gentle hand up the tentacle that's wrapped around his arm, pausing to feel at each of the suckers his hand passes as it travels higher and higher. "I want to look at you," Simon says, much softer now. "If you'll let me."
John doesn't respond to that, can't respond to that because there isn't a reality in which he won't do whatever Simon asks of him. Even if that's to his own detriment. So he stays still, trying to memorize the gentle way Simon's fingers are trailing up his tentacle that's still wrapped around his arm and thinks back to how his fingers trailed across the top of John's spine the previous night after they'd left the pub.
He'd thought initially that Ghost was drunk the way he was touching him. The hand on his thigh, inching higher, the way he's tilted John's face towards him to look at his eyes, the lingering touches in John's doorway back at base. It'd been too much and not enough all at once. Not enough because John hadn't wanted it to stop. He wanted to feel Simon's hands on every square inch of his body. But too much because John knows he can't have that, can't allow that. Because he's been keeping a rather large secret from Ghost all this time.
John knows Simon wouldn't want to touch him if he knew what John was. . . is.
Or at least, he thought he knew that. But Simon is now crawling over his tentacles in an effort to get closer. John thinks to push him away, has a tentacle up and wrapped around his leg with the intent to drag the man all the way back to the beach. But he can't bring himself to do it; instead just relishes in the gentle warmth that seeps into his skin through Simon's trousers. John has to actively fight with his tentacles to keep them from reaching out and enveloping Simon because he's greedy, and his tentacles tend to follow his base desires and instincts without him thinking much about what they're doing.
He can control them, but dealing with ten limbs that each have a mind of their own isn't a precise science so much as it is a rough approximation. And right now, John doesn't really know what he wants, whether that's to push Ghost away or pull him close and never let go.
But his mental battle comes to a grinding halt when there's a gentle hand on his chin, exactly like it had been the previous night when they were sat in the booth in the dingy pub lighting. On instinct, Soap has flattened his spines close to his body, and keeps his hands and claws well away from Simon on the off chance he catches him or a tentacle accidentally pulls him in.
"Told you I could look at those eyes forever and now you've gone and covered them up," Simon murmurs, holding John's chin still.
He feels a finger run, feather light across the tentacle that Soap still has covering his eyes and he shudders. The traitorous tentacles that have been covering the rest of his face begin to reach for Simon, the tips of them up and searching for the man's fingers and John finds he's powerless to stop them. . . maybe doesn't really want to stop them.
Simon lets out a small huff of a laugh as they brush against his hand experimentally, then begin wrapping around his hand, intertwining with his fingers. His hands are rough and calloused, the skin hard from years of harsh work and conditions. But his grip is gentle, soft in a way that makes John's chest ache as he feels of the tentacles just as much as they feel of him. After a few moments of this, John finds himself thoroughly embarrassed again, and his tentacles retreat to again wrap around his face, clamping tight over his mouth.
Letting out an appreciative sound, Simon's finger again traces across the singular tentacle covering Soap's eyes.
"Guess I'm not the only one who wears a mask, eh?"
Despite his best efforts to tamp it down, to control himself, Soap feels his body break out in goosebumps, which for him means his entire texture briefly shifting to appear prickly, running in shivers across his torso and down to the tips of his tentacles. As if that weren't jarring enough his colours go haywire with it, technicolour splotches blinking in and out before he can wrangle his chromatophores back under control.
"Didn't know you came with a seizure warning," Simon says once Soap has finally got himself to a nice, stable and smooth moss green. He says it as he huffs around a laugh and the statement is so stupid, so Simon that it gets a frantic little chuckle from John too, dissolving a bit of the tension that's been holding him back.
"Let me see your eyes?" Ghost asks, using the barest hint of pressure at the tip of his finger to curl under the tip of Soap's tentacle. But he doesn't pull, doesn't force, simply waits there for Soap to decide.
The tentacle decides for him, and chases more contact with Simon's finger, peeling itself off John's eyes as it goes. He blinks a little as that tentacle follows Simon's hand and retreats away from his eyes.
"There he is," Ghost sighs, looking directly into Soap's eyes in a way nobody ever has before; not in his True Form at least.
And. . . he doesn't look away. Simon simply keeps staring into his eyes, his own honey gold eyes soft around the edges in something that can only be described as fondness.
"Ye can still run for the hills," Soap grumbles, looking away first. "Or the sand, I suppose. I'm no good on land really."
"Do I look like I want to run?" Ghost asks, again bringing his hand around to take Soap gently by the chin, bringing him back around to face him.
Soap realizes too late that he's allowed himself to relax just a little too much. That, by relaxing even a fraction, his spines have also relaxed and must now be visible because Simon's gaze immediately snaps to the ones on the top of John's head.
As if he's drawn to them by a siren song, Ghost's hand lifts as he reaches for the venomous spines.