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Sparring was one of his least favorite activities, if Ghost was being honest with himself.
The new recruits were always too clumsy for him; they could pack a punch, but they couldn’t stabilize their core while doing it, making themselves vulnerable to a countermove that could end the match within seconds. Some of the stronger ones liked to think that brute force would always lead to a win, expending all their energy on useless blows until they ran out of stamina. They were sloppy, uncoordinated, frustrating. Too reliant on their guns and not enough on their own damn hands.
Ghost had fought many men in his lifetime, and there was one thing that was always the same: ego. Not knowing when to pull back and put yourself on defense because you’re wearing yourself out. Being too blinded by rage and resentment to realize you’ve given your opponent room for the kill. Losing to someone weaker because you can’t pull your fucking head out of your ass enough to lead a fight with your body and not your emotions.
For all the muscle on him, Ghost’s greatest advantage had always been his endurance. Those men could hit and hit and hit all they wanted, he’d take it til their knuckles broke and split before he raised his fist to return fire. He could take a bullet to the leg and crawl a mile in the sand if it meant survival, because those instincts were so far engrained in him that he knew nothing else. It didn’t matter how much pain he had to go through to get an opening, he’d take a knife to the gut just to obtain a weapon.
There was a sense of desperation he brought to every mission, every covert op, every active warzone he was deployed in. It was the kind of low you reached when you had no god guiding you; when staying alive meant ripping a man’s throat out with your teeth because your wrists were broken from the ropes binding you, or grinding your fingernails down to the bone to claw yourself from a grave that wasn’t yours. His body was a tool ridden with scratches and scraped paint; it all meant nothing, he’d sacrifice his skin just to keep himself alive, the way a bee would rather rip its own stinger out than let itself be crushed under a careless palm.
Back in Mexico, he’d done the same with Washington and Sparks. They’d made them brawl like fighting dogs in the later months, hungry and terrified with lack of sleep driving them mad. There was no lesson to be taught, nothing purposeful about it — it was purely entertainment. Ghost remembered kneeling in the desert in the middle of the night, staring at Sparks through the floodlights with so much raw contempt that his hands twitched with the urge to hurt. It hadn’t been personal, not when tearing apart flesh meant earning the first meal in days.
Sparks lost two teeth, one of those nights. He’d bitten a chunk of meat from Ghost’s leg during their fight, so Ghost had made sure he regretted it. Cracked his orbital too, just to drive the point home. Ghost had staggered victoriously back to the cartel’s base with a rifle at his back and two broken ribs that still felt crooked when he pressed his fingers to his chest.
So he was familiar with fighting bloody. He didn’t leave many matches without skin under his nails and a rotten feeling in his gut that reminded him how sick he’d become. Familiarity twisted itself into satisfaction, and adrenaline twisted itself into addiction.
But there was nothing gratifying about sparring with the recruits, because he had to pull back. He couldn’t be harsh the way he knew how to be, but he couldn’t be gentle either. Every time they tapped out, he imagined them in the field with the barrel of a pistol to the back of their head. It was a curse, knowing which ones would survive war and which ones wouldn’t.
It wasn't that they were inexperienced or weak, especially not when Task Force 141 was recommendation-based and only recruited soldiers with unique skill sets. The issue was that they were so full of life. They had distinct personalities and individualism and connections — they had so much to lose and most of them hadn’t come intimately close to that danger. They were troubled by combat, but not hardened by it, not the way Ghost had been after Coahuila. And while he wouldn’t wish that hell on anyone, it gave him perspective and grit that only someone hollowed out over and over again could have.
There was a difference between being able to shoot a gun and being able to fight hand-to-hand with your life on the line. Many of these men had never been without a weapon on a battlefield, and it was that simple fact that could send them back to their families as dogtags wrapped in a flag.
He tried to train them, but some were just too stubborn to accept that their technique needed improvement. Including the one he was currently sparring with.
Sergeant Walker, if he remembered the name correctly. Almost equal in stature to Ghost, save an inch or two. Impressively bulky, matching — if not exceeding — him in size. He was one of the few soldiers that could keep up with Ghost, and it would be a fair spar if Walker weren’t so bull-headed.
He was taking cheap shots to the gut and aiming for the jaw while their hands weren’t wrapped. If Ghost blocked a hit, Walker responded with a kick. He was trying to back Ghost off the mat like a wrestling ring, but every time he got close, Ghost would pivot and push them back to the middle.
Ghost wasn’t losing, but he wasn’t quite winning either. His lip was definitely bleeding under his mask, and his left knee — bruised up on a solo mission a week prior — was aching something fierce, but he wouldn’t tap out until he had to.
He kept himself on defense, letting Walker tire himself out as he sidestepped the angry swings and blocked every shitty throw of an elbow directed at his chest. He knew the sergeant was an exceptional marksman and infantry expert, but his attitude was shit. He was brash and hotheaded, always teasing his mates in a way that wasn’t lighthearted enough to be respectable. Ghost was planning to put him in line once the spar was over, maybe even give him some embarrassing chores like scrubbing the latrines just to give him some humility. He’d been observing the same behavior for about a month and he was sick of it.
He wasn’t surprised in the slightest when Walker finally went for his leg. The sergeant had been huffing and turning red for a while, it was a matter of time before he took the easy advantage in front of him. Ghost sucked in a breath through gritted teeth as knees hit the mat, sending a shock all the way through his hips like surging electricity.
Walker was already rearing back for a punch to the temple. Foul fucking move in a friendly match. Ghost tried to roll to the side to avoid it, but Walker caught him by the back of the hoodie and slammed his chest so hard into the mat that he felt all the air expel from his lungs in one ragged breath. Asshole.
From his spot on the floor, he could make out the blurry outline of Soap watching from the side with the small crowd of recruits. He had a pinch to his brow that Ghost knew meant he was royally pissed off. He only had half a second to wonder about it before an agonizing pressure on his lower back shut down any cognitive thought running through his mind. Static flashed through his vision under the strain like a TV antennae knocked the wrong direction, everything in him screaming to get up.
He didn’t get the chance to come up with a countermove before Walker was grabbing his left arm and wrenching it behind his back far enough to make the joint creak. The sergeant took both his wrists in a crushing grip, one pinned to the floor and the other holding his shoulder in place. And his back… Fucking hell. Walker was kneeling on his spine with one knee, immobilizing him.
He couldn’t help the panic that flooded his veins as he realized the position he was in. He couldn’t buck his hips up under Walker’s weight, and both his arms were restrained. He didn’t have an out. There was a body on top of his, sweaty and looming and threatening, and for a moment, Ghost’s mind wasn’t on the base anymore.
He was in Mexico, feeling Roba’s cold hands trailing along his skin as he and his men laughed cruelly in his ear. He was trembling under the rough hands of entitled captors that had no compassion to give, taking and taking and taking and it never being enough. There were ropes digging deep into his wrists, wearing down the flesh into a scabbed, flaky mess. There was a pistol pressed to his back, reminding him of his complete and utter lack of control over what was happening to him. There was blood on the floor and ringing in his ears and a pit in his gut.
He couldn’t make noise. He couldn’t cry out. It only ended in warm breath against his neck and a harsh whisper telling him that his shaking only made it last longer.
He was out in the desert, watching blood seep through the sand as Sparks spat out a molar with a hoarse scream that rattled around in his head for years. He was hungry and empty and mean, nothing more than a shell crafted from exhaustion and starvation as they tortured him over and over and over again.
