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Ghost doesn’t do ‘team bonding’. He doesn’t do drinks, doesn’t do casual, dead-end conversations about the weather, about football, what their lives are like outside of work. He doesn’t share anything about his personal life, and he certainly isn’t about to ask about anyone else’s. His own personal DADT. A line in the sand that he drew several years ago after giving one too many shits about the men put under his command. All Ghost needs is trust, and he earns that trust by doing his job well and being the best damn Lieutenant he can be.
But that’s the thing about lines in the sand. The tide always comes in.
“What’s your poison, Lt.?” asks Soap with that infuriatingly cocksure grin, as if the man hadn’t suffered a mild concussion and nearly been defenestrated a mere four hours prior. “Wait, no. I know the answer. Kentucky bourbon.” He nudges Ghost with his elbow. “Like a good old boy.”
“Watch yourself, Sergeant,” Ghost grumbles, hunching over the bar, half-turned to face the door.
“Cummoan, sir. Lemme buy you a round.” The imprint from the butt of Hassan’s gun marks the right side of his forehead, a red strawberry surrounded by a slowly-purpling bruise. He’ll probably have a shiner come morning. “As a proper thanks. For that brilliant aim of yours.”
“Not finished with my first round,” Ghost points out, reaching out with a gloved hand to lift the tumbler in question, swirling the remains of the bottom shelf amber whisky Price had doled out for the five of them. Laswell had knocked her drink back in short order and bid everyone a politely firm good night, claiming it was well past her bedtime, which was a load of bollocks. Everyone knows nobody in the CIA ever sleeps.
Gaz and Price were currently locked in hushed conversation, the grainy picture of Makarov pinched between Gaz’s fingers. Ghost is off the clock, as far as he’s concerned, and isn’t about to waste his perfectly good evening in a perfectly grody American dive bar talking about their next goddamn mission. Though he would admit to being a bit of workaholic himself, Gaz and Price cultivated a level of obsession that he knew better than to try to match. It made Price a good captain; it made Gaz a promising candidate for an officer. Ghost was neither gunning for a promotion nor particularly filled with the desire to go above and beyond the call of duty, so he was more than content to leave them to it.
And thus, by process of elimination, Ghost was left to entertain the youngest member of their task force. Which wouldn’t normally even fucking happen, given Ghost’s reputation and his ability to shut down even the boldest of mouthy squaddies. And truly, if it had been anyone else, Ghost would have simply given him the cold shoulder until he gave up. But seeing how Johnny had managed to worm his way beneath Ghost’s skin like an aggressive little Scottish mite, he found he didn’t so much mind the company. Nor did he particularly want to chase the man away.
Which was, in and of itself, concerning.
Soap gestures to Ghost’s glass. “Knock that shite back and I’ll buy you something you actually like.”
Ghost licks the back of his teeth, contemplating. It’s innocent enough. There’s little else to offer each other in terms of safe camaraderie than ‘here, have more booze’. For all his unearned twenty-five-year-old swagger, Soap knows better than to try to ask Ghost anything that might border into the realm of ‘personal life’. Not that Ghost has much of one these days. It would be a short conversation no matter what.
“Fine,” he finally agrees.
Soap grins and sways towards him, nudging him with his shoulder this time. “So, what does The Ghost like to drink, then?”
“Don’t ‘The Ghost’ me, or else I’ll start calling you ‘The Soap’.”
“Mm, like the sound of that, actually. All-in-one. The only soap you need.” He has the audacity to wink.
Ghost can’t help but play along. So few people have ever truly indulged his shitty sense of humour. “I prefer my standard issue bar, thanks. I’ll leave the all-in-one to the lads still in their twenties.”
“Och!” Soap reacts with mock offense, clutching a hand to his chest. “You insult me? With your wee bar of soap?” A pause. Ghost can practically see the gears turning. “Bar…Soap…” He lets out a boyish giggle. “Guess that’s what I am right now.” He smacks the bar top for emphasis.
Charming bugger. “Yeah, but do you smell like pine needles?”
Soap purses his lips into a little pout that’s become all too familiar and irritatingly precious. He lifts an arm and sniffs beneath a pit, then gives an exaggerated gag. “Pure boggin’, that is. I need a fuckin’ shower.”
“Don’t we all.”
“Drink first, though. You never answered my question.” Soap leans an elbow against the bar, his hips shifted towards Ghost.
“Wild Turkey,” he replies, deftly pulling up the bottom half of his balaclava in a way that hides his mouth as he knocks the last of Price’s round back. He resists a shudder, and pulls the mask back in place.
