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Roach.
A military base is a busy place.
He remembers that, despite it all. Despite two years in captivity, despite the six months of torture before he’d do what they wanted. He remembers that his base was always moving. A bee hive of activity, even at night.
That hasn’t changed. Two years, but it hasn’t changed.
As the helicopter starts to lower, going in for a landing, Roach watches as the busy bees come to a halt on the tarmac. They’ve heard, then.
Simon is next to him, eyes wide, staring at Roach like he’s staring at a god. Impossible to be here, back from the dead. Ethereal, that’s the word maybe.
He’s different. Simon’s eyes are darker and his shoulders carry a heavier load, but his skin is the same, his scars laid permanent on his skin, his past still strong as his shadow.
Roach's head hurts. The burns on his arm are all throbbing, and his wrist has turned to a dull, constant ache. The bomb he planted didn’t leave him unscathed.
He glances at Simon, checks that he’s still there, breathing, whole, armed, dangerous.
Simon wanted to keep a hand on Roach’s back, hold him there. Roach nearly stabbed him. No hands, no hands.
Why?
Don’t touch me.
The helo goes achingly slow towards the tarmac. Roach looks down at the figures, the eyes that must be gazing up at him, the mouths that are surely talking about him.
He wonders if he’ll be allowed to come back. He wonders if he wants to.
The military will want answers from him, what happened, where were you, did you betray us? Did you kill our soldiers? Do you work for them now?
He’ll tell them the truth. I saved soldiers' lives. I sabotaged every ‘assignment’ they sent me on, I got civilians out, they weren’t concerned with the military, they just wanted a soldier to do their dirty work.
The lights of the base are glittering halos against the night. Roach squints.
He remembers hearing Simon’s voice over the SAS’ comm channel.
“Lt. Riley, explosive device on the first floor.”
“Knew I should’ve brought Soap.”
Roach wonders if he’s down there.
.
He tells Simon the same things he tells the med staff, and the same things he tells the investigators.
They wanted soldiers, not for their knowledge of the military but for their physical skills. Roach wasn’t the only one. There’s plenty others, different ranks, different nationalities, different skills.
Roach was lucky. He was just a grunt. The others— snipers, engineers, EOD techs — they got used more often. They were under stricter control.
Control is a tough word. It’s the best way he can describe it.
They were all tortured, in the beginning. Very basic things, never hurt too bad. Then came the sensory deprivation, the touch starvation followed by hands hands hands that grabbed and scraped and twisted. Then the drugs.
The drugs were the worst of it. The drugs is what got most of them.
The haze it put over his thoughts, the general confusion. It was like walking around in a mist. Unable to think, unable to fight back. He didn’t even know he was supposed to fight back most of the time.
They did things, under those drugs. They made Roach do things, and he only remembers some of them. But it was only exercises. He never killed anyone under the influence. He just…basic things. Target practice. Hand to hand combat. Eating, sleeping, running.
All to get them used to it. Doing things without thinking, without knowing. So when the time came, and they were mostly sober, it was the same. Act without thinking, listen without really hearing. Do as you're told, you’re rewarded.
Try to escape, you’re killed if you’re lucky.
To make it easier, they weren’t allowed to talk. Cruel muzzles were used when they didn’t listen. After a while, he got used to it.
Which is to say he doesn’t tell the investigators all this, he doesn’t speak the words. He can’t, even if he wanted to. He’s been mute for so long it’s…he’s not sure he remembers how.
They get an interpreter for sign language once he gets to the base infirmary. He writes down answers to the investigators questions.
He gets sent to a military hospital for psychiatric treatment and close monitoring of his burns.
.
Roach is back for exactly three weeks when he meets Sergeant MacTavish.
Sgt. Soap, the recruits call him. Johnny, to Simon.
Roach still isn’t cleared for duty, but it’s coming. Another week, maybe, and he’ll be able to take the PT test. He doesn’t expect to fail. Neither does Captain Price.
Roach can’t imagine the test will be anything harder than what he’s been doing for the last couple years.
MacTavish rounds the corner of the brick building that Roach is currently hiding behind. His hands are shaking. He hasn’t seen Roach yet, but Roach can see him, and his brain quickly categorizes the emotions on his face, a reflex at this point.
Anger. Confusion. Hurt. Surprise.
Betrayal.
Roach frowns, sitting taller. He doesn’t know MacTavish, not in any real way, but he knows of him. Simon talks about him all the time, and he doesn’t even realize it. It would anger Simon to know that someone has hurt his Johnny.
The emotions change when he sees Roach sitting on the ground. Wary. Hesitant. Suspicious.
Guarded, very quickly, once he sees Roach. Stops dead in his tracks, looking at him. Walls up.
Roach decides that he likes him.
“Sorry,” MacTavish says, stepping back. “I—” he takes a step back, hands up as if to fend off an attack. Roach narrows his eyes, trying to decipher the body language.
He’s clearly still upset. Probably came here to be alone. Something has happened. Simon said he was going to talk to MacTavish.
“Stay?”
Roach’s voice is ragged and thin. He’s not used to using it. Not used to wanting to use it.
MacTavish freezes. Surprise. Wary. Confused. “…you want me to?”
He likes the sound of MacTavish's voice. Johnny. Sgt. Soap. He nods. The Scot comes closer, stuffing his hands in his pockets. They were still shaking. He came here because he couldn’t go to the gun range, which means Simon is there.
Simon, what did you do?
“Not okay.”
MacTavish blinks at him funny. “Me?”
Roach nods. Signs me too quickly. Soap watches, blue eyes, curious, wary, interested. “Lt. said you didn’t talk much when you were MIA. I don’t…I don’t really know sign language.”
Roach signs again, slow. “Is— me too.”
MacTavish copies the hand motion, slow. Then he does it again, and again. Memorizing. “You, uh…why’re you here?”
“Space.” Roach signs as he talks. MacTavish watches his hands intently. “From— L-T?” Roach doesn’t know Simon as a Lieutenant. It’s strange to him, that MacTavish only knows him as such.
“Space from Lt.” MacTavish does a wry smile. Irony? Resignation. Then he holds up a hand and signs. Me too.
Oh.
“He say— mean?” Roach curses his brain. Words feel clumsy on his lips, thoughts disjointed. It’s been longer— three months? Since they freed him. Three months since Simon found him. Only three weeks on base, but three months, and he still can’t talk right, if he’s talking at all.
MacTavish gesture to the ground next to Roach, a question. Roach nods, and the other man sinks to the damp grass with a groan. “Was about you, actually.”
Roach isn’t surprised. He loves Simon — loved, now, maybe, because Simon is different — but he’s just as stubborn and dense about his feelings as ever.