He was buried in another man’s casket, rot soaking into his clothes and through his skin as it spread, tainting everything it touched until there was nothing left to eat away at. There were rib bones digging into his own and maggots writhing against his flesh, begging to be let out just as loudly as his own voice against four walls of splintered wood. He was digging and clawing and breaking his fingers against the packed dirt, each breath roaring in his ears as more soil crushed and suffocated him from the inside out. He was crawling across the border with mangled and broken hands, pleading for anyone to listen, on his knees praying for salvation in a land that wasn’t his and repeating his military number over and over and—
He was pressed into a mat in the gym. Alive. Oh, god, he was still alive.
Trembling from lost circulation, he managed to uncurl his fingers from the palm of his right hand and tap the mat at a frantic pace, his chest heaving with strangled breaths through his balaclava. “Off,” he choked out. “Sergeant! Relent!”
Walker didn’t get up. He shifted, grinding his knee further into Ghost’s lower back, and it was then that he realized what he’d have to do.
It had only been a few moments since his gaze made contact with Soap, but his eyes wandered to find him again, trying to see past the white halo in his vision that told him his adrenaline was wearing out. Soap had uncrossed his arms and taken a half step forward, as though he were going to intervene, but Ghost didn’t want him to. It wasn’t his fight, and Ghost would never burden him with the task of rescuing someone like him. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t weak.
He’d been getting himself out of these holds since he was a little kid; since Tommy was a toddler and a tantrum meant throwing himself in the line of fire. Since he was a teenager growing to his father’s size, still scrawny but tall and full of so much anger. Since the day his father found out he enlisted and nearly broke his arm just to prove he wasn’t cut out for war. Since he threw the bastard out of the house he’d haunted for decades so Tommy wouldn’t itch for a needle when things got bad.
He’d endured it all just to be able to win against assholes like this. He’d sworn to himself, those few months after he’d fled Roba, that he’d never find himself under the weight of another man again. He’d never let calloused hands do what they wanted, whether they sought to harm or humiliate made no difference to him. He couldn’t afford powerlessness, not anymore.
All he could think, as he saw Soap standing by, was please take your eyes off me. Please don’t watch me do this. I can’t pretend it’s nothing when you look at me like that.
He loosened his muscles as much as he could and drew in a sharp, steadying breath that did nothing to calm him. He reared his upper body back, using all his momentum to twist to the right and ram his restrained shoulder into the ground as forcefully as he could. A sickening pop echoed throughout the gym and bounced around violently in Ghost’s skull, a burning pain raging through his nerves like wildfire. He followed through on the roll and let his body press down on the displaced socket to gain enough space to throw Walker off his hips, sending the sergeant crashing to the mat beside him and forcing him to lose his grip on the way.
Ghost couldn’t resist the urge to bare his teeth, despite his bloodied mouth being hidden behind the mask. He dragged himself back to his knees and crawled toward Walker, who was staring at him with a downright horrified expression. Ghost didn’t care. He landed a harsh punch to Walker’s jaw that he knew would bruise and tried to pretend it didn’t feel like Sparks’ orbital fracturing beneath his torn knuckles.
Walker took the message and chose not to get back up off his ass. He was done. They were done.
A thick accent cut through the fog that had encompassed him, silencing the relentless ringing that had been drowning out the noise around him, and Ghost slumped to rest on his heels. All the energy drained from him like a dam cracked cleanly through the core, having more to do with his weariness than his physical state. His limbs felt heavy and exposed and his shoulder was sending agonizing signals through his body, bone grinding on bone beneath battered skin.
“—the hell was that?! Are ye out o’yer fuckin’ mind?”
Soap was somewhere near him, standing over him and Walker as he cursed. Ghost forced himself to look up, taking in the furious look on Soap’s face and the way his fists were clenched so tightly they turned white.
“Ye could fuckin’ kill someone doing that, are ye daft? He tapped out! I dinnae ken if this is yer first day in the military, but when someone taps out, ye get the hell off of them!” he spat.
“He was still fighting,” Walker argued, glancing between Soap and Ghost. “How was I supposed to know?”
Soap knelt down and grabbed Walker by the front of his t-shirt, yanking him close with so much unbridled hate that it sent Ghost reeling. “Maybe because he fuckin’ told ye to get off! Piece of shite—”
Ghost tried to speak up to break up the argument, but all that came out was a strangled, pathetic groan through his teeth. Soap’s eyes snapped to him, his brow smoothing out into concern so quickly that it was jarring.
Soap let go of Walker and moved over in front of him, reaching out to put a hand on his arm before he thought better of it and settled in a crouch. “Ghost. Hey, Ghost, look at me.”
He couldn’t form any words. Anything he tried to say died on his tongue before the syllables could put themselves together.
“Ye look pretty out of it, ye might be in shock a bit. We’re gonna take a trip down to the med wing, aye?”
Ghost couldn’t process anything over the fact that he’d won. There was no heat pressing down on him, no hands digging into the scarring on his wrists, no paralyzing threat against his spine. He’d taken some damage, sure, but he was still strong enough.
That was all that mattered. He could still get back up, and that was all that fucking mattered.
“C’mon, up ye go, big oaf,” Soap urged. He stood and held a hand out to Ghost to help him. When Ghost didn’t move to take it, he lowered his voice to something quieter and softer. “‘Lot of eyes on ye. Recruits are still watching. Pull yourself up, LT, this isn’t the place to break.”
He didn’t say it unkindly, and Ghost knew he was right. He’d never lost it in front of other soldiers and he didn’t want to make it any worse than it already was. At the very least, he needed to get somewhere private before the numbness faded and hell took its place.
He took Soap’s hand and let the sergeant brace his good arm, hauling him back to his feet. Soap subtly steadied him so no one else would see the way he swayed, and the thought struck Ghost that his skin was too filthy to be balanced by something so pure. It was like oil swirling above water, touching but never dissolving into one another the way they should.
The tragedy was that later, when the dust cleared and Ghost didn’t feel like his organs were stopping and restarting with every breath, he knew he’d push Soap away. There were questions he couldn’t answer because speaking them aloud made them real. He couldn't handle reliving all his grief just to get pity in turn. It was easier to let the lump in his throat suffocate him than choke the words out, even as an old, shattered remnant of himself pleaded to be understood.
Simon may have died in that grave, but Ghost carried his corpse. Sometimes, when warmth slipped through the cracks of his own crooked ribs, it felt like the heart still beat.
The two of them walked toward the hallway in silence, the recruits not daring to say a word until they were out of earshot. Ghost would find the asshole Walker later to chew him out, once the fear fizzled into anger he could channel through biting words and a lecture on etiquette. His shoulder was sending flares of pain all through his chest and arm, muted by nerve damage in some areas and intensified by it in others. It felt like bone ripping through the confines of muscle, familiar but disgusting all the same. Soap kept pace with him, only glancing out of the corner of his eye every now and then like he was trying to force down his worry. Ghost could see it in his body language anyway, the way he was too rigid and his jaw was too tight.
When they were finally away from prying eyes, Soap stopped in his tracks, whirling on him. “Are ye okay? That was a load of bullshite, what happened back there.”
It took a few seconds for Ghost to find a response. His voice was more ragged and scratchy than he intended. “I'll be fine.”
Soap frowned, not believing him for a second. “Ye sure about that? I lost ye for a second back there, Ghost. Yer eyes, they just went… blank. Like ye weren't even there.”
He wasn't. He was everywhere and nowhere at once, standing in a corridor while breathing in sand and cigarette smoke and dirt. His mind was stuck across time, dead and alive in one rotting body. But he couldn't verbalize even a fraction of it, so he kept his mouth shut and his head down with the manners his father had carved into him young. He swallowed through the blood in his teeth and tried to ignore the phantom chill of a concrete cell through his thick clothes.
“That sound— Christ. It's gonnae make me gag just thinking ‘bout it.” Soap shuddered.
“I had to get him off,” Ghost said defensively. It was too sharp and loud to be casual, the way the words tumbled out like a plea. “I—I tapped out.”
