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Ghost had never been good with physical contact. It wasn’t for lack of wanting it - as a child, before everything, he had hugged his friends and loved it, the feeling of pressure and weight around him a comfort he couldn’t get from anything else - but over time he had been touched one too many times without warning, had been touched in violent ways more than soft ones, and so now he simply couldn’t handle it.
Touch made him jumpy - it was just the unfortunate truth of the matter. On the field, it was fine. Useful, even. No one batted an eye when an enemy tried to grab you and you moved on a dime, putting a bullet through their skull before they could actually harm you. It was off the field that it was a problem.
A rookie had placed a hand on his shoulder as he walked past Ghost, once, and he had learnt quickly not to make that mistake again. Before he even had the chance to remove his hand, Ghost had him grabbed by the wrist, yanking it away and feeling the bones snap beneath his fingers.
“Don’t do that again,” he had hissed, before letting go of the rookie and watching him scamper off. It didn’t take long beyond that for the news of what he had done to spread around the base. The rookies very much didn’t touch him after that.
Another time, it had been Gaz. They’d been sat beside each other on exfil, the chopper they were in crammed full of gear and junk for God knows what reason, making it all too difficult to find space to just sit down and breathe. Ghost would blame it on the exhaustion of the mission, the way he was already sore all over from exertion and being shot in the chest a few too many times, but he knew that even if it had been infil he would have reacted the same.
Gaz’s leg had bumped up against his, the pair sitting too close for comfort already, and the contact was just too much. He could feel the line of it up his leg like a threat, like he was about to be harmed in some way, and despite the fact that he had watched it happen, that he knew it was just Gaz bumping into him and that there was no threat whatsoever, he had still reacted on pure instinct.
He had jumped back off the chair, pulling away quickly, and before he realised what he was doing his gun was drawn, slightly shaky hands pointing it at the man. He was terrified, at the contact or his reaction to it he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t really matter. He was pointing a gun at Gaz, fear clear in his eyes, and it was only then that his brain caught up to him.
The gun went clattering to the ground, and he stepped back further, trying to outrun his response but unable to go anywhere.
“Sorry,” whispered out Gaz, the two of them staring at each other, shell shocked.
They hadn’t spoken about it afterwards, some unspoken agreement hanging between them that whatever it was, it wasn’t worth bringing up again. They were all a bit fucked up, and this didn’t need to be a problem unless they made it one. So Gaz simply didn’t. And Ghost was thankful for that.
The worst time, of course, had been with Soap. Ghost knew that Soap was a much touchier man than him, had seen the way he practically hung off teammates at every opportunity, practically leant into every touch that he was given. Soap was polite about it, though, had never once pushed into Ghost’s space after the incident, hyperaware of how badly Ghost reacted to it. There was a line drawn in the sand there, a line that said Ghost was the only person Soap couldn’t touch, and Soap didn’t cross it.
The reason the line had to be drawn, of course, was awful. It was so painfully minor of an interaction, it shouldn’t have affected Ghost in the way that it did. Except, of course, that it did. And Soap was the one that paid the price for it.
Ghost had just been making breakfast in the base kitchen, toast and eggs to tide him over after a long week of horrible mission food. It was simple, and low effort, but it tasted good enough, especially compared to what he had been eating, so it didn’t matter. He was still a little on edge from the mission, reactions blown out of proportion and senses still on a hair trigger.
But he was also distracted enough with the eggs he was scrambling that he was mostly tuning out the chatter in the room behind him, and that was his great mistake. Soap and Gaz had been going on about something, and the one time he had glanced away from his cooking to see what they were on about, Gaz and Roach had been climbing on top of each other, Soap using his phone to film it, and Ghost had decided that he didn’t want to know, actually.
His tuning them out had been his downfall though, because as he was working away at the stove, something had run into his back, the full length of a body pressing against his and pushing him up against the stove. He had reacted without thought, working on fear and instinct alone, and before anyone knew what was happening, Soap had been pinned to the ground, eyes wide with fear, Ghost crouched over him with a knife in hand.
The knife had been at Soap’s throat before Roach and Gaz had seen, and Ghost was beyond thankful that they had been there. Because if they hadn’t been, he didn’t want to know what would have happened.