Simon has spent nearly every waking minute of the last three weeks with Roach. And nearly every time he talks, it’s about Johnny.
Me and Johnny, we went to Mexico—
Johnny, he makes a pipe bomb in about thirty seconds—
I got Johnny a new knife, one of ours, you know? He needed it.
Roach never once felt jealous. Just intrigued. He wanted to meet this magical person who could be exactly what Simon needed. He wanted to see this John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, wanted to see him work his magic on Simon. Wants to know how he does it.
But all that talk, all that time with Roach, meant there wasn’t any time with MacTavish.
“You love him.” Roach says, an observation, a recognition. Roach loves Simon too, loves the Simon he left. He sees the same love in this man’s eyes.
“And he loves you.” Soap replies, anger, betrayal, hurt hurt hurt. “He told me— you’re back, and you need him, and I…I’m not it, I guess. Not for him.”
Lies. Roach thinks, signs it. He’s a liar. “He wants…idea of me. Memory of me.”
That’s the truth, really. Simon doesn’t know Roach, not who he is now, and Roach, Roach only knows a Simon before betrayal, before the coffin and the dirt under his nails.
Simon wants back what they had, but that is gone, and Soap is here now.
“Maybe.” Soap shrugs, yes, Roach will use Soap instead of MacTavish. Soap is more real. Soap is tangible, Soap is someone that Roach can know, can touch, can see without memories hanging over his shoulder, clouding his gaze.
“Soap.” Roach tries it out on his tongue, makes the sign. “Soap. I know.”
Soap shrugs. “Well, he doesn’t want to see me, anyway.”
“Stuborrn. Confused.” Roach thinks about it. “Asshole.”
Soap tips his head back and laughs, a loud startling sound. Roach feels his heart slam against his ribcage at it.
“Suppose I ought to introduce myself,” Soap sighs, but it’s fond. Comfortable. Resigned. Okay. “Sergeant John MacTavish.”
Roach grins and shakes his hand. “I know.”
.
You. Apologize.
Simon balks at him, an eyebrow ticking upwards. “What’d I do?”
Fucking asshole to your boyfriend.
His gaze softens. “Bug, I didn’t mean it like that—”
Not me, you shit head! Roach’s hands move quick, and Simon is rusty at his BSL. Lucky for Roach, his anger is coming through in his face and movements. Your boyfriend. Soap. Johnny. Your Johnny.
Simons face does something complicated under the mask. Simon shifts his gaze to the other person in the room.
Captain Price seems to have understood Roach just fine. He looks at Simon, a dangerous glint to his eye. “I told you, Simon.”
“Roach needed—”
“Roach is just fine!” The Captain snaps. “I told you that, he told you that. You never talked to Soap did you?”
Simon at least has the grace to look embarrassed. Good. Soap deserves better than that. Soap even said that he understood, that he understands that Ghost is going through something that there’s no playbook for. A lover coming back from the dead, of course Soap expected things to be different.
But Simon never talked to Soap. Never said anything. Thus warranting Roach barging into the Captain’s office to yell at Simon, even if the conversation with Soap has sapped up his ability to speak.
Yes, Simon thought Roach was dead, yes, that’s a lot for Simon to handle, but discarding Soap like he only ever was some placeholder? No. Not okay.
He signs the last part; more emotion flitting across Simon’s eyes. Shock, horror, guilt, fear. Denial denial denial.
“I didn’t— did Soap tell you that?”
He didn’t have to! You spent all your time with me! Soap never did tell Roach what Simon said to him, but he was shaking, Roach saw him. Roach let him talk, and then Soap stopped shaking, and they went to the mess hall for early dinner together.
Roach saw just a glimmer of the brilliance that is Sergeant John MacTavish, and he understood why Captain Price chose him for the 141. He saw some of that magic, and he got so fucking angry at Simon for daring to neglect that.
Three weeks, you are with me. Then you’re mad that he’s mad at you? Months I’m in the hospital, did you talk to him then?
“He said—”
Don’t care. Roach is about to smack him. No excuse. Apologize.
“But—“
“Riley,” Price growls. Christ, Simon actually looks cowed. Maybe the Captain has some of that magic too. ”I won’t have a repeat of last year. You remember our deal.”
“I got it, Captain.” Simon deflates. “Okay. Okay? I’ll talk to him Bug.”
Promise.
“Promise,” Big brown doe eyes look at him. “I’ll talk to him.”
T-A-L-K. Not argue. Talk.
“No arguing. Promise.”
Good. Roach nods at the Captain. Make sure?
“You bet your ass.” He grumbles, snapping a glare to Simon. “Me and you are going to have a conversation.”
“I said I would— wait, Roach!”
Roach shuts the door behind him, a warmth in his cheeks. Smiling. Happy with himself.
Been a long time since he’s felt that.
.
Soap practices punches without wrapping his hands. He also punches wrong.
Roach watches his fists fly against the bag, knuckles already split. His form isn’t bad, exactly, it’s just not right for his build. He’s punching like he’s Simon. He should drive through his hips more, turn his leg too.
There’s emotions coming off the other man in waves— anger, frustration, hurt — but it’s all a bit more complicated than that. A few days ago, when they saw each other, it was anger at Simon. This time it seems more at himself. Frustration with himself, hurt still, and anger that he’s hurting.
Roach catches the bag after a particularly hard kick. Soap stumbles back a few steps, eyes wide. Surprise. Embarrassment? Shame.
“Sorry, didnae see ya there.”
His accent comes out more when he’s tired. Roach slips around the bag and stands in front of Soap. Holds out a hand.
Soap looks between Roach’s face and his hand — confused, wary, unsure — but ultimately gives him a fist. Roach skims over his bloody knuckles, shooting Soap a flat look, watching his cheeks flush. “Aye, you’re almost as bad as Si—”
Roach looks up as Soap’s voice breaks. He knows Simon talked to Soap. He also knows it didn’t go well.
They talked, like Simon promised. But Soap made some very good points, said things that Simon couldn’t argue with. Soap broke things off. Or— what did Simon say? Taking a break. Until Sanderson gets settled.
Roach thinks that it was a very mature decision on Soap’s end, and a very nice way of telling Simon to get his shit together.
He also thinks— knows, now— that Soap didn’t want to do that. It’s very obvious from the way he’s been acting, and this— well, this is just stupid.
He doesn’t have a voice tonight. Hasn’t been able to find the words for the last few days, but he wants to help Soap. He recognizes a part of himself in the other man. Wants to make it better for him.
Roach molds Soap’s fingers into a fist, making sure his fingers are tucked. Then he pulls Soap towards him, extends his arm in a jab. Soap’s body moves automatically, as he’s been taught, and Roach shakes his head.