“Never heard of it, but you’re the boss, Lt.” He turns his attention towards the bartender, flagging her down as he mumbles to himself. “Certainly sounds Yank as fuck, though–Hello! A double of Wild Turkey, if’n ye’d be so kind,” he self-interrupts as the bartender stops in front of them. “And I’ll have a pint of, ah…” Soap squints at the pull-handles of beer across the bar from them. “What’s the most American beer you’ve got?”
She looks at Soap with a sort of dazed expression. “American beer? Um… Probably Bud Lite?”
“Sounds mint. Ta.”
She smiles, but it has a bit of a dreamy, not-quite-here quality to it. “Sorry, can you repeat that first part?”
“Which? Double o’ Wild Turkey?”
“...Wild Turkey?” she echoes in her Chicago accent with a pinched brow.
A short bark of a laugh startles its way out of Ghost. “Holy shit, Johnny. She can’t understand you.”
Soap glares at him, giving his shoulder a punch. “Och, dinnae fuckin’ start with that shite. My accent isn’t even that thick. None of you’d be able to understand a word out my di’s mouth.”
“A double of Wild Turkey and a Bud Lite,” the bartender repeats as if she suddenly realized what he’d been saying. She gives a polite smile before turning away.
“Fuckin’ Yanks,” Soap mutters under his breath. “Why-yeld Terk-kee,” he says in a terrible American accent.
Ghost can’t help but laugh at that, surprising himself again. Soap looks over at him, laughing along the way little kids do when their parents start laughing but they’re not quite sure why.
Their drinks are placed in front of them, and Soap raises his pint glass in cheers. “To living to fight another day.”
Ghost hesitates, looking down at his glass, then back up at Soap, meeting his eyes. There’s a moment when Soap falters, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, some unspoken regret.
“To learning to fight a better fight,” Ghost offers after a beat, raising his own glass to lightly tap against Soap’s.
“Tae fuck is that supposed to mean?” Soap takes a swig of the beer, then makes a face, mumbling, “fuckin’ shite, that’s just ale-flavoured water.”
“Not everything is personal, Sergeant,” Ghost replies, tugging his mask up to take a quick sip before pulling it down again.
“You saying that because you had to save me?” Soap presses, his expression stormy.
“I’ll save you as many times as I need to,” Ghost says. He angles his head to catch Soap’s eye. “Nobody fights alone.” It’s become a bit of a mantra for them.
A ruddy flush creeps its way up Soap’s neck, and he quickly covers the flash of youthful bashfulness that Ghost caught in his expression with a cocky grin.
“Makes me think you like saving me.”
“Like I said, Johnny.” Ghost takes another quick sip of whisky, leaving the mask bunched up around his nose this time. “I like you alive.” When he looks back over, Soap is staring at his mouth. His eyes dart between Ghost’s mouth and eyes before flickering away like a nervous dog.
“I dinnae think I’ll be able to drink this,” he says, nodding to his beer. “It’s pure mingin, man.”
“Let me–” Ghost reaches over and grabs the pint, lifting it to his lips and taking a proper sip. It’s absolute dog shit beer, probably some of the worst he’s ever tasted. “No idea what you’re on about. Tastes fine to me.”
Soap lets out a bright laugh that causes Gaz to look over his shoulder briefly before returning his attention back to Price. Ghost smiles against the rim of his own glass, taking a sip before passing the whisky over to Soap.
“Here.”
“Ta, Lt.” He raises the glass to his lips, and Ghost can’t help but notice he’d spun it to align his mouth against the exact spot where Ghost’s had been.
Ah…
Well, he shouldn’t really be surprised.
Soap passes the glass back quickly, avoiding eye contact for the most part as he clears his throat. Ghost just stares down at the tumbler where the rim is just a little bit wet with whisky and spit. He pulls it to his mouth, tongue pressed to the cool glass over top where Soap’s mouth had been, then knocks it all back in one go. It was a bit too much all at once, but Ghost refuses to show weakness. He swallows hard and lets out a ragged exhale as he slams the glass back down on the counter.
“Thanks for the drink, Johnny.” He pulls his mask down as he gets to his feet, clapping a hand against Soap’s shoulder. “Need to take a slash, then I’m gonna call it a night.”
“Aye…” Soap says. “Yea, right. Good call, sir.”
The men’s room is single occupancy and there’s a queue. Ghost stands behind a man who’s a full head shorter than him. The bloke seems offended that Ghost would dare to be so tall, if his expression is anything to go by.
“Little early for Halloween, eh buddy?” he remarks with feigned friendliness. “What’s with the costume?”
Ghost says nothing, staring down at him until the man turns back around. The door to the loo opens, and the man scurries inside. The lock goes from green to red. Ghost lets out a long sigh. The weight of the day finally settles onto his shoulders, and he feels…tired. Relieved, but still on-edge. He can still see the image of Hassan dragging Johnny over to the busted window of the skyscraper. The two of them were standing so close together. Had the wind been even just slightly stronger, he might have–
Someone is approaching him from behind with a kind of targeted determination, and turns his head slightly to see Price striding over.