“Ghost!” yelled Roach, and hearing the normally silent man’s voice was enough to snap him out of it.
Afterwards, Ghost had fled. He couldn’t handle the eyes on him, the guilt. So he had just ran. This wasn’t like with Gaz, where there was no escape. Here, he could run, and hide himself, and so he did.
Ghost had just never been good with physical contact, and that was that.
I.
Ghost and Soap were bunkered down in a safehouse as they awaited exfil. Their mission had gone more or less to plan, and while they had come away with some minor injuries, it was nothing in comparison to the damage they had dealt to AQ. Still, an injury was an injury, which meant that the sluggish wound where Ghost had been grazed by a stray bullet against his back needed to be dealt with.
Normally, Ghost dealt with all his own injuries, he was more than proficient enough to not have to worry about not doing a suitable job. If anything, it was better for him to do it, because by touch Ghost could tell if he was pushing his body beyond it's limits or tearing a wound open much faster than someone else could. There was no reason for him not to take care of this wound himself.
"Ghost," said Soap, standing in the doorframe of the cramped little bathroom that Ghost was patching himself up in, "just let me deal with it, I promise I also have first aid training."
That wasn't the issue, and Soap knew it. Everyone knew it. Ghost wasn't one for touch, didn't need anyone else to touch him, even if it was to tend to a wound. He would manage just fine with this one, no matter what Soap thought.
"Come on," said Soap after a moment of Ghost not bothering to respond, "just let me do this. You can barely reach it!"
"It's fine," hissed Ghost, but he knew that Soap was right.
He'd only just barely managed to reach the spot to clean it and apply antiseptic, which meant there was next to no chance he'd be able to actually stitch it up. But the alternative was Soap touching him. And that just wouldn't fly.
He thought for a moment about it for a moment, wondering if he could get away with just leaving the wound open until they arrived back on base where medical could deal with it for him. He could handle them stitching him up. They were quick and efficient, and had a healthy enough fear of him that they knew not to touch him for too long.
Soap, of course, despite Ghost's efforts, had no such fear.
"Ghost," said Soap again, sounding more concerned, "I really don't want to have to write up an incident report where I explain that you died on this mission because you refused to let me stitch up such a minor cut. Can't we just skip this whole argument and get to the stitching up part?"
Ghost sighed, knowing that Soap was, once again, correct. He knew it was inevitable, that ultimately Soap was going to wear him down, and the sooner that he let him get to it the sooner it would be over. He didn't say anything in response to that, just handed over the box of medical supplies he'd been working out of to Soap, hoping he'd get the message.
Thankfully, Soap got the memo, taking the box of supplies and perching himself on the edge of the bathtub behind Ghost. As Soap rifled through the box behind him, Ghost felt himself tensing up. Just because he had accepted that this was going to happen didn’t mean he had to like it.
A hand grazed lightly against his back without warning and he flinched, even the tiniest of touch too much for him to handle.
“Shit, I’m sorry, should’ve warned you,” said Soap, hands raised away from Ghost again.
“S’alright,” Ghost replied, feeling a little guilty, “just. Yeah, warn me next time.”
“Of course,” said Soap, slowly lowering his hands again, “I’m just gonna wipe it with an alcohol swab now, okay?”
Ghost nodded, flinching a little bit as it touched his back, the sting of the alcohol into the cut barely painful, and yet somehow it felt amplified infinitely when combined with the barest graze of Soap’s skin against his. It only lasted a few moments, and Ghost did his best to stay still, to make it easier for Soap so it would be over sooner, but it still felt like a tortuously long time.
“All done with that part,” said Soap, leaning around Ghost to toss the swab into the bin, “now for the worst bit, and then we’ll be finished.”
Ghost grit his teeth. He’d been stitched up a million times before, it was barely painful anymore. Certainly compared to the other injuries he’d collected over the years. No, the problem was the prolonged touch, the fact that he needed to stay still and steady, couldn’t just flinch away this time or he’d make it worse.
“Okay,” said Soap, “are you ready? I’m going to put my hand on your back first so I can keep the needle steady.”