Soap tilts his head at him like a dog trying to understand a cue. “What?”
You. Roach points. Hit. Like this. He turns so he’s mirroring Soap’s stance, then punches forward, driving through his hips more and letting his leg rotate. Just like before, when Soap was watching him sign, he watches him now, eyes bright and interested and intense.
“Dunnae ken if I can move ma’ leg like tha’.” Soap nods, but seems to be picking up what Roach is laying down. “Like this?” He tries it, and gets it nearly perfect on the first try. Roach grins, thumbs up. Again. Repeat. He signs, then, slow, careful, caution.
Soap opens his mouth as if to ask a question, but shuts it quickly. He practices a jab, and Roach watches as he quickly becomes more comfortable with it. Roach shows him a cross, then the combo. Rotate, rotate, rotate. He moves his hands, points to Soap’s hips. Drive through.
Just because it works for Simon, doesn’t mean it’ll work for you. Just because Simon showed you that, doesn’t mean you have to do it.
He wraps Soap’s hands before letting him back at the punching bag, and this time when he goes off in a set, the emotions have all changed. No longer anger and regret but excitement, challenge, eagerness.
Roach smiles to himself as he wraps his own hands. Soap is so light on his feet, dancing around the bag and being so quick with his combos. Simon fights with his upper body, uses his chest, his shoulders. But Simon is built for that.
Soap is shorter, his center of gravity is lower, and he fights better using his legs and core like this.
Good to know, Roach figures, finding his own punching bag and warming up. There’s a lot of good things he just learned. That Soap has had knee injuries, for one, but that his left knee is much better than his right. That he tends to self-injure in an effort to regain control. That he’s used to coming to the gym at 0300 to hit that bag, because the lights are off, but he didn’t stumble once.
Good to know that Soap is still willing to learn, even if it’s from him, someone he doesn’t know, someone who he thinks is stealing is his boyfriend and his spot on his team.
An hour later they’re done, Roach panting with exertion and flying high with natural endorphins. His set was familiar, the same combination of move he was taught and forced to practice, again and again and again until he could do it without thinking, without knowing.
Every once in a while though, he’d break out of his concentration to watch Soap. To see that excited glint in his eye, to revel in the knowledge that Roach is the one who gave him that joy.
Me. You. Here again. Tomorrow.
“Back tomorrow?” Soap guesses, then lights up in a grin when he gets it right. “Yes. Yeah, I mean, if Ghost— yeah.”
Yes. Yes!
.
He passes his PT test with flying colors. The psych test goes well too, although they’re hesitant to say he’s ready for the field. Price doesn’t want him with the team until they can figure out a system for communication, because if Roach can’t talk, he can’t call for help, and if he can’t call for help, then he can get people killed.
He commits to continue going to therapy twice a week, and he’s working with a speech therapist when he can. Some days he has had to cancel because he just— he can’t do it. He can’t make his voice work.
Some days he can though, and the first time he finds himself talking is after the fifth middle of the night training session with Soap. They went hand to hand this time. Roach is bruised and sweaty and dirty from rolling around on the mat, and he’s got a ridiculous smile on his face when he gets back to Simon’s room.
Simon is awake.
“Sneaking off to train with my sergeant again, were we?”
The smile slides off his face. “Not like you’re gonna do it.” He snaps, surprising himself with the venom in his voice. His therapist told him this could happen, that sometimes emotions might jump out of his head, and he won’t know why. The goal is to feel them, control the flow, not to suppress them.
Apparently he’s mad at Simon.
Simon blinks at him. “I talked to Soap, like you said.”
“I shouldn’t have had to tell you! I shouldn’t have to make you promise!” Roach hisses, stripping off his clothes and going towards the bathroom. “You— he is— loves you, so much! And you, you treat him like— annoying. You, annoyed by him.“
“I’m not annoyed by him, I’m— what do you want me to say? I loved you first, and now you’re back, and I can’t—”
“Can’t what?! Love him too?” Roach turns the shower on and stomps back into the bedroom for a towel. He glares up at Simon, sees for maybe the first time The Ghost. Closed off. Scared. Protecting himself, looking for something familiar. “News for you, Simon Riley. I won’t stay with someone who treats people they love like that.”
Ah. Roach realizes, stepping into the shower. That’s the anger. That’s why he’s angry at Simon.
He likes Soap. He knows Soap loves Simon, knows Simon loves Soap. He knows Simon loves him.
So if the rolls were reversed, and it was Soap coming back from the dead, not Roach, would Simon treat him the same? Would he do that to Roach, ignore him like that?
Soap doesn’t deserve that. And if Simon is going to be that person, then Roach will be true to his word. He won’t be loved by someone like that.
Simon is waiting when he steps out of the shower, casually leaning against the countertop with his arms folded across his chest. He won’t look at Roach.
“You’re right.”
I know, Roach thinks, toweling off, movements still angry, his hands, still so fucking angry. Two months off those drugs have not instilled in him the ability to control his emotions, not when he was on them for two years and didn’t have emotions.
“I’m not good at this, Roach.”
No shit.
“Johnny wasn’t— I wasn’t supposed to love him.”
Roach stills, straightening up. “But you do.” he whispers, hoarse. “You love him, Simon.”
“I know, but I— I love you, Bug, I’ve always— I never stopped loving you.”
“Yes. I know.” He wraps the towel around himself. Nods. “I know. You can love us both.” He steps forward, carefully touching his fingertips to the bare skin of Simon’s elbows. “Love us both.”
Simon looks at him, and Roach sees it in his eyes. Loving Soap wasn’t planned. Loving Soap was the most terrifying thing for Simon. Was, because now, now it’s having them both. Now the most terrifying thing for Simon is this.
It’s Roach being here, being alive, while Soap is here, alive, and it’s them, operating together as a team. It’s Soap and Roach together, in danger every single day. It’s Simon loving them, and knowing that he could lose them.
Simon can’t lose them again. And he thinks if he can cut out the part of him that belongs to Soap, then it won’t hurt as much.
He has to know that all of him belongs to Soap now. There’s no removing that love, not anymore.
“I don’t know if I can, bug.” Simon whispers, Roach seeing past all his new walls, knowing, knowing that Simon is still that scared kid inside. “If— if I can’t—”
Fear, terror, don’t leave me, I’m trying, I’m sorry—
“You can,” Roach nods. Confident. If he can start to fall in love with Soap after a few weeks, after years of being drugged and tortured and used, then he has no doubt that they can figure this out. They will figure this out. “Takes— time.”
Simon nods, eyes skittering around the bathroom. Nervous, scared, can’t fail, what if? No promises.