Something sad flickered in Soap’s expression. “I ken. Let's go let the medics sort ye out; can’t imagine yer having a fun time with that dislocation. Looks terrible.”
“Thanks,” he murmured sarcastically.
“Just bein’ honest.”
A few soldiers glanced their way as they headed for the medical wing, but not a single one stopped to say anything. Ghost was holding his arm at an awkward angle to relieve some of the pressure, and he knew that even with his hoodie on it just didn't look right, but he had a reputation of being downright volatile when injured, so he knew no one in their right mind would comment on it until it was fixed. He’d snapped at plenty of officers and fought enough medics for most of the task force to know he wasn't approachable when he was vulnerable. Other men in the unit tended to avoid him for two days after every mission like they were sidestepping an active landmine, giving their messages to Soap, Price, or Gaz if something needed to be relayed. He didn't think he was that much of a terror, but rumors went a pretty long way, and a few unfortunate brawls had never fully faded from his record.
When they made it in, there were a few people bustling about with supplies, but it wasn't crowded. The 141 base had eight medics and a more equipped infirmary than most platoons, solely based on the fact that their missions were more frequently life-threatening than a standard unit. Ghost found himself in the area more often than he liked.
Which was why he recognized the medic that approached the two of them. They'd all dealt with his bullshit at some point.
“Lieutenant! What brings you in here today? You're not gonna punch me again, are you?”
It was one time.
Ghost couldn't find the right words, so Soap cleared his throat and spoke instead. “The daft bastard dislocated his shoulder in a spar. He's a wee out of it, but no concussion.”
The medic — a Romanian man everyone referred to as ‘Hound’ — raised an eyebrow at him. “Wouldn't be the first time I've had to shove one of his limbs back into place. Alright, c’mon, you two.”
Hound led them through the clinic hallway and down to an empty private room, which was either an act of mercy or just plain foreshadowing that it wasn't going to go smoothly. He motioned for Ghost to sit on the bed and he robotically settled himself on the edge of it, despising the way the mattress sank under his weight. It was too soft and clean for the way it made something ugly writhe under his skin.
“I'm going to grab some fabric scissors so I can get better access. Stay put, and I mean it,” Hound warned.
He stepped out of the room and Ghost was left in the silence, the only thing tethering him to reality being Soap’s loud breathing from the cushiony chair next to the bed. Dread was making his entire body feel cold and worn out, like a cloth wrung too tightly from the ends. He couldn't do this. He couldn't fucking do this. He didn't want his clothes cut off or the feeling of sheets brushing against him or anyone touching him when his mind was so far out of his control. The cruel way Walker pressed his face down into the mats shifted something in him, picking at an old wound he'd thought he'd mended by shoving it down and ignoring it. He could make it through the pain and the panic in the moment, but it was coming to terms with his feelings that made him shake apart.
Because it was never the trauma itself that ruined Ghost the most — it was the aftermath, when all the pressure was on him to sift through the pieces and salvage what had been broken. He always left parts of himself behind; the ones that crumbled under his touch because they couldn't fit the space they once occupied.
The worst part about Coahuila wasn't digging himself free. It was the walk after. Fingers shredded down to the bone, trembling legs dragging through the scorching sand one boot after the other, bleeding sluggishly into the grain. Lungs heaving through dirt and humidity, each step of the mile toward the border like a blaze of hell through his nerves, not knowing if he'd survived it all just to drop dead from exhaustion and the hunger clawing into his gut. Each time he stumbled and hit the ground, he was terrified his joints wouldn't allow him to rise up again. It was worse than the torture, being so close to freedom and so close to failure at the same time. At least in that broken concrete cell he'd known he was alone and powerless; but out there, it was just him. A corpse fleeing its resting place with the guidance of the stars above it, fighting maggots for a ragged breath of air. It was his own fault if he didn't make it.
He remembered hoping the animals would claim his body so humans couldn't. He prayed his flesh would be ripped apart by the jaw of a starving coyote and not the prying of a coroner's curious hands. He didn't want them to retrace the scars and know what they'd done to him when it was all so fresh, each jagged line across his back becoming a line on a toneless military report. Above all else, though, he'd begged any deity his voice could cry to that Roba wouldn't be waiting at the finish line with a rifle and a smile, getting one last laugh in before putting him down for good.
He left so much of himself behind in that cell, but Simon died in the sand. Not under his captor’s hands, not under the threat of a pistol pressed against his back, not under the crushing weight of a shallow grave — but on the way home.
His mother knew it, when he finally showed up on her doorstep and she fell to her knees. Not in relief, but in horror. She’d grabbed him by the jaw and cried that they'd butchered her boy's face, tracing over the fresh scarring and poking at his crooked nose. She never let him talk about it; she couldn't bear to hear the details of the abuse, just like always. But when he woke up in a screaming cold sweat, she'd leave a cup of warm tea on the living room table for him. He never knew if her resentment was with the men who ruined him or himself for ever enlisting in the first place. He didn't get the chance to confront her before Washington blew her brains out in his father’s creaky old armchair.
When Ghost inevitably did reach the day someone ended his life, whether it was a bullet or betrayal or just his own recklessness, he wanted to be burned. He didn't think he could handle the thought of ever being in a coffin again. If he was dead, he couldn't get out this time, and Roba and Vernon really would've won.
Besides, the closest he could get to his family at this point would be to go up in flames the same way they did. There was something karmic about that; his body meeting the same fate he'd caused them.
If someone were kind enough, they'd scatter his ashes somewhere peaceful so he'd never be confined again. Not to a broken house, not to a cell, not to a casket or a jar. Just ash letting the wind return it to nature.
(Realistically, he'd die in a warzone and they'd never bother to retrieve what was left of him. But there was nothing comforting in facing that truth).
Hound returned to the room with the scissors and stood too close to Ghost, leaning over him with hands hovering over his shoulder. He desperately tried not to think about how it felt like being strapped to a chair with a taunting blade drifting along his cheek, knowing what kind of pain was coming next. Hound was well aware that Ghost wasn't in his right damn mind, so the warning glare the medic gave him wasn't all that shocking. He knew what Ghost was thinking, and he'd seen the outbursts enough times to know when the alarm bells were ringing. Soap, on the other hand, looked oblivious, watching quietly from the sidelines with an awkward air about him.
Hound put his fingers near Ghost’s neck to get a grip on the hoodie, and neither of them should've been surprised when the soldier’s hand struck out and grabbed Hound’s forearm on reflex. Hound let out a startled sound before he tried removing the grip, but he couldn't get Ghost’s fingers to uncurl.“Ghost!” he barked. “Let go!”
He couldn't. He… he couldn't. He could hear Vernon’s laugh and Washington’s final cry and Roba’s wheezy breaths against his ear. His heart was stuttering, skipping over every few beats like boots tripping over gravel. He could smell cactus flowers and blood and rot. He was fading between the hospital room and somewhere beyond, where every memory mixed into one hazy assault of past and present. He couldn't think.
Why'd Walker have to pin him down? Why'd he have to wait so long to tap out? Why didn't he call it before he ever had his stomach to the floor? Why did he always take the beating when he didn't have to? So many years of learning how to defend himself and over and over again he made the choice not to. He got himself injured every time because he was too stubborn to just admit when he was losing. So much power in him and he only used it when he was backed into a corner. What was the point in that? Why couldn't he fight normally? He wasn't a ten year old outmatched by his father or a bone-thin prisoner of war anymore. He had muscle and technique and the ability to win if he admitted his own flaws and surrendered when he was past his limit. Why didn't he fucking do it?
“Ghost! Release!”
Why, why, why?
Why'd he always let it happen? Why wasn't he man enough?
“Ghost!”