Ghost took a deep breath, felt every muscle go tense, and then nodded. It needed to be done, so it should be done as quickly as possible. The hand that settled on his back pressed lightly, but it was far more pressure than Ghost would have liked. He took another deep breath, tried to steady himself. As much as he wanted this over as soon as possible, he was grateful that Soap was giving him time to adjust.
“You ready for me to-” began Soap.
“Just. Do it already.” spat out Ghost. He felt a bit bad for being so cruel to Soap right now, especially with how kindly the man was treating him, but he didn’t have it in him to muster up any more kindness. Not now. Not like this.
Soap, to his credit, didn’t seem to mind, and just got on with things.
“Okay,” said Soap, sounding completely calm, “I’m going to start stitching you up now.”
And then there was the sting of metal pressing into his skin, a second hand bumping up against his skin. Ghost winced, but managed to stay still. Soap was taking his sweet time stitching him up, and rationally Ghost knew it was because he was being careful, but by God was it awful to have to sit through.
Ghost tried to take his mind off the touch, to think about anything else, but nothing seemed to work. He took apart and reconstructed his gun in his head, but the pressure remained ever present. He catalogued every one of his knives and the last dozen people he’d killed with each, and yet he couldn’t escape the feeling of Soap’s hand on his back.
It wasn’t all bad, as much as he loathed to admit it. The pressure that Soap’s hand was applying was steady, and even, and if he pushed away the feeling of discomfort it offered, it was almost calming. Not calming enough to let him untense, but enough that if he focused on it, and just it, it was almost as if he wasn’t thinking about anything at all.
And so he let himself feel the touch, focus on the touch. It wasn’t nice , but it was better than thinking about the uneven touches, the way Soap was so close to an open wound of his - a wound that he should have been stitching up instead of Soap - and so he focused on it.
He didn’t untense, but could you blame him? Ghost had never been good with physical contact.
II.
Ghost had been in the common room when Gaz and Roach had raided it a half hour ago, slowly emptying it of every single seat and flat surface in the entire room - besides of course for the love seat that Ghost had been occupying, although not for a lack of trying.
He had no idea what they were doing with all that furniture, but Ghost was honestly a little afraid of what the answer might be, so instead of asking questions he simply opted for glaring them down whenever they came too close to his couch. It didn’t quite satisfy his curiosity, but it left him with a comfortable spot to read his book, and so he considered that a net win.
He had been alone in the common room for a while now, and he was hoping that the lack of furniture would dissuade anyone else from joining him. It was only really Price and Soap who were left as potential occupants anyway, and he was fairly certain that the former was swamped with paperwork. Soap, he was less sure of, but he had a tendency to be involved in whatever bizarre antics Roach and Gaz got up to most of the time, so with any luck their furniture theft would be keeping him busy too.
Which would mean that Ghost could be left alone with his book for a good long while, just able to relax and not worry about anything else.
His wish did not come true, however, as Soap joined him in the room not a few minutes later. He took a long look around the room, surveying the lack of furniture, but didn’t comment on it. Maybe he had seen Gaz and Roach with some of it earlier and had connected the dots. Maybe he was just used enough to their bizarre idea of recreational activities that he had learned not to question things like a room missing all its furniture anymore.
But then Soap’s eyes landed on the couch that he was sitting on, settling not on Ghost, but the empty space beside him. Ghost felt a feeling of raw fear wash over him. Soap was going to sit down next to him. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the man or anything - on the contrary, Ghost found Soap a lot more tolerable than some of his other teammates - it was just that this was a couch made to seat two people, and two average sized people at that. It was not made with two very large soldiers in mind, and Ghost knew exactly what that meant. Anytime more than one person tried to sit on the loveseat, they ended up pressed shoulder to shoulder, no space to spare between them. It was just the way it was.
And Soap, it seemed, was about to come sit down on the loveseat with him. Ghost considered getting up right then and there, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the nagging feeling that it would be rude, that Soap would be upset if he just left. Maybe it was the tension he could feel in his limbs, the fear that he wouldn’t be able to get himself to shift even an inch right now if he tried. Maybe - although this felt the least likely - maybe he wanted Soap to sit next to him.