“Time.” Roach says again, stressing the word. Give it a chance, give us a chance. “Please. For him. Me.”
Simon closes his eyes, and nods. “Okay. Okay.”
.
Soap shows up at Simon’s door a week or so later. He looks nervous, fidgeting, doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Roach tilts his head in confusion, and realizes he’s picked up that gesture from Soap.
“Hi! Sorry, uh— is the Lt.— I mean I’m looking for you, not for him, but— if you two are busy, um, I can…come back.” Soap trails off hesitantly. His hands are shoved behind his back, pointer finger tapping rapidly on his thumb nail. A lot of energy, trapped in too small of a space.
Roach signs slowly. Not here. Training.
Soap’s eyes narrow. Focused. Determined. “No…here? Ah! Oh so he must be at the— yeah that’s great, actually, um, I wanted to show you something. I think if the captain likes it, we can get you back in the field. If, if that’s what you uh. Want. Still.”
Nervous nervous nervous, Roach smiles. Cute when he’s nervous. Learning sign for me, made something for me.
Oh my god, I am fucked.
He nods, following Soap down the hall. Simon said he talked to Soap again, tried to explain things. Things being his feelings. Things being that Simon still loves Soap, but that he also loves Roach, and…Roach doesn’t know how the rest of the conversation went, because Simon wouldn’t tell him.
Simon didn’t seem upset though, so Roach thinks it went well.
Soap leads him to the smaller demolitions range on the outskirts of the base. They don’t check out any of the explosives from the ordinance locker though. Instead, Soap brings him to a small shack. Inside is nothing more than a work bench and two portable construction lamps, although the bench is littered with tools and wires and pieces of metal, and the walls are covered with hastily scribbled equations and designs.
Soap’s home, then. His work den.
“Okay, so, the optics aren’t great, I admit, and I’m still doing some tinkering to make sure that it’s waterproof and give it a greater temp range for operation, but—” Soap holds out a slim black cylinder to Roach. “Ta-da!”
Roach takes the object hesitantly, fingers sliding over the cool metal. It’s about as big as a standard pen or pencil, maybe as thick as his thumb. Not especially heavy, but he can tell by holding it that it’s durable. Not plastic, that’s for sure.
He looks up at Soap, signs what?, and hopes for an explanation. Soap’s grin only widens. “Hold that.” He turns behind him and picks up another cylinder, similar to Roach’s, and hands Roach a mic. “Put that on so you can hear. Like you would wear it if we were in the field.”
Weird, Roach thinks as he puts in the earbud. Unless this thing is going to magically talk for him, he doesn’t get why—
“Mayday, mayday, mayday,” a generic female voice sounds tonelessly in his ear. “Distress alarm activated. Bravo 7-1. Mayday, mayday, mayday. Distress alarm acti—”
Roach raises his eyes in surprise, blinking at Soap who’s done something clever with his…stick. Cylinder. Thingy.
“See, we’re really close to each other, so it’s not saying anything else, but if we were farther apart, it would tell you how far. Something like ‘distress alarm activated, three kilos away’, or if it’s a really big distance it’ll just start sending coordinates.” Soap nods, proud, happy, excited. “I’m gonna make one for everyone. We’ll all have our own portable panic buttons. This way, even if you’re paired with one of us and we can’t talk for you, you’ll still be able to tell us you need help!”
His therapist has walked him through several theories as to why Roach is unable to control his impulses related to emotions. His therapist has walked him through several strategies for dealing with his emotions so that he doesn’t act on impulse anymore.
Everything they’ve practiced goes flying out the window once Roach realizes what Soap has done for him. Gratitude isn’t a strong enough word to describe the emotions that well up in his chest. There’s so much relief, just waves and waves of ecstatic joy that he can be in the field again, that he won’t hurt his new team because he might not be able to talk.
Amazement that Soap would think of this, build this, just for Roach, just so Roach can go back to operating. He’s grateful and relieved and so hopelessly endeared, fuck, it shouldn’t be this easy to fall in love.
He’s surging forward and kissing Soap before anything else can process in his brain.
Before anything can process in his brain. The very small part of him that’s still online is marveling at how quiet his head is. No labeling, no need to understand his emotions. Just…Soap.
Soap who’s kissing him back. Soap who’s breaking away from the kiss first, breathing heavy, pupils blown, surprise, shock, stunned, happy—
A ghost of a smile flits over Soap’s face. “You’re welcome.”
Roach grins back and kisses him again.
(And if they end up defiling Soap’s workspace, well, Soap tells him it wouldn’t be the first time.)
.
Price likes the idea. A lot. He talks with a ‘Laswell’ who’s apparently their…boss? Roach doesn’t really get how that works, but he knows she’s CIA, and that she also very much likes Soap’s idea. Roach is sure because she’s the CIA she’s seen far more advanced tech like Soap’s, but at least she’s kind enough not to burst Soap’s bubble. (Ha.)
She also is able to get him the materials he needs, so the device will work in the temp zones they’re expected to be in and is as waterproof as a GPS transmitter can get.
Soap shows them all how to use it— pop open a cap at the bottom, press down the top — bang, panic button activated. Laswell works with Soap over the next few weeks while they all practice with their individual devices, and soon they’ve got the final design down.
Soap isn’t kidding about it being their own personal distress signals either. The combat ready product fits easily into all their gear, even their stealth gear, and each one has a tiny little symbol carved into it.
Roach has a bug. Simon has a Ghost, Price has a cigar, and Gaz has a…bird?
“It’s for the time he went flying.” Soap explains, winking at Gaz who rolls his eyes. “Not the helicopter incident,” he explains quickly, casting a worried glance at Price. “This was— pre-141 incident.”
“If you don’t have a bar of soap—”
“Of course I do.” Soap says proudly, showing his little engraving. There’s tiny soap bubbles and everything. “I drew all of these myself, by the way, so you better appreciate my artistry.”
Roach tucks his away in his pocket and turns to hide a smile. Simon’s ghost looks like a five year old drew it, same with his bug. Roach knows Soap can draw better than this, he’s seen a few glimpses of his journal.
Sneaky bastard did this on purpose.
“Okay, lets get set.” Price rumbles, his own distress signal tucked away somewhere. “We’re going to run this six times. Different each time. You won’t know if it’s you until…well.”
“Until Laswell comes out of the dark and kidnaps us, yes.” Soap nods. “She’s actually terrifying, you know that?”
Everyone makes a noise of agreement, Roach included. This is their training plan for the day. They’ve got a controlled area they’re using as a course. Each set-up will be different; different set of conditions, different intel, different target. Each set up someone is going to be tagged — whether this is Laswell shooting them with a paintball, or her actually kidnapping them, they don’t know — and then it’ll be a test of mechanics.