Knuckles dug harshly into his chest and his brain jolted awake, reacting to the strike like electricity surging through a circuit. Unwittingly, he let out a choked noise, all the air leaving his lungs as they constricted. There was a roaring in his ears that sounded like a fast-paced, frantic drum beat. Hound was… where’d he go?
Soap was crouched in front of him, his eyes wide and anxious in a way Ghost had never seen before. “That’s right, look at me, LT. Yer alright.”
Soap. It was just Soap, with his pinched brow and stupid mohawk and too much concern. The blurriness in his vision made it look like there was a halo circling above him, shining down through the too-cramped room like an omen. He had one hand on Ghost’s knee, squeezing just enough to ground him, like he was trying to bring Ghost back to himself.
Shame rushed through Ghost so fiercely that he could feel his eyes burning. Fucking hell, he knew he wouldn't be able to handle this. The scent of antiseptic and the bright lights were driving him over the edge in a way he wished he could verbalize. He didn't want his hoodie off. He couldn’t do this.
“I–I’m sorry,” he croaked.
A few feet behind Soap, Hound groaned, rubbing at his reddened arm. “Christ’s sake, I knew this would fucking happen. I should've brought Price in to restrain your ass like last time! Fuck!”
Soap whirled on him. “Ye ken he was out of it! I told ye that!”
“I'm sorry,” Ghost repeated pathetically.
Hound looked at him with an unreadable expression. “If you do that again, I'm sedating you. You do this every time we try to treat you.”
I'm not an animal, he wanted to say. I didn’t mean to. I didn't mean to bite.
Soap let out an angry huff and shook his head before turning back to the Lieutenant. “Ghost, we’ve gotta get that hoodie off, aye? I’m gonnae help you, but we have to either cut it or pull it off. What do ye want to do?”
He wanted to vomit. He could feel nausea swirling in his gut and bile in his throat. There was nothing he wanted less than to take off the layers that were keeping him hidden, but he knew they were right, and his shoulder was sending white-hot signals of pain through his chest every time he moved.
“I’ll take it off,” he answered. “Just… hold the sleeve.”
He gestured down to his non-dislocated arm and Soap held the fabric tightly near the wrist, keeping it in place. Ghost took a steadying breath and began to shift out of it, bringing his forearm toward his stomach until the sleeve was empty. Soap helped him get the hem of the hoodie above his head, leaving only the injured arm covered. The two of them paused.
“Just pull it the rest of the way off,” he said.
“Are ye sure?”
“Just do it.”
Soap pulled the hoodie by the loose cloth near the elbow, trying to be quick. Ghost’s vision blacked out for a few moments as it jostled the joint, but he sucked in air through his gritted teeth and forced himself not to make a sound. Soap mumbled an apology and threw the whole garment at the end of the bed like it offended him, leaving Ghost in only his undershirt.
“Alright,” Hound spoke up. “Lay down so I can put everything back in place. Do you want a muscle relaxant and a painkiller first?”
“No. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s gonnae hurt like a bitch, ye ken that. Ye dinnae need to be a tough guy here, LT.”
He didn’t want needles or drugs when he was already too close to losing it, it didn’t matter what they were. He’d had worse, he’d survive. He laid down on the thin hospital bed mattress and loathed the way it dipped under his weight. “Just get it over with.”
Hound took his bruised wrist and moved his dislocated left arm gradually toward his torso, trying to line it up with the socket. He looked toward Soap and motioned him over. “Hold his other side. I need you to keep him from getting up or hitting someone.”
“Ye want me to restrain him? Fuck off.”
“It’s for his safety and ours.”
They held eye contact for a tense few seconds before Soap scoffed and relented, going over to Ghost’s right side and putting a fair amount of pressure on his bicep to keep him from thrashing. “This fine, Ghost?”
Ghost was taken aback by the fact he even asked. His usual experience with medical treatment was either the medics holding him down or calling in Price to do it, which had left Price with a fair amount of busted lips and Ghost with too many botched stitches. Price was the only one he had ever trusted to reign him in; he knew a disturbing amount of Ghost’s past and had been there for so many raw moments, always dragging him back with an unexpectedly gentle “you’re alright, son.”
He didn’t deserve the way Soap was so soft and kind with him. He put his hands on Ghost’s bare skin like it wasn’t disgusting; like he wasn’t tainted by something he could never scrub off. There was no judgment, even when Ghost expected there to be. What had he done to deserve that? What did Soap get out of it?
“Ghost?”
“Yeah. It’s fine.”
Hound lifted Ghost’s elbow until it was at a ninety degree angle, slowly rotating it outward as his other hand felt the joint for movement. Ghost held his breath, blinking rapidly to clear away the ache. Hound was being delicate and methodical, but it didn’t mean it was pleasant.
“I can still get you some pain meds,” Hound offered. “Speak now before it’s too late.”
“No,” he repeated firmly.
“Suit yourself.”
Hound lifted his arm up and planted his hand behind Ghost’s shoulder, thumbing around to find the humerus. Once he had it, he moved the whole arm toward Ghost’s chest at an angle, guiding the bone back toward the socket. When the muscles latched, he grabbed his bicep and twisted his elbow outward, rotating until there was a sickening cracking sound and Ghost cried out through his clenched jaw.
Once the burning subsided, there was immediate relief, and he couldn’t help but sag into the sheets, all the fight leaving his body. After a few more testing rotations, Hound put his elbow over his stomach and let go, peeling his gloves off and tossing them in the trashcan by the bed. “You’re gonna wear a sling for four weeks minimum and start on basic physical therapy exercises. I want to see you back every few days to check for swelling, I’m sure you know the drill. I know you won’t take them, but I’ll prescribe you pain meds anyway. I’m going to get a sling and an ice pack, so don’t move.”
Hound stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him, the sound bouncing along the walls. Soap sighed and dragged the chair closer to the bedside, flopping down in it and crossing his arms like he was properly ticked off. Ghost closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was anywhere else, dreading the questions that he knew would come.
“So what’s the deal with that bawbag? Clearly ye two have history, and he’s acting like yer gonnae kill him if he fuckin’ blinks.”
He wished it would’ve been Price here instead. Price never asked. Never pried. If he didn’t need to know, he never brought it up. If it could be dismissed with a clap on the back and a curt nod, it was. But the Captain wasn’t here and Ghost was stuck trying to sort out words that were knotted and tangled in a damn mess just to ease the curiosity of someone who didn’t understand him.
“I almost knocked his tooth out, ‘bout a year ago.” Ghost admitted. “He was trying to treat a bullet wound on my leg. I was drugged up. Punched the daylights out of ‘em.”
“So what?” he growled. “He works with soldiers all fuckin’ day, I’m sure a lot of the bastards have taken a swing. He’s treatin’ you like a mutt. I dinnae like it.”
The thing was… he had a right to be wary. Even half-sedated, Ghost had been violent, spitting insults while kicking his legs and trying to fight four medics off of him. It ended with all of them on the floor, with Price sitting behind Ghost and restraining his arms, trying to get him to calm down. Two medics had crouched next to him, cutting away his jeans to clean the wound above his knee, hoping the dosage was high enough to get it done without any more blood lost. It wasn’t. When the tweezers came too close, Price ended up with a mean elbow to the stomach and Hound nearly lost a molar.
He didn’t return to his body until two hours later, curled up miserably in the corner with Price leaning next to the wall a few feet away. All the man had said was, “you back with us, Riley?”
Ghost let out a long, shaky exhale. “If you’d been there, you’d know I deserve it.”
“Bullshite.” Soap said, but he let the topic go.
Hound returned a few minutes later with some supplies in his hand. He had Ghost sit up so he could tuck his arm into the sling, tightening all the straps up to make sure his shoulder would stay immobile. The positioning had Ghost’s elbow bent around his midsection, and he was sure it would be sore within the next couple of days. He wasn’t sure he’d follow Hound’s strict advice to keep the sling on, but he’d try.