Whatever the reason, Ghost didn’t move, and Soap did. And so suddenly there was contact all the way up his side, Soap’s shoulder knocking against his as he sat down. Ghost couldn’t tune it out, couldn’t ignore the way Soap was pressed up against him, touching him far more than he would have liked. But it would be weird and rude to just stand up and leave now, so he might as well try and return to his book.
He could barely remember what he had been reading now, some novel he couldn’t give less of a shit about anymore now that there was all this contact running up his side. It was off putting, and distracting, and his book was entirely irrelevant to him now. He found himself re-reading the same paragraph again and again, but his brain just refused to comprehend any of it.
It was all too much for him, and so after a few minutes he accepted that this couldn’t last. Closing his book, Ghost got up from the couch, leaving the common room. He figured he’d just go back to his room and read there, where no one could disturb him and he’d be free from the risk of unwanted touch.
And then he rounded the corner to the hallway that his room was off of, and had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit with a stray foam dart.
“You’re going down, bug boy!” yelled a familiar voice from down the hall, obscured by towers of furniture and blankets, but still distinctly Gaz.
Ah, so this is what had happened to all of the furniture. Gaz and Roach had dragged it all into a narrow hallway to build forts for what appeared to be a very intense and highly competitive nerf war. He could see Roach signing something to Gaz, but with Roach’s back to him, he couldn’t make out most of what he was saying. He was fairly certain there were several swear words and insults in there, though.
Ghost surveyed the hallway further from where he was tucked behind the makeshift cover an upturned table was providing him. He could see part of his door from where he was, but it was mostly concealed behind a large couch on Gaz’s end of the hallway, and he wasn’t entirely sure it would even be accessible anymore.
Deciding to risk it, Ghost waited for a moment of calm in the nerf war, before darting around furniture and attempting to make it to his room.
It was all for naught, though, as almost immediately Ghost could see that his door had been made entirely inaccessible by the couch, and he was pelted by a flurry of bullets from both sides. Deciding to cut his losses, Ghost returned the way he had come, his retreat marked by raucous laughter from Gaz and a few stray bullets shot towards him from Roach even as he turned the corner away from where the pair had set up.
Finally alone in a hallway, Ghost surveyed his options. He could risk the hallway again to return to his room, but that would likely require cooperation from Roach and Gaz, and he doubted that was at all likely. He could try and find somewhere else to hide out, but there weren’t exactly many good options, and certainly none that wouldn’t be full of people. Which left the common room, with its single loveseat and Soap.
It wasn’t that Ghost didn’t like Soap, it was that he didn’t like anyone when they were that close to him. But Soap wasn’t as bad as most people, so he figured it was probably his best option.
Steeling himself, Ghost returned to the common room. Soap, thankfully, was busy tapping away at his phone, which meant that he wouldn’t have to see Ghost awkwardly approach the loveseat.
Taking one last deep breath, Ghost approached the couch, sitting down in the empty space beside Soap. They were shoulder to shoulder again, bodies pressed tightly together, and Ghost felt a little like he couldn’t breathe.
It wasn’t terrible , but it still felt wrong, and more than anything Ghost just wanted it to end. Why did Roach and Gaz need all of the furniture, after all?
After a moment, Ghost remembered his book, opening it back up to where he had left off. Finding his place, he tried his best to continue reading, eyes skipping over lines and having to reread paragraphs again and again. But he was managing, slowly getting used to the sensation of Soap’s arm against his.
By the time he reached the end of his chapter, he had almost forgotten the other man was there. Even if he was a little tense.
III.
Ghost wasn’t entirely sure why he always agreed to come out drinking with the rest of the 141. Sure, he enjoyed a bourbon to take the edge off on occasion, but he didn’t have quite the same interest in drinking himself stupid like some of the others did.
On this particular night, it was Soap who had decided to get the drunkest. Gaz and Roach were both tipsy, currently huddled in a corner discussing what sounded like a plan to get Price to perform karaoke, the man in question only having had a single pint of beer.
Ghost had been nursing his second glass of bourbon for a while, idly listening to Soap babble on about one thing or the other. It wasn’t all that bad, even if it was becoming increasingly clear that someone needed to get Soap home soon, and that someone was probably going to be him.
With that in mind, Ghost waited until Soap stopped talking to take a sip of his drink, before interrupting his latest train of thought.