First, to see if the ‘injured’ person can reach their emergency signal. Second, to see how fast the team can safely get to that person. And third, to see if Roach can operate with the team.
It’s ironic that he’s not been able to so much as croak out a word all week, and the nightmares have gotten bad again, so he’s tired and tense while they're about to do this. Add in that they have no idea when in their fake mission that a person will be captured. Roach figures at least one of the rounds, no one will get tagged, and maybe two people in another.
That’s how he would do it, anyway.
Apparently that’s not how the CIA does it.
Soap and Roach are the only two even remotely close to each other when Price’s distress signal goes off. They’re in the first round, Roach thinks that’s good. The device works great, they know exactly how close Price is. As Soap joins him at his post, he’s got his own device out. They added a directional to them, so when Soap hits his little drawing, the voice rings out in their ears that Price is north of their position.
They get two steps in that direction before Gaz’s distress signal goes off. A half second later so does Ghost’s.
Soap freezes for half a second, staring at Roach with wide eyes, before Roach pulls him into cover behind a large tree. Roach gets it now. He can’t communicate with Soap, not effectively anyway. Laswell needs them off guard and under pressure to see if they can work together.
She already knows that the 141 can manage with or without Roach. But just Roach with someone who doesn’t know much BSL? That’s a problem.
She’s scary smart. He likes her.
Soap slips his device into his vest, shaking his head at Roach’s frown. It’s dusk, getting darker. They’ll need NODs in a few minutes. “Price was with Gaz coming from the north, Ghost was coming in from the east. We can’t go after all three of them.”
But you would, Roach thinks, signs anyway. Wouldn’t you? If this was real life, you would try.
He watches Soap grit his teeth. “We go where we know someone will be. And right now that’s Price.”
G-a-z?
“If he’s lucky, he’s with Price.” Soap brings up his sniper, adjusting the scope towards the building they were sent to infiltrate. “Intel said it was a small group hiding out here; you see any movement?”
Roach shakes his head. He was too busy trying not to get lost in his memories to really pay attention during the briefing. No one. Nothing.
He and Soap were supposed to come in from the south, make sure that their target didn’t try to escape. They both had set up their own perches for overwatch.
“I didn’t see anyone either. So how in the fuck did they manage to get the drop on our team?”
Roach narrows his eyes, turning his scope back towards the building. Soap is right. Three different people, three different positions, three highly trained operatives that were captured or injured almost at the same time.
Hidden. Roach scans the area around the building, noting the small dilapidated shed like structures that might’ve been houses. He nudges Soap, pointing to their shoes. Underneath. Tunnels.
Soap eyes catch in the fading sun, a glint of near manic excitement, sharp and cunning. “Now that I can work with. Take my six.”
Copy.
.
“Well, I can say I’m impressed. You actually passed that exercise.” A blond haired, severe looking woman intones from their ‘command center’, the hastily built wood structure where they suited up. “Which was quite literally designed to be a no win scenario.”
Soap grins beside Roach, his lip split and teeth bloody from how hard he hit the dirt. “Sorry.” Roach is high on adrenaline and a mission success, Simon’s proud, impressed, satisfied look from earlier still has him flying high.
This must be Laswell. She raises an eyebrow at Soap. “What are you sorry for?”
Soap grins, shucking off his gear and sharing a smug look with Roach. Price shoulders the two of them apart with a sigh. “Because he blew up your training course, Kate. When we blow up other people’s property, we say sorry. Right Soap?”
“Aye cap’n.”
Laswell pinches the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable.”
“You told me to train him, Watcher.” That’s Simon there, bounding up the steps with Gaz on his heels. “He’s trained.”
Roach looks over at Soap. Sit. Stay.
Soap sticks his tongue out at him, and only obeys one of those commands. He stays in place long enough for Simon to examine his split lip and call him a crazy bastard. Then Gaz is ribbing him for going after Price first, and Simon is ranting to Roach, cranky because he got ‘caught’ so easily, and Price and Laswell are talking quietly in the corner, nodding to each other, satisfied.
Satisfied. That’s what Roach is feeling. Satisfied. Content.
Team.
“I guess that settles it then,” Price says finally, cutting through the din. “We all keep our little panic buttons on ourselves at all times. And tomorrow, we’re all going to get rather smashed.” He winks at Roach. “Only way to properly welcome a new member to the team.”
.
They get drunk.
They get very drunk.
Roach learns that Soap and Gaz have a history of getting kicked out of bars, and they both do a decent job of keeping each other upright on the way back to base. Price is really good at holding his liquor, and actually manages to out-drink Simon.
Now, this is perhaps because Simon also drinks everything that the boys buy for Roach, because Roach refuses the alcohol. He can’t. After everything, the last two years, he just— he can’t. He won’t willingly make his mind fuzzy again.
Still. It’s just as entertaining for Roach to get to throw Simon over his shoulder and lug him back to base. Gaz and Soap are in tears over it. Many a picture is taken. Several videos will now live in infamy.
Gaz follows Price back to his room, and Soap follows Roach.
Roach gets Simon on his side, turns to brush his teeth, and Soap is there. Soap is pushing him onto the bed that’s too small for the three of them, Soap is sandwiching Roach between him and Simon.
Soap is whispering I love you to the both of them.
Roach learns that Soap and Simon have hearts cut from the same cloth. And they’ve given them both to Roach to hold.
.
Roach hasn’t been able to talk in thirty six days.
He complains to his therapist about it, asks why and wants answers. He talked in the beginning, why can’t he talk now? Now, when he really needs to.
He wants to say I love you back. He wants to say it.
Thirty six days. Thirty days since he officially became 141. Twenty nine since Soap last said those words to him.
He probably doesn’t even remember it. Simon sure doesn’t, he doesn’t remember anything after eleven that night. They left the bar at one AM.
Kinda funny, actually. It would track for him, for them, that the first time Roach hears I love you, he can’t say it back. He can’t say it back, and Simon didn’t hear it, and Soap might not remember it.
Thirty six fucking days.
They’ve even been on ops. They’ve been on multiple successful ops all with differing degrees of danger and priority and they’ve all gone so well. So well, but Roach couldn’t talk during any of them.
So when things inevitably go to shit — because of course, of course it’s going to go to shit, of course — he can’t call for help.
It’s a very fast sequence of events, this one. They’re on a loading dock, a pier, trying to intercept a shipment of guns going to some terrorist group and hopefully find out some information for Laswell. Preferably a name for whoever the fuck is supplying said guns.