When it was all wrapped up, Hound tossed an ice pack to Ghost, who caught it and gave him a nod of thanks. “You know the rules, but I’m gonna repeat them anyway. You can take the sling off to shower or change, but don’t use your arm when it’s not on. Don’t take the sling off when you sleep. Don’t put all your weight on that shoulder. No sparring, fighting, or wrestling. Ice it when it hurts. I know you’re stubborn, but if you don’t let the soft tissue heal, you’re gonna fuck yourself over and compromise yourself in the field. Copy?”
“Copy,” Ghost grumbled.
The medic picked up a small pack of antiseptic wipes that he’d brought in and threw them onto the bed. “Clean up your arms so they don’t get infected. I’m pushing the paperwork through, so Price will probably be on your ass later. You’re free to go, but come back if you have issues or abnormal symptoms, got it?”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned away and headed back for the door, but Ghost’s guilt wouldn’t let him leave without saying something first.
“Hound?”
He stopped in his tracks, mid-reach for the doorknob. He turned and glanced back at Ghost, an eyebrow raised. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“I’m sorry.”
Ghost didn’t know which part exactly he was apologizing for. Maybe it was squeezing his arm earlier, maybe it was the constant trouble he caused the infirmary staff, maybe it was the incident a year ago that the two of them had long since moved past. Maybe it was every reason at once, wrapped up into two words that shouldn’t hold so much weight. But Hound accepted them anyway, his expression softening just slightly.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll see you the next time you need a patch-up, Ghost.”
And with that, Hound was gone, leaving Ghost and Soap alone in the silence again. He ran a hand down his face and closed his eyes, running his fingers along the seam of his mask around his nose. He didn’t think his lip was bleeding anymore, but the fabric was still damp and cold where it had been, and he was sure the outside had a nasty red stain forming. He’d have to swap out with a spare when he got back to his room.
He went to stand up from the bed, but Soap put a hand on his forearm, making him freeze. When he looked over, Soap was staring at him with a fierce kind of concern. He gestured to the antiseptic packs and cleared his throat. “Let me take a look at yer wrists first.”
His instinctive reaction was to yank his arm back and tell Soap to go fuck himself, but he just didn’t have the damn energy. He went to just flat-out tell him no, but the protest died in his throat. There was something about the intense way Soap was eyeing him that made him sit back down, even as his gut screeched at him to flee.
It was trust, a distant part of his mind supplied. Everything in him was fucking exhausted and Soap was a safe presence, non-threatening in a way that had nothing to do with his strength. Ghost would let him do anything he wanted if it meant he didn’t have to bear the world outside the hospital room on his own.
Soap must’ve found some sort of permission in his eyes, because he took Ghost’s right hand in his own in a way that was so tender and merciful that it made a tremor run down his spine. He flipped Ghost’s palm over to inspect the forming bruises and crescent-shaped cuts on his wrist, his warm touch tracing along the fresh injuries like they might split apart if he weren’t careful.
Ghost looked down and finally saw them for what they were, unable to stop the way his breath hitched and his stomach sank through the floor. Because how many times had he seen those same marks on his arms? How many overlapping scars did he have from ropes and chains and hands digging in, permanently marring the skin until there was nothing but puffy, half-faded lines keeping their place? How often did he have to relive that torture, because every piece of shit that had ever laid their hands on him left something to be remembered by?
He hated it. He hated that he couldn’t see his own body without seeing what it had been through too. If the imprint of Walker’s nails never went away, then it was just another crude claim left on him. It just wasn’t fucking fair.
“I’m gonnae kick his ass.” Soap said, glaring down at the mottled dark red patches. “What kind of sorry piece of shite does this to someone?”
“Someone who expects to get away with it.” Ghost mumbled.
Soap looked up at him sharply. “He’s not. If Price disnae kill him, I’ll do it myself. He watched ye fucking tap out, ye told him to get off, and he kept fucking holding ye down for no reason. I dinnae ken if I’ve ever been so angry, Ghost.”
Yeah, well, Soap would be distraught to hear that not many people have taken Ghost’s ‘no’s as an answer. He’d stopped pleading for his life a long time ago.
“It is what it is. He’s not the first person to get a power trip with me, probably won’t be the last.”
The Scot narrowed his eyes. “It’s okay to be upset, y’ken. I saw the look in yer eyes back there, when he had ye on the mats. Ghost, ye just disappeared… like yer mind went somewhere far away from the gym. And then ye dislocated yer own fucking shoulder because ye panicked.”
Ghost’s voice was a little too forced, coming off as more defensive than he meant to be. “I had to. He wouldn’t… He wouldn’t get off.”
“I’m not judging ye for it, LT. I’ve just never seen ye like that. It’s okay to lose it sometimes, ye dinnae have to brush it off.”
“What else would I do? It’s not like I can march to Price and throw a fit about it. There’s nothing to be done. I’ll get over it.”
“Is that what ye always do? Just get over it? Christ, Ghost, yer shaking. I can see it bothered ye pretty badly. I won’t look at ye differently for showing some emotion after someone treated ye like that. Yer allowed to feel it.”
Soap tore open one of the wipes and gave a murmured warning before swiping it along Ghost’s wrist, rubbing away the small smears of blood. It stung, but he was too focused on Soap’s fingers wrapped steadily around his trembling hand to care about the pain.
The Sergeant could be terrifying when he wanted to be. He’d get this frown that was more of a pissed-off grimace than anything, and his brow would furrow in a way that made his eyes more piercing, silently telling everyone to watch their tone. He was capable of so much destruction, with all the muscle on him and the rage in his heart, but he always knew how to pull himself back. He knew how to crack a lighthearted joke and roll his shoulders to ease the tension in a way Ghost couldn’t, reeling himself in when there was no outlet to take it all out on.
Which was why, despite how badly he was shaking beneath Soap’s gaze, he trusted him. It was a brittle thing, given to so few people in his life, but it was there, desperately trying to fight off the voice telling him he was going to get hurt if he didn’t pull his hand away.
He couldn't remember the last time touch meant love to him. It must've been some time when he was little, when his mother's hands were still tender and he looked less like his father. As he grew taller and bulkier, and his words grew defensive and harsh, she began to stare straight through him. His father used to call him a mama's boy; tell him he'd make Tommy just like himself and send him into Simon's room with a skull mask after a particularly harsh beating. The last gentle touch he'd ever taken without shivering beneath it was her thin fingers dragging over the bruises mottling his arms, never apologizing but always looking sorry.
His body waited for Soap to grab, to pull, to dig his nails in just because he could — but he didn't. He roamed over Ghost's skin like it was fragile, never lingering on the remnants of a past he'd never spoken of. It was too much. Too Johnny. He wished his shoulders would stop trembling just for a moment so he could feel that sweetness without a lingering sense of dread in his bones.
Soap reached out and took the wrist in the sling, being extra careful as he disinfected it. He didn’t mention it when Ghost flinched, just brushed his thumb over the lieutenant’s torn knuckles in a soothing way and continued without a word. He didn’t notice he wasn’t breathing until Soap looked up at him, so close that he could feel the heat of him, and his chest locked up painfully.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “It’s just me, Ghost, yer okay. Take a deep breath in.”
All he could manage was a wobbly inhale that made his lungs ache. He didn’t realize his eyes were burning until Soap lifted a hand toward his face and he jerked away in reflex, his heart hammering like a rabbit thrashing in a snare.
Soap’s voice was nothing more than a whisper, far too warm for what he deserved. “Don’t cry, c’mon, yer alright. Look at me, it’s just us in here.”