“Finish up your drink and then we’ll head back to base, okay?” he prompted, hoping the man wasn’t so drunk as to want to resist.
“Ye gonna be the one to take me home, aye?” replied Soap, accent think.
“No one else here to do it,” said Ghost, “so yeah, I suppose.”
Soap grinned at that, downing the rest of his drink in one long gulp.
“Alright then, LT,” said Soap, "take me back to yours then."
As he said it, Soap began to lean into Ghost, practically plastering their sides together. Ghost pulled away slightly, not wanting Soap to fall, but also very uncomfortable with how close they were. Soap didn't seem to notice his discomfort however, and simply followed his movement, staying stuck to his side.
Deciding this wasn't working, Ghost stood up, taking a step away to try and put some space between them. Soap toppled towards him at first, before catching himself and eagerly hopping off his stool, returning to Ghost's side.
Ghost just kept reminding himself that it could be worse. At least the person clinging to him was Soap, who's touch he could stand a lot more than most people.
Ghost took another step back, but Soap just followed, sticking to him like glue. Sighing, Ghost accepted his fate, realising that if he wanted to get Soap back to base, he was going to have to soldier through this.
“C’mon then,” said Ghost, although he figured it was probably for naught, considering that Soap had decided to stick the pair of them together until further notice.
Soap just grinned at him, and Ghost took it as confirmation enough that he’d come along without issue. Waving goodbye to Price, and the scheming pair of sergeants beside him, Ghost led Soap out of the bar, hoping that this would be a relatively quick trip home.
“Where’re we going?” asked Soap, only a few steps out of the bar.
“Back to base,” said Ghost, wondering just how drunk his sergeant was, “like I told you.”
Soap pouted at that, but didn’t say anything further, instead deciding to bury his face in Ghost’s shoulder. At first, Ghost tensed up, not expecting the feeling of the Scot’s breath on his neck. But that only seemed to make Soap press himself against him further, and Ghost didn’t want that, so he tried his best to relax, continuing back towards base.
Soap seemed to let up a little, thankfully, but that led to a new problem. Now that he had his face buried in Ghost’s neck, but wasn’t pressed against him as much, Soap seemed unable to follow properly, stumbling a little every now and then as they fell out of step.
Groaning a little, Ghost took what seemed like his only course of action, and wrapped an arm around Soap to help guide him. Soap leaned into the touch, seemingly quite pleased by it.
It wasn’t ideal, but it would be over soon enough, and then Ghost could rest easy knowing that Soap wasn’t getting into trouble while drunk out of his mind. As they made their way back, they passed more than a few recruits, several of whom opened their mouths as if to make a comment about the sight. Ghost shot them all glares which shut them up real quick, making sure that Soap didn’t have to know it had happened at all.
When they finally reached base, Ghost managed to get Soap inside fairly easily, and he let out a long sigh of relief as they reached Soap’s room.
“Here you are,” said Ghost, “home sweet home. Go sleep off the alcohol, and don’t come complaining about how much your head hurts in the morning.”
Ghost stepped away from the door, assuming his work was done, only for Soap to grab at him again.
“Where are you going?” asked Soap, sounding put off.
“Back to my own room.” replied Ghost.
“Oh,” said Soap, not letting go, “okay.”
Ghost tried to pull his arm out of Soap’s grip, but the Scot just stumbled towards him again.
“This is your room, Soap,” said Ghost, “you need to let go of me so you can go to bed.”
“But you’re going back to your room!” protested Soap. “And I’m Johnny ! Not Soap.”
Ghost sighed. He really didn’t enjoy drunk Soap. “Johnny, this is your room. You sleep here. I sleep in my room. That’s how this works.”
“But-” protested Soap.
“Go to bed, Johnny.” said Ghost.
After a long moment of pouting, looking between Ghost and his door, Soap seemed to conclude that he wasn’t winning this, and let go of Ghost’s arm.
“Goodnight, then.” said Soap, sounding sad.
“Night, Johnny.” replied Ghost, before retreating down the hallway to his own room. He didn’t need Soap changing his mind again.
The next morning, Ghost woke up to someone knocking on his door. Groaning, he pulled himself out of bed, hoping that this wasn’t an actual emergency, and just some idiot rookie he could yell at for waking him up.