The intel they had was limited. This is evident by the fact that the boat that supposedly brought the guns to the warehouse blows up before Roach can even begin to sneak down the dock.
Soap quips in his ear, something about the explosion being too sloppy, or— or something, Roach doesn’t know, because his head is thick and confused and he’s just— he’s lost for a second. A moment.
He doesn’t know how long, actually, because one moment he’s heading towards the ship, looking to get GPS data from the boat, and the next he’s hiding by the loading bay of the warehouse, breathing heavy. There’s bodies around him. He doesn’t know if he was the one that killed them.
The radio chatter is static in his ear. He can’t— they could be talking to him, calling for help, and he can’t, he can’t fucking hear them, he can’t talk to them, he—
Roach fumbles for the strap in his vest, pulls out the device and shakily activates his distress signal.
Almost immediately, he’s able to breathe again. He remembers, vaguely, getting thrown by the explosion, concussion, probably. He got up the dock, he— yes, he did, he took out the small group of combatants that flooded from the loading bay door.
He remembers. He’s okay. He can— he can think now. They won’t forget him, the 141, they’ll find him, Simon, Soap, they’ll find him. He doesn’t have to go back.
They find him.
A sharp whistle snaps his head up, and Roach swings the barrel of his gun around, sights Soap quickly, then drops his gun even quicker. Shit, sorry, sorry, sorry—
“You’re okay,” Soap grins, hustling over the thick concrete platform and dropping down next to Roach. “You’re okay, yes?” Soap signs, quick, sloppy, to match his words.
Yes. Yes, I am— you’re here, I am. Sorry, gun.
Soap tilts his head. “Gun? Oh, please, tha’s nothin’ mate. At least you didn’t shoot me.”
Experience?
“Ghost.” Soap huffs, moving around Roach and checking that the dock is clear. “Fuckin plowed me in the vest one time.”
Need better trigger control.
Soap tips his head back, laughs. “I’ll tell him you said tha—”
The wall explodes.
It’s the only thing Roach can think has happened, when he blinks and his vision comes back. He’s on his front, there’s pebbles embedded in his cheek, blood in his mouth. Pain, his back, and fire, his arm— shit—
He slaps at his outstretched right arm, putting out the burning fabric quickly enough he thinks the burns won’t be that bad. He needs to get up, he was too close to that bomb, the enemy will be on him soon and he can’t be caught, he—
He didn’t plant that bomb. You didn’t plant that bomb.
Soap, Roach remembers, forces himself to remember; blue eyes, soft hair, loud laugh, heart on his sleeve, Simon’s heart in his hand.
He’s with the 141. He’s on a mission with his team, and the loading dock exploded.
He was with Soap. Soap came to get him.
Came to get Roach, because Roach can’t talk, and he couldn’t breathe, and Soap was closest of the team.
Roach wipes at his eyes, coughs a few times, winces as he pushes himself up. His arm still feels like it’s on fire, he probably has shrapnel in his back, but Soap, where is Soap.
The smoke is thick and acrid, clogging his throat as he scrambles forward, coughing. They weren’t that far apart, it should be easy enough to find him. They’re on a daytime mission too, and by the ocean it’s breezy. The smoke is clearing quickly, Roach’s ears are still ringing, but he can’t see another body, just the dock that’s collapsed in the dirty water.
Shit.
Roach fumbles numb fingers, gets his earbud back in, listens to his own automated distress message run across their comms. The captain is asking him and Soap to report, Simon is too, and Roach can’t speak. He can’t tell them that they still need to come get him, that Soap might be in the water, that they’re hurt.
He can’t even scream.
He tries, thinks that a scream would get the message across, but nothing comes out, no noise, nothing. Soap’s going to die because Roach can’t make any noise.
He makes it two stumbling steps towards the water before a few members of the terror group start shooting at him, and then he’s back down on his stomach, firing back as best he can. He’s pinned, and he can’t tell Simon; Soap is dying, drowning, and he can’t tell Price. He can’t tell Gaz, he cannot speak to ask Soap’s team to come and save him.
Please please please please, please you have to come, you have to help him.
I can’t be the reason he dies, Simon, please—
“Seven-five, hold position!”
Simon’s booming yell echoes across the smoldering area, cutting across the rapid gunfire. Roach hunkers down, keeps firing and manages to take out one of the combatants. A bullet from a different direction takes out another, and Roach rolls on his side, finds the third.
For a split second, it’s quiet. Roach doesn’t move, will not move until Simon tells him too, even if his entire body is screaming for him to get in the water, to get to Soap.
Sure enough, a fourth shooter pops out behind Roach. Simon kills him before he can even get a shot off.
“You’re clear,” Gaz’s voice crackles over the comms, scared, shaken, out of breath. He must have an overwatch position. “No visual on seven-one.”
Roach heaves himself to his feet. It takes three tries before he can actually stay upright, and then Simon is there, holding him carefully, terrified, terrified, don’t break him, keep him safe. “Roach, are you—”
He plants both palms on Simon’s chest and shoves him back. Water. Soap, in the water. Explosion.
To Simon’s credit, he doesn’t hesitate. Gets the picture full and clear and immediately. His gun, his vest, they’re both off in a matter of seconds, and he’s in the water right after.
So quick, Roach thinks as Simon resurfaces, Soap’s limp body in his arms. So quick to get him, while I let him drown.
He should’ve run for the water. He should’ve tried to get Soap, regardless of whether it would've gotten him a bullet. He should’ve been able to talk, to tell the 141 what was going on.
Should’ve been able to tell Soap how he felt before this, before Simon slicing his vest off and performing compressions, before Roach clearing his airway and giving him rescue breaths.
He sits back after a set, staring numbly down at the body of his love, watching it rock slightly as his other half, as his Simon tries to bring their Soap back to life.
Save him, Roach screams in his head. Save him like you saved me. Save him like he’s saved you, like he’s saved all of us.
Bring him back, so I can tell him I’m sorry.
Soap wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Roach. If he dies, no matter what anyone will say, it’s Roach’s fault.
Roach lost it. Roach pressed his distress signal. Roach is who Soap was coming to save, Soap wouldn’t have been anywhere near that bomb if it weren’t for Roach.
Simon does another round of compressions, breathes for Soap when Roach can’t make himself move. He’s dead, he’s dead, blue eyes and soft hair and loud laugh and bad jokes, dead, careful hands and crooked smile, dead, dead, dead.
Dead because of—
A horrible gurgling sound erupts from the body on the pavement, nasty sea water bubbling past bloodless lips. Soap’s face contorts in agony; the harshest cough Roach has ever heard pushing more water out; Simon, rolling him on his side.
Then he inhales. Takes a breath by himself.