“I’m sorry,” he choked out.
“For what?”
Ghost’s gaze flickered around the room, trying to fixate on anything else. “That you have to deal with this.”
“Have to?” Soap challenged, incredulous. “Look at me, Ghost. Don’t do that, look at me.”
He forced his eyes to meet his again. There was no judgment in Soap’s expression, only too much patience and compassion for someone like himself.
“There’s not a single place I’d rather be right now than here helping ye. If Price told me to report to his office right this second I’d tell him to go fuck himself. Yer not a burden, Ghost, I’m not sitting here cleaning yer wounds out of pity or some sense of obligation,” Soap said fiercely. “I’m where I want to be.”
“Oh.” Ghost said brokenly.
Soap raised his hand again, not yet touching, just hovering over Ghost’s face like he wanted to make contact so badly. “Can I?”
Everything in Ghost’s mind screamed no, but there was a small, fractured part of his heart that begged yes. It overwhelmed the rest of him, loud and full of longing he hadn’t known in years. It felt like need — like meat being thrown to an animal starved down to the bone, making itself sick with how quickly its teeth sank into the offering. He itched to latch on in turn, to dig his nails in so it couldn’t be taken back. He could feel the tears betraying him, soaking into the seams of his mask as he bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Please, he wanted to cry. Please be kind to me.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Soap didn’t touch immediately. He kept his movements slow, like he was waiting for Ghost to change his mind, as he crossed the distance and rested his palm on Ghost’s cheek. Not harsh, just present — a mild pressure over the fabric, fighting the coldness beneath with the blazing fire of his skin. His thumb traced the wetness under Ghost’s eyes, following the redness and bruising of sleepless nights.
It took a few moments for Ghost to get past his initial reaction of fear and lean into it, his eyelashes fluttering as all the tension melted from his frame. It calmed a craving he wasn’t aware he had, aching for a closeness he hadn’t known since before Roba; back when Sparks and Washington were brothers to him and he still had a life back home to live.
“The team cares about ye, ye ken that?” Soap mumbled. “No need to be a tough guy.”
Ghost let out a miserable sound, somewhere low in his throat. Not quite a sob, but nearly there. Soap felt along his eyebrow, smoothing out the troubled wrinkle in the corner.
“I got scared,” he admitted quietly. “I forgot where I was.”
“We all do sometimes. It’s okay to freeze up. No one’s mad at ye.”
The wave of indecipherable emotions that rushed through him made him want to sink through the floor and into the earth. His voice was nothing more than an unsteady breath against the stale air. “I don’t know how to let you in, Johnny.”
“Don’t overthink it so much, ye already are. I’m not going anywhere. Let me take care of ye, Si.”
He made it all seem so simple, as if his hand wasn’t cradling a frag grenade with the pin pulled. Ghost was unpredictable and explosive at the best of times; he could banter and keep his cool on the field, but back on base, when there was nothing to do but train or sink into his thoughts, he got antsy. He’d rearrange his room obsessively, barricade himself in a closet with a rifle, pace the halls, snap at anyone who spoke too loudly — he’d been getting better about it after Price hounded his ass about acting like a real officer, but Soap was actively walking into the crossfire between him and his own mind.
He couldn’t stand the thought that he might hurt him just because of his own inability to be well. His anger issues had never truly gone away after captivity; the smallest thing could set him off, from the whistle of an old stove burner to a laugh that was too sharp. The last person to sneak up behind him and tap his shoulder ended up face-down on the concrete faster than they could apologize.
He was a loose cannon. A dog off a leash. A liability.
He couldn’t avoid ruining this. All he could do was pray to a god he’d never believed in that it would end before it began, so he wouldn’t be stuck with the grief of losing something he’d never known he could have.
Soap pulled away and Ghost mourned the loss more than he mourned most deaths. It was like getting a taste of the sun, only to be dragged back beneath the soil by the roots. He hadn’t felt the insatiable itch of wanting in so long, he forgot how mortifying it could be.
Soap’s face schooled into something more serious, his gaze tearing through Ghost’s like there were no barriers between them.
“Let me check yer face, Ghost. I ken he split your lip, yer mask is bloody.”
Ghost stilled. He could feel himself retreating, leaning back slightly to put some distance between them. He couldn't do that. Soap couldn't… he couldn't ask that of him.
“Christ, LT, I'm not asking ye to cut yer own leg off,” Soap huffed, before his voice shifted to something more gentle. “It's just us in here. I've seen yer face, there’s nothin’ to hide. I ken Walker got a few hits in, quit being bull-headed and let me check if ye need a stitch.”
What would he think of him, if he saw it all? The worst of it? Soap had only truly seen him once, in the dim lighting of a mission briefing when he switched his hard shell mask for a balaclava. He couldn’t have gotten more than a few seconds to roam his eyes over the mess of him. How would he react when the lights were brighter, and Ghost was laid out in front of him?
“You won’t like it,” he mumbled.
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Soap retorted.
Ghost shook his head, trying to form the words that seemed to get stuck in the pit of his gut. “You can’t… You can’t take it back, once you’ve seen. You’ll look at me different. It’s not pretty, Johnny.”
Soap just smiled, tilting his head like he was amused. He put his hand on Ghost’s knee, like he was trying to cross the divide between them one small, kind touch at a time. “Who said ye had to be pretty?”
Ghost’s chin betrayed him as it trembled, his eyes burning with fresh tears. He stared down at Soap’s hand, wanting so badly to place his own over top of it. What did he do to deserve someone treating him with such blind, unwavering empathy? As if he weren’t marred by every sin committed by and against him, as if his body wasn’t riddled with implications. As if he were innocent, like a deer that hasn’t known the road yet.
“Oh, Simon,” Soap murmured softly, and Ghost was breaking apart. “Don’t cry. C’mon, look at me. Let me see ye.”
Fucking hell. How could he say no, when Soap asked like that?
Fingers shaking, Ghost reached up and hooked his thumb under the edge of his balaclava. He hesitated for a beat, his chest heaving, before he slowly rolled it over his mouth and off of his head. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor in shame, letting the mask drop onto the bed beside him like he was shedding his own self.
And he knew Soap was looking. Taking in all the horrifying details. The uneven slope of his nose, the scars of varying lengths, the smokers lines along his mouth, the blood smeared down his lips, the electrical burns along his temple.
The worst scar was across the left side of his cheek, raised and jagged, pulling his lip down at an awkward angle and twisting the skin all wrong. Vernon’s handiwork. When he decided that Simon was too attached to his old life, he made it a point to ruin his perception of himself. He’d grabbed Simon’s jaw and stuck a knife right through his teeth, ripping and tearing until the blade came free at the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t been able to scream through all the blood in his throat.
He'd still been choking on it when Vernon held up a rusted, scratched old mirror, forcing him to see the wreck he'd made of his face. "Look at yourself, soldier," he'd said, fisting his hand tightly in Simon's hair until his scalp stung. "Fucking look at yourself! Do you recognize anything? Do you see anything there? There's nothing left. You're not a fucking person anymore. Stop fighting!"
When they realized he wasn't going to stop bleeding, they stapled the wound. They could've stitched it; they'd sewed him up before, after pulling him back from the verge of death during a particularly rough session. But the staples hurt more and healed wrong, so it became just another way to torment him.
What had scared him wasn't the mutilation, but the fact Vernon was right — he hadn't recognized himself. It was the first time he'd gotten a look at his own eyes since his capture, and there was nothing staring back. His skin was too tight, disfigured by the lines of starvation and stress. His eyes were constantly red from broken blood vessels, outlined by the deep bruises beneath them. His hair, overgrown enough to cover the tips of his ears, was thin and matted in the spots where Vernon liked to dig his fingers into it. His nose was more crooked than before, one nostril slightly pinched from the cartilage being deviated over and over again. He was a crude mockery of the man he'd once been.