“We’re heading back to the hotel. Soap said you two would probably get another round?”
Ghost barks out a laugh. “Not bloody likely. Wishful thinking on his part.”
Price grins toothily. “The hubris of youth.”
“Come off it, John. You’re not even forty yet.”
Price reaches out and gives Ghost’s shoulder a squeeze. “Relax a bit, Simon. You’ve earned it.”
“Not sure about that,” Ghost mumbles.
The toilet door opens, and short-and-offended strides out, giving Ghost and Price a once-over before returning to the bar.
“See you in the AM,” Price says as he turns to leave. “Checkout is at ten, and I say we sleep in a bit, eh?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Price laughs as he walks off, and Ghost strides into the loo. It’s fucking filthy. The previous occupant at least left the seat up—one less thing for Ghost to touch. He takes his gloves off to feed his dick through his fly to piss into the bafflingly high water line of the American toilet, cursing at the unavoidable splashback. Package re-secured, he tucks his gloves into his back pocket to wash his hands, taking a moment to appreciate the crude graffiti scribbled across the mirror, then moves to leave. When he opens the door, Soap is standing across the hall from him. He pushes off the wall to stand straight, eyes wide and posture rigid.
“Alright?” Ghost asks.
“Aye,” Soap replies with very little confidence. Then, he puffs up his chest. “Needed tae ask ye somethin’.”
Ghost blinks, still standing half-in, half-out of the loo.
Soap gestures to the empty toilet behind him, motioning Ghost back inside. For whatever reason, Ghost goes without fuss, allowing Soap to follow in after him, feeling a twinge of nervousness when he locks the door.
“Smells like piss in here,” Soap comments as he turns around.
“That would be because people piss in here.”
Soap punches him in the chest with a grin, and Ghost can’t help but smile, though his stomach still feels cramped for reasons unknown.
“What is it, Johnny?” he asks, softening his voice at Soap’s nervous demeanour.
“Ehm… Did I–did I fuck up?”
Ghost furrows his brow. “Fuck up,” he repeats.
“Aye. Not sure if I said something that made you run off–”
“I had to piss.” Ghost sighs and gestures loosely around them, letting his hands fall to clap against his thighs. “Is that really why you followed me to the fucking toilet, Soap?”
“Naw,” Soap says, grinning down at Ghost’s shoes. He’s got a bit of unsteadiness to him, maybe from the drink, maybe from the concussion. “Not seriously. Maybe I just wanted to get you alone.”
Ghost feels his pulse tick up. “Why’s that?”
Soap does look up then, far too flirty for his own good. Goddamn insubordinate little shit. “See if I might convince you to gies another peek at that bonnie face of yours.”
“You’ve got brain damage, Sergeant.” Ghost’s face flames hot beneath his mask.
“Is tha’ a ‘no’, then?”
“Cheeky shit. What’s this really about?”
Soap falters, blinking up at Ghost as he opens and closes his mouth a few times. He’s annoyingly handsome. Ghost had thought that from day one, much to his own chagrin.
Soap takes a deep breath through his nose, wets his lips, and gives a small shake of his head. “Nothing, sir. Sorry…”
Ghost chews on the inside of his cheek. He has one or two options here. The logical and sound thing to do would be to shut this entire situation down. Tell Soap to march his arse out of the loo and back over to the bar to pay their tab. But some sick, sad, starved little part of him is enjoying the attention. And maybe the three or so shots of whisky are really starting to go to his head, because in one impulsive swoop, Ghost tucks a thumb beneath the front of his balaclava and pulls it off, pushing his hood back in the same motion.
Soap gawks up at him unblinkingly. His expression alone is worth it thus far.
“This what you wanted, Sergeant?” Ghost presses, his own voice pitched a bit lower than he meant for it to go.
Soap’s chest is rising and falling rapidly enough for Ghost to notice. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing along the centre of his throat. The slight peaks of his nipples beneath his shirt have Ghost’s sinuses blowing open.
“Actually,” Soap says, his voice deep and hoarse. “I was hoping for a wee snog.”
“Were you,” Ghost replies flatly without much pause. Soap physically cringes at the response.
“I’m–fuck, I’m so sorry. I’ll just–”
Ghost steps forward before he can finish. He reaches out and grips the front of Soap’s jacket in his fist, then forcefully presses their mouths together for a firm but short kiss, immediately pulling back to gauge Soap’s reaction. There’s always a chance he’d miscalculated—that Soap had just been fucking with him and hadn’t actually wanted it. And if that’s the case, Ghost can play it off as a ‘fuck around and find out’ teachable moment. Be careful what you ask for, Sergeant, he’ll say. And that’ll be that. They won’t speak about it again.