Sure, he immediately coughs and gags and pukes out watery bile, but then he inhales again. And again. And again. Every noise he makes is followed by an inhale, every exhale brings out more water, and he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s breathing.
Roach only almost killed him.
His hands can’t move fast enough, the apologies, the pleas, I love you, I love you, I love you.
“I got him,” Simon barks out, heaving Soap into his arms. He doesn’t mean it in such a cruel way as Roach understands it, but Roach still flinches back, biting his tongue against words that won’t leave his mouth. “Cover.”
Copy.
.
Soap is wheezing on the transport back.
He never really regains consciousness, laying there on the floor of the helo. Gaz has Soap’s head pillowed in his lap, and Simon isn’t allowed to go very far due to the grip Soap has on his sleeve, but he never really wakes up.
They put an oxygen mask over his face, occasionally rub at his chest whenever he seems to start slowing his breathing, and tell the base to have medics on standby for their arrival.
Roach sits the farthest away from him, hands shaking on his gun. Price tried to treat him once they made exfil, but Roach flinched so violently he nearly fell out of the helicopter.
No one has tried to touch him since.
Soap is breathing though. Horrible, wheezing, strained and wet, but breathing, inhale, exhale, on his own. Breath rattling against broken ribs from CPR. Blood flowing from cuts on his skin, bits of metal and rock that sliced into him.
Broken ribs that will make pneumonia an almost certain step in his recovery. Cuts that were open, letting that whatever was in that ocean water into his system. Infection, infection, infection.
Roach plays it out in his mind as they come in for landing.
If it’s not the infection causing septic shock that shuts down his organs, it’s pneumonia caused from the same ocean water that was in his lungs. His ribs are broken, he won’t be able to properly expel all that water. Coughing will hurt so badly, his body won’t want to do it often.
He either dies of sepsis, fever burning away his insides, or he slowly suffocates to death. Maybe a combination of both. His immune system won’t be able to fight off anything for a while, it’s already going to be taxed, and then…then Roach will have watch Simon succumb to grief.
He’ll have to watch his team fall apart, he will lose everything, and it’ll be his own fucking fault.
“Roach.” Careful fingers on his elbow. Roach springs to his feet, and finds that they’re on the tarmac. Soap and Simon and Gaz are gone, along with the medics. The Captain. “You alright son?”
Roach avoids Price’s eyes, but still follows their gaze to his arm. Blistered flesh is poking out from the burnt holes of his uniform sleeve. Just like when he first arrived back on this base. “C’mon then. That’ll take a while.”
He lets his captain pull him towards the infirmary, glaring at any of the staff who try to approach him. He won’t let them touch him. He— Soap is— no. It’s all just hands hands hands in his head, ones that fixed him just so he could do worse things.
Touch, but it’s not Simon, hands, but they’re not Soap’s.
Price leads him to a secluded bed, pulls the curtains around them. “Gear. Let’s go.” When Roach doesn’t move, Price heaves a sigh and goes about doing it himself.
He’s very careful with it, Roach has to admit. It’s all his weapons first, meticulously checked and rechecked to ensure they’re safe. Then it’s his gloves, and his holsters, and some time around when he starts going at the buckle on Roach’s helmet does Price start talking.
”You know how many times I’ve had to do this with one of my men?” Price murmurs, mustache twitching in frustration as he struggles with the helmet strap. “I don’t, actually, but it’s at least five. Five times that I vividly remember.”
The helmet comes off. Roach eyes his captain, wary, on edge, waiting, but all he sees is calm and worry and care.
“Twice with Soap, once with Kyle, and twice with Simon.” Price goes at the straps of his vest now, sharp eyes watching Roach for the moment he snaps. “The last time with Simon was when he shot Soap.”
Roach tenses and Price’s hands still. “With me, solider?”
He nods. Price keeps going. “I heard him tell you about that over comms, you know? Soap tends to make light of it because he doesn’t want Ghost to feel any worse, and because he doesn’t actually know how guilty Simon feels over it.”
One side of his vest now hands open, and Roach imagines he can breathe easier without being confined. “See, Ghost didn’t just shoot Soap, he hit him with a fucking sniper round. Wasn’t his fault, he didn’t do it on purpose of course.” Deft hands reach up to his shoulder, pulling at the stubborn Velcro. “The impact sent Soap on his ass, and we thought he was just unconscious.”
The vest pulls away from him, clinging to his shirt underneath. It’s bloody when Price drops it on the floor. A medic appears at the edge of the curtain, looking between the two of them. Price says some quiet words that Roach can’t make out over the ringing in his ears, then he nods to Roach. “You mind if she takes a look at your arm while I finish my story?”
Hands, Roach thinks immediately even as he nods. Hands that don’t care.
Price pulls up a chair and sits, one careful touch to Roach’s upper arm. “You need anything, even if it’s just for her to stop for a bit, you just tap me, okay? Good. So as I said, getting hit with that caliber of a bullet, even from the distance it was, we were all terrified it went through the vest, right?”
He watches the medic pull up a small bedside table and lay down a blue sani-cloth, laying his burned on arm it when she asks him too. He wants to tell Price that this isn’t helping all that much, but he still can’t fucking talk.
“It didn’t go through, luckily.” Saline on Roach’s arm, burning, cold, pain pain pain. “But it did more than knock him unconscious. He stopped breathing.”
In a particularly gnarly display, a piece of his sleeve gets pulled from his arm, gooey and half melted. Looking at it better, Roach can tell that only a small spot of skin looks third degree. The rest of are patches of second and first degree, all of it angry red.
Not at bad as he thought, then. C-p-r? Roach guesses, watching as the nurse starts to make quick work of the gravel imbedded in the burn. She really knows how to use that pair of tweezers. “Luckily no,” Price huffs. “A stim and a really hard sternum rub did the trick. But it was me who did that, it was Gaz who carried Soap to exfil.”
“All Simon could do was watch through his scope.” Price eyes Roach. “And he was the one who shot that bullet.”
The woman leaves to get more supplies to flush his burn, which he’s sure will not feel good. Price leans into Roach’s line of sight, makes Roach look at him. “I’m telling you this, because if Soap can forgive Simon for that, he sure as shit isn’t going to want you blaming yourself for this.”
My fault, Roach signs clumsily with one hand. He’s there for me.
“Roach, I’m going to ignore that one, if only because I understand you’re still very new to this. But this is a team. We are a team. If it wasn’t Soap, it would’ve been Gaz. If it wasn’t Gaz, it would’ve been Simon, or me, and the only reason it was Soap was that positionally it was easiest for him to get to you.”