One week later, Vernon's casket was lowered into the ground. Three months after that, what remained of Simon Riley joined him.
Ghost couldn’t catch his breath as Soap unraveled him, his heart pounding with fear he hadn’t known in ages. He shouldn’t have agreed. He shouldn’t have been vulnerable. He was—
“Yer a liar, ye ken that?”
He blinked. Soap grinned.
“Maybe I find ye pretty like this.”
Ghost frowned, and as he opened his mouth, he knew Soap glanced down at the broken, snaggletooth canine that was revealed. Just another imperfection among the mass of them. “You don’t have to pity me.”
“Pity?” Soap scoffed. “Y’ken what I see, when I look at ye?”
He was afraid of the answer. He couldn’t think of a single thing that was salvageable.
But Soap continued on like it was so simple. “Ye’ve got the most bonnie brown eyes I’ve ever seen. Ye could ask me to do anything, looking at me like that, and I’d do it. Yer face is soft, despite all the stress and wrinkles; yer eyes might look scary to whatever poor bastard crosses ye, but the rest of ye looks… gentle, in a good way. Charming. Yer nose bridge is bent, but it lines up with yer cupid’s bow, so it suits ye. And yer hair is the warmest golden blond I’ve ever seen.”
He lifted his hand up and placed it along Ghost’s jaw, this time without the fabric in the way. Ghost slumped into it, all the fight melting out of him. Soap brushed his finger over the blood, wiping some of it away with his thumb.
“Yer not handsome despite the scars, Ghost. Yer handsome with them. They mean ye survived. That you’re still here, breathing, no matter what they tried to do to ye.”
Ghost couldn’t help the proper sob he let out, his stomach tightening with the wave of anguish that washed over him. Everything in him became undone, like a frayed knot finally pulling loose, and Soap knew it. He leaned forward and Soap met him half way, guiding him down to rest his head against the Scot’s shoulder. The sound he let out was broken and harrowed, muffled into the curve of Soap’s neck as he fell apart. He clung to him like a lifeline, his free hand fisting in the edge of Soap’s tee like he was afraid to hold onto anything more.
“Let it out, LT. I think this has been a long time coming.”
Ghost couldn’t help it. He continued to cry, soaking into Soap’s shirt like he was bleeding into him. He cried for Simon. He cried for his family. He cried for everything that had been taken from him and never given back. He cried for the fact someone was finally holding him, so that when he fell apart, the pieces didn’t scatter. He cried like the man that was still trapped in a concrete cell in Mexico, voice damaged from raw screaming and body battered beyond repair.
He cried out of terror, still stuck on the way he was pinned down to the sparring mat like none of his pleading mattered. He cried out of joy, for the way he was being given love like it didn’t cost anything, slotting itself into a space that had been empty for so long it had grown dust. He felt human. God, for the first time in forever, he felt human.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out.
“Don’t ever be,” Soap soothed. He wrapped one hand around Ghost’s lower back, the other brushing into his hair. Ghost stiffened, waiting for it to be pulled, but Soap only ran his nails gently along his scalp, making goosebumps raise along his neck.
This was crossing a boundary, he knew that. They were a lieutenant and a sergeant, and Soap was supposed to be his subordinate. If anyone were to walk in, they’d be reprimanded for sharing each other’s space so intimately. The punishment would be harsher because they were both men. But he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from this fragile moment, not when it was the first gasp of air beneath the crushing waves he was tied down in. Like this, they weren’t Ghost and Soap — it was just Johnny holding Simon together.
“Yer okay, Si. I’ve got ye, it’s okay,” he kept repeating, his breath hot along Ghost’s ear. “Ye’ll be okay.”
Soap held the pieces of him in his palms like it was easy, like it didn’t matter that Ghost’s facade was slipping and the frailty was finally slipping through. It was like he wasn’t surprised how fractured he was, like he’d been preparing for the fall instead of bracing for it. He could sense the ache in Ghost when others couldn’t, seeing past his defenses in a way no one else had even tried to. Soap always knew how to read him better than he could read himself, too damn perceptive and too damn caring.
When he finally calmed into quiet hiccups, Soap still let him stay, hushing him as he traced the slope from his ear down to his shoulders. The comfort was so foreign but so mind-numbing, disarming him in a way he’d only ever allow Soap to do. Price had dealt with him during plenty of freakouts and meltdowns, but his touch was usually an apologetic restraint, keeping Ghost from hurting himself or others. He’d try to de-escalate and console him, but Ghost could never truly let him in. He’d seen Simon, but he’d never known him, not the way Soap was mapping him out right now.
Soap trailed a finger down his spine and tapped him lightly, drawing his attention without making him move. “If ye want some good news, I dinnae think your lip needs stitches.”
Ghost couldn’t help the raspy, wet laugh he let out, burying his face deeper into Soap’s chest. “Silver linings, right?”
“Think I need a new shirt, though. Might steal one o’ yers just to make it even.”
“It would be too long on you if you did.”
“Callin’ me short? Bastard.”
“It’s not an insult if it’s true.”
Soap snickered. “That so?”
He smirked. “Affirmative.”
When he finally pulled back, he felt lighter, like the ever-present weight had been lifted from his back. He felt exposed. Depolluted. It was like the rot had bled away from him, replaced by something fresher and untainted. Soap kept his hands on him, one cradling his neck and the other rubbing circles along his hip. Steadying him.
“Feelin’ better?”
He went to shrug and was glad for the way the sling immediately reminded him not to. “Feels like I’ve been hit and backed over by a lorry.”
“Aye, look like it too.”
“Fucker,” he grumbled.
“Let me clean ye up?”
Ghost nodded, fumbling for one of the disinfectant wipe packs and handing it over to him. Soap tore it open and hovered, moving slowly like he was waiting for any objections. There were none. He ran a finger from Ghost’s brow down his cheek before he took hold of his jaw — not harsh, not holding, just present and grounding. His other hand pressed the wipe to his lip and scrubbed at the dried blood, and although Ghost didn’t react to the sting, he still whispered an apology.
While Soap worked, Ghost couldn’t help but stare at him. The faint wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, the stubble along his jaw, the intentional unruliness of his hair, the curve of his lip when he smiled; it was all captivating in a way he didn’t have words for. For just a moment, he wondered, what is this? Where does this leave us?
It wouldn’t change much. They’d go back to their jobs once they parted, and none of this would impact their performance in the field. Maybe Soap would never look at him again and he’d try not to grieve it. Maybe their banter would hold more weight. Maybe they’d grow closer. Maybe nothing would happen at all and this would be a one-time display of closeness they’d never acknowledge. Ghost didn’t know.
He wanted to live in this moment until the end of time, while Soap’s skin was against his and he was calm about it. He wanted the world to slow so he could bask in the tenderness he was being loaned, because the loss would hurt worse than never having it at all. Please stay, he wanted to beg. Let me keep this.
Soap finished up and tossed the wipe in the bedside tray with the rest of them, letting out a long breath. “Ye solid?”
“Yeah,” he croaked.
“Let’s get ye back to your room, aye? Ye need to rest. Price will probably want to talk to ye as soon as he hears about this shitshow.”
Ghost loathed the way disappointment made his heart sink through his chest. He nodded and Soap stood up, his joints creaking as he stretched them out. He extended a hand out and Ghost took it, allowing him to pull him up to his feet carefully. When he swayed, Soap grabbed his uninjured arm and helped him re-balance like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Soap wordlessly picked the balaclava up off the mattress and rolled it up to put it back over Ghost’s head, but he got the eye hole lined up wrong, leaving to the two of them laughing as he twisted it to get the right angle. Ghost was still smiling as Soap tucked his hair in and settled the fabric over his neck, the act so casual that it made him weak in the knees.