But given the way Soap stares up at him with blown out pupils and parted lips, Ghost’s confidence is reinstated. He isn’t sure who moves first, but they both crash back together, sucking at each other’s mouths. Soap’s hands bracket Ghost’s face; Ghost grips the front of his jacket, his other hand at the small of Soap’s back, still clutching his balaclava. He walks them backwards until Soaps back collides with the door and he grunts into Ghost’s mouth, holding Ghost’s ears like they’re fucking handles.
“Jesus fuck,” Soap gasps as they pull apart to catch their breaths. “Holy hell, that was a gamble that paid off.”
Ghost leans back down for another kiss, slightly less brutal, but still with the intent to devour. He pulls back with a wet smack. “You drive me fuckin’ mad, you know.”
Soap lets out a breathy laugh, slotting one of his legs between Ghost’s. “I had my suspicions, aye.”
They kiss and hump against each other for several long minutes, no better than a couple of teenagers. Soap’s mouth is hot and wet, slick against Ghost’s lips as he hums and moans and bites, just little nibbles here and there. His hands slide down the column of Ghost’s neck, scraping through the close-cropped hair on the back of his head. Ghost fucks his tongue into Soap’s mouth like he’s trying to erase any evidence that anyone other than Ghost has ever kissed him.
“Can’t believe you got me snogging you in a filthy fucking toilet,” Ghost grumbles when they pull apart at last, both breathing hard.
“We could always move locations,” Soap suggests with that cheeky fucking grin. Gorgeous. So bloody gorgeous.
Ghost sighs as his conscience comes back online. “Johnny…”
“Oh no, don’t you fuckin’ dare, Simon.” He grips the front of Ghost’s hoodie and gives him a shake. “Don’t you dare.”
“You know why we can’t.”
“Aye, and you know why we can’t do half the shite we do out in the field, and yet–”
Ghost lets out another defeated sigh. He’s technically not wrong. Fratrinization will have the Brass looking the other way far more easily than, say, kidnapping and interrogation under torture. The 141, as a whole, has violated the AFA more times than he’d like to count and gotten away scotch free. So, yes, in the grand scheme of things, snogging his Sergeant is probably the least of his concerns.
Mostly, it’s Ghost’s ego that’s the issue. He’d always been a bit prideful over the fact that he’d never fucked any of his NCOs, despite it being a relatively popular pastime among soldiers. It was the power imbalance, mostly. Never quite sat right with him. He rightly looked down on the men (for it was almost always men) who seemed to get their rocks off on the fact that they had subordinates at all.
But now, peering down at Soap—with Soap looking back up at him, eyes half-lidded and lust-drunk, pink lips parted—he can vaguely see the appeal of having an eager little subordinate practically gagging for it. That, and the bruise slowly spreading its way across Soap’s forehead, pooling purple beneath his eye socket, is a deeply unpleasant reminder that they are both incredibly fragile, undeniably mortal men, and this might be their first, last, and only chance to have a little bit of fun with each other.
It’s for these reasons that Ghost finds himself genuinely weighing the pros and cons of taking the young man back to their hotel and shagging him properly.
“Please, Lt.?” Soap says, too soft and too whimpery.
“Don’t fuckin’ come at me like that, Sergeant,” he growls. “I don’t give begging dogs treats.”
A light goes on in Soap’s eyes, and—that’s more like it. There’s the man who, for better or for worse, has Ghost wrapped around his finger.
“What kind of dog do you want me to be, then?” Soap grins, biting at his lip. “I’ll get on all fours for you, sir.” He slides his hand beneath the hem of Ghost’s hoodie at his low back, dragging his calloused fingers across bare skin. “Maybe roll over. Show you my belly.”
“Dirty mutt,” Ghost rumbles. He kisses him a final time before fully pulling back. He reaches into his pants to adjust his hard cock, tucking it into his waistband. “Fine. Let’s pay our tab and fuck off.”
“Already paid it,” Soap says, looking far too pleased with himself.
“That so? Had this all planned out, did you?”
“Figured if things went sideways I’d have to make a hasty and calculated retreat.”
“Smart man.”
Soap adjusts his own pants, then re-zips his jacket. “Shall we?”
Ghost pulls his balaclava back on and gestures to the door.
When they exit there’s a queue of three men, including short-and-offended.
“Sorry ‘bout that!” Soap says to the group, ever the charismatic arsehole. “American toilets. Awfully confusing. Needed backup.”
Ghost rolls his eyes and gives Soap’s back a shove, ushering him towards the front of the bar a bit faster.