Price taps his arm like he did earlier, hands, careful, touch, caring. “Don’t you dare ever imply that you aren’t worth it to him, or to us. You hear me? We all would’ve moved mountains to get to you, because that’s what family does. You matter to us, Roach.” He stands as the medic comes back in. “And when Soap wakes up, he’ll tell you the same fucking thing.”
When, not if. Roach watches him leave with the mountain of gear. When he wakes up.
When he wakes up, because the captain said so. When.
Roach breathes in and out and lets the medic continue to treat his wound. Thinks about it, remembers the certainty in his voice. When he wakes up.
When he wakes up, I’m going to tell him I love him.
.
Price is correct, but unfortunately, so is Roach.
Soap escapes an infection by the skin of his teeth, but he does get pneumonia, and as such, Roach has to stand helplessly by as Soap gets better, then gets a lot worse.
The broken ribs means he can’t clear his lungs that well, and so he wakes up briefly while Roach was getting his arm treated, and then he’s not coherent again until days later, after the antibiotics have started to work and his fever isn’t so high.
They so narrowly avoided a ventilator. A vent would’ve been a death sentence, even if the doctors never said so. Roach was sure. Soap never would’ve gotten off it, and he would’ve had to watch as Soap deteriorated until there was nothing left of him there, just machines keeping his body functioning.
Not just Roach. It’s something he has to keep reminding himself, that he wouldn’t have been the only one watching that happen to someone he loved. Simon would’ve been there too, and Garrick and Price, they all love Soap in different ways.
Soap’s team. Roach’s team now too. They all would’ve had to see it. He doesn’t think the 141 would’ve been able to go on afterwards, not really. Not how they were.
Long hours in the infirmary, only allowed to wait because Laswell pulled some strings. All the while, it was all Roach could to do to keep from apologizing to Simon. Price’s words still rang in his ears.
He got the feeling Simon wouldn’t take kindly to Roach trying to say sorry. He certainly wouldn’t have nice words if he knew Roach was blaming himself.
And he is, he does blame himself, the same way that Simon still feels guilt over shooting Soap, the same way Gaz still feels guilt over leaving Soap in that high rise in Chicago, the same way that Price feels guilt over Las Almas.
They’re all the same, this team. Roach has been taught to read emotions in people, and he knows it’s mighty rich that Price is the one telling Roach not to be guilty. There’s so much each of this team has told him, both with words and without, and he knows that Soap is their glue, their linch pin. They all look at Soap the same way.
(They know he’s better than them, that he’s good in a way they aren’t, and every time he’s hurt, they feel responsible, whether they’re truly guilty or not.)
Simon held his hand the whole time, and Roach leaned his head on Simon’s shoulder, and together they watched Soap fight his way through the fever and back to them.
Silly Roach, thinking Soap would be anything but the most stubborn bastard on the planet, second only to Simon.
It’s a harsh coughing fit that pulls him to consciousness, blinking those pretty blue eyes up at them clouded and confused. Simon is out of his chair before Roach, catching Soap’s hands in a practiced motion. He’d just finished telling Roach Johnny likes to come up swinging.
‘Johnny’ nearly punches Simon in the face because Simon doesn’t get a good grip on his left hand.
“S’alright Johnny,” Simon murmurs, getting Soap to look at him. “Eyes on, there you are. You’re solid, aye? You’re fine.”
Roach watches with a muted sense of amazement at how quickly, how easily Simon gets Soap to settle.
It strikes him how it’s not a one way street, Simon and Soap’s relationship. In the very beginning, he was so interested in how Soap affected Simon, he never saw the ways that Simon helped Soap.
He thinks about it, remembering their previous mission, and the downtime between them.
Remembers Simon doing nothing other than sitting next to Soap on the transport back. Doing nothing more than listening to Soap, pressing their legs together, telling Soap good job.
He remembers seeing that, noticing that, and then after, how much steadier Soap was. How much— not calmer, not quieter, but— more Soap. Less on edge, less tense, not so amped.
Steadier. That really is the best word. Simon was their anchor; wasn’t that ironic? Not just the presence that keeps Roach on the ground, but the one who holds Soap down too.
Safe, Roach thinks, watching Soap relax completely into his hospital bed. Simon is safety.
What does that make him? What is Roach to Soap, if Simon is already his pillar of safety?
Roach scoots closer to the bed, squeezing Soap’s hand in his. He could sign, sure, but Soap is barely able to keep his eyes on Simon, Roach doesn’t know if he’d be able to follow his hand movements.
But then, Roach has been waiting for Soap to wake up for hours and hours now. Roach was convincing himself that Soap wouldn’t wake up, and promising that if he did, Roach would figure out how to say it.
Only now Soap is looking at him, doped up and still sick, and Roach can’t speak.
Soap looks worried now, Simon reaching across to lay the lightest of touches on Roach’s arm. “Don’t force it, Bug.”
I need to tell him, Roach moves quickly, his hands betraying the severity of his emotions. He needs to know, I have to tell him. He can’t explain to Simon why he needs to say it, why it needs to be his voice, because Roach doesn’t even know himself.
Scratchy, calloused skin on his. Touch. Hands.
Roach turns his gaze from Simon. Soap smiles at him, barely awake. “You think I need you to talk to know that you love me?” He rasps, squeezing Roach’s fingers. “You’re easy to read, night crawler. Even for someone as dense as me.”
The softest sound leaves Roach then, an involuntary laugh. Soap always loves to find different ways to say his name. Bug is Simon’s, but Soap hasn’t settled on a proper nickname yet. Just like Roach hasn’t settled on anything for him.
Roach sobers up suddenly, realizing that— he’s— Soap said—
He doesn’t move his hands from Soap’s, but the wait, what? Must broadcast rather clearly. Soap grins up at him, eyes half lidded and hazy with medication, but he’s— he’s more than that. Confident, yes. Happy.
In love.
Roach watches as Soap takes his hand from Simon and forms his trembling fingers into the shape he wants, then signs a very sloppy me too.
He blinks. Blinks again.
I love you too.
Roach swipes at the few tears sliding down his cheeks, standing carefully from his chair and leaning over Soap. He kisses Soap’s forehead, his nose, ghosts his lips over each of his cheeks, and finally finds the other mans lips.
They’re chapped, and Soap is barely awake, and it’s not even their first kiss, but it’s so much for Roach. It’s so important to Roach. Means something to them, to the three of them, because Simon is there, and he’s not scared nervous skittish, he’s calm, happy, in love in love in love.
Loving both of them, just like Roach asked.
“Bad luck, Johnny,” Ghost rumbles, Soap’s eyes sliding shut finally. “You ever get yourself in trouble again, you’ll have the both of us to give you hell about it.”
And though Soap isn’t likely to remember it, he smiles anyway.