Soap poked at the reddened patch around the mouth of the mask. “Ye’ll have to grab a new one later, this one’s stained. I’m sure ye have a billion of ‘em.”
“Negative. They’re a bitch to bleach. Keeps ruinin’ them.”
“Well maybe if ye weren’t so reckless, ye’d stop bleeding through yer masks and ye could clean them like a normal person.”
Ghost pushed his knuckle into Soap’s arm in lieu of a response and Soap returned fire by knocking his boot into Ghost’s.
“Get moving, ye big numpty. Ye look two seconds away from bustin’ yer bahookie on the floor.” Soap teased, trying to lighten the mood.
“What the hell are you even saying?”
“I’m saying yer done in.”
“Asshole.”
Soap kept close to Ghost as they began the walk back to the sleeping quarters, like he wanted to reach out but couldn’t. Luckily his shirt was dark, so it was hard to see the tears, blood, and snot Ghost had embarrassingly left on him, but some passing soldiers still glanced their way, taking note of the sling and the awkward air between them. Ghost didn’t speak, but Soap rambled along the way about his day, from having to eat his breakfast with a spork because they ran out of regular forks to the shitty weather outside.
It made it easy to leave it all behind in the infirmary, confining that private moment of weakness to a space they weren’t in anymore. If he could detach from it, it made it less painful to swallow the absence. If Soap felt off too, he didn’t show it outwardly, his movements loose and lighthearted while Ghost was tense and stilted.
They moved across the base at Ghost’s pace, since his knee was bothering him worse than before. Walker’s kick had made the joint ache again, setting back the healing he’d done over the past week. Soap didn’t once mention it, but he walked slower to compensate him like it wasn’t an inconvenience.
Being mid-day, the officer’s block was empty, and Soap fell back into silence as they approached Ghost’s door. Ghost dug around in his pocket for his key and Soap, being the bastard he was, snatched it right from his hand. He twisted it in the lock and opened the door only a crack, like he didn’t want to snoop by peeking inside. Ghost couldn’t help his grin.
“Yer gonnae keep that sling on, aye?”
It wasn’t really a question. Soap’s eyebrow was raised challengingly, like he was daring Ghost to say no. “I’ll keep it on. I’m not keen on fucking up my aim.”
Soap clapped him on his good shoulder. “Braw.”
Ghost went to step toward his room, but something in him made him stop. He looked back and met Soap’s gaze, and for a moment, they just stared at one another, like time was standing still. What could he say? Was there anything? How did you move on after laying yourself bare for someone you couldn’t afford to connect with? How did you make it casual, when you were confined to roles you’d die in?
“Look, Johnny, I—”
Soap grabbed him by the front of the shirt and pulled him down without letting him finish his sentence, cradling his face as he pressed their foreheads together. Ghost’s breath hitched as he closed his eyes, leaning into the affection like it was everything he’d ever needed. Soap held him like he never wanted to let go, his fingers lightly pressing into Ghost’s skin through his balaclava. For the first time, he wished he wasn’t wearing it, just to feel that touch properly.
“Point made,” Ghost murmured.
Soap huffed a laugh, his breath grazing Ghost’s cheeks. “Ye don’t have to say anything, Simon. I don’t need an explanation. Just let me hold ye for another minute before ye go. I think that does enough.”
So Ghost let him. He shut his mouth and he relaxed beneath Soap’s hands once again, ignoring the pain in his shoulders as he hunched down to meet him.
He’d never been religious, not even in his youth, but all he could think was that this was heaven in a definition he’d never been taught. A translation never written in the scratched pages of devotion, told only in the truth of a fragile moment. It was purity gracing sin, intertwining until it was love without the confines of condition.
It was the mercy he’d prayed for when he got desperate, back when Vernon’s betrayal was fresh and he still had hope for rescue. God, it was too late now, but it was something. He’d stopped wanting it, but he’d never stopped needing it, the way suppressing a craving doesn’t negate the hunger.
And Soap was offering it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the closest thing to holiness Ghost had ever known.
They stayed like that for what felt like eternity, until footsteps echoed down the hall and they both snapped up like it was a gunshot. They parted quickly, straightening themselves out, and Soap cleared his throat.
Ghost hated it. He hated that they had to be cautious. He hated that this wouldn’t work, because there were ranks and protocols and missions that could land either of them in an urn. The death warrant had already been signed, and neither of them knew who’d come first, just that the clock was ticking down quickly. It was hard to get close to someone when a stray bullet could rip you apart so easily; there was no vow either of them could keep.
“Rest up, LT. I’ll check on ye later, aye?” Soap said, looking shamefully sorry. “Get a shower while yer at it, ye stink like a pig.”
Ghost scoffed. “Later, Sergeant. Come back with a clean shirt on.”
Soap gave a lopsided smile and a lazy salute before he turned away, stepping back down the hallway slower than he usually walked. Like he was fighting the urge to turn back around. Ghost just watched him go, feeling hollowed out.
He retreated into his room with unsteady steps, heading straight for the small bathroom with the intent to turn the water scalding hot and burn away all the evidence of the day. He wanted to scrub off Walker’s lingering touches, even as he knew the wounds would bruise by the morning. The tragic part was that he’d have to wash away every trace of Soap too, and it just wasn’t fucking fair.
It wasn’t fair that the good and the bad would swirl down the drain all the same. He wanted Soap to stay with him; he wanted to cherish the warmth and the light and the fondness, preserving them so they couldn’t be lost. Because he didn’t know if he’d ever experience it again, and that was absolutely crushing.
He was teetering toward the dangerous edge of hope — something he’d sworn away when Vernon carved his face, and again when he saw his family’s bodies char in the flames. He lived in a constant state of neutrality, never letting his mind stray from the reality that things were never going to look up for him.
But this change… it put everything he knew into a tailspin. It was the first domino of many, tipped by accident and unable to be caught before the next one fell. He was torn between wanting to run back into Soap’s arms and never wanting to look him in the eyes again. Soap had no idea what his words did to him.
So he took a shower and he scrubbed it all away until his skin was red and raw and he tried not to think about how unmoored he was. He fell into his bed and tried to ignore the way his body sunk into the mattress and how much he despised the sheets clinging to him. He stretched his knee to ease the pressure and tried not to be angry with his inability to defend himself. He resisted sleep and tried to pretend it was because he wasn’t tired and not because he was terrified of the nightmares that would follow.
He didn’t know what he was going to tell Price, or if he’d even be able to get the words out. All he could think about was that Soap said he’d come back later, and Ghost would wait like a dog at the door for him, even as he told himself he couldn’t get attached. He wanted to see Soap in that stupid new shirt, free of the mess Ghost left on him and acting like the two of them were still normal. He wanted Soap to talk his ear off so he could forget about the dirt under his nails and the sound of Sparks’ orbital cracking and Walker’s nails digging into his wrists.
He was fucked. He was so disastrously fucked. But, at the very least, maybe he wouldn’t be alone in his spiral this time. Maybe Soap would pull him into his arms and whisper nothings to him again, and maybe Ghost would show his face again because he needed someone to finally see him without shying away. Maybe Soap would open the door the whole way next time, and maybe Ghost wouldn’t be stepping into his room alone. Maybe Soap would call him handsome again and Ghost would collapse into him just to feel touch that didn’t hurt, now that he knew it was real.
There went that nagging sense of hope again. Ghost never really learned his lessons.
But maybe he wouldn’t have to this time. Maybe there was a cycle to be broken. Maybe he could be human again, despite it all. Maybe Soap would come back and they’d just be Simon and Johnny again, sharing a fleeting moment of holiness between their skin.
Maybe he was just deluded.