As he opened the door, he was a little surprised to see Soap, before he remembered exactly what had happened last night. Was Soap really here to complain about his headache just because Ghost had told him not to?
“Hi,” said Soap, looking a little awkward.
“Hi.” replied Ghost.
“I uh… I just wanted to apologise.” said Soap, “For last night, that is. I shouldn’t have been so touchy and grabby at you, I know you don’t like that shit, and me being drunk was no excuse.”
“Oh,” said Ghost, a little surprised, “that’s fine, Joh- it’s fine, Soap. You were drunk, and I was the one who decided to try and wrangle you home.”
“Thanks again for that, by the way,” said Soap, “I’m not quite sure I managed a proper thank you last night. It’s all a little hazy. But really, I’m sorry I was all over you like that. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re welcome,” said Ghost, “and uh, good then. I won’t bother dragging you home the next time you get piss drunk at the bar then. Is there anything else you wanted to speak with me about?”
“No, that’s all,” said Soap, “see you around, LT.”
“See you around.” replied Ghost, watching as Soap left for a little too long before he closed the door behind him.
Despite not actually liking being touched, Ghost couldn’t help but feel put off that Soap had come to apologise. Which felt ridiculous right?
Putting it up to the fact that Soap had been drunk, and he didn’t think that sober Soap needed to take responsibility for something so small he had done while intoxicated, he pushed the feeling down. He had bigger things to worry about.
IV.
The past few missions had been absolute hell on Ghost’s back. He wasn’t old by any means, but he also wasn’t the eighteen year old he had been when he had first signed up. He shouldn’t even be dealing with all this back pain, but things had managed to go sideways enough multiple times that he was absolutely feeling it.
First, Soap had decided it would be a good idea to find a “vantage point” from inside a small cave system on one of their missions. Said cave system had turned out to be far too small to fit into, and Soap had ended up slightly stuck. While pulling him out, Ghost had taken a couple shots to the back, and while his armoured vest had kept him from being seriously injured, they hurt like a motherfucker.
Next, Ghost had managed to strain himself too much while trying to carry an injured recruit out of a mission, and had strained the muscles in his back.
And then, to top it all off, after their most recent mission should have been over, Soap had detonated some leftover explosives he had planted, sending debris flying, and managing to hit Ghost square in the back with a decently sized boulder.
So Ghost didn’t feel all that bad as he moaned and groaned about his sore back in the common room, or that he increased said complaining when Soap entered. What he hadn’t anticipated was Soap immediately offering to do something about it.
“Let me give you a massage, LT, if it’s that sore.” he had said.
“I don’t need a massage, Soap, I need you to stop getting me injured.”
“Touché,” replied Soap, “but in the meanwhile, surely you want to feel a little better.”
“If I needed a massage, I’d go round to the actual massage parlour that’s five minutes off base.” said Ghost. He didn’t know why he was entertaining this idea at all.
“Ah, but they charge you money. I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart.” said Soap.
“You’re doing this because you feel guilty you keep getting me hit in the back by projectiles.” deadpanned Ghost.
“You’ve got me there. So, massage?” asked Soap, hopefully.
Ghost didn’t know what came over him, but something must have, because instead of telling the sergeant to fuck off, he replied “Alright then.”
Soap must not have expected the response either, because he looked just as surprised as Ghost fet at his own response, before quickly bouncing into action. He settled down on the couch Ghost was sitting on, grabbing him by both shoulders and rotating him so he was facing away from Soap.
“Think this’ll work best if you lie down, LT,” said Soap, sounding a touch apologetic.
Ghost sighed a little, but complied, tensing a little when Soap shifted to sit over Ghost’s legs.
“Sorry,” warned Soap, “my hands are a little cold.”
Ghost was about to ask why that would be a problem when he felt cold hands pushing the back of his shirt up, before finding their place on the small of his back. He was sure that he was making things even harder for Soap, the touch leaving him even tenser than before.
“Shit, you’re a fucking tense bastard, aren’t you LT?” said Soap, hands beginning to work at the knots in Ghost’s back.
At first, the hard pressure only hurt more, and Ghost had half a mind to tell Soap to stop. But he didn’t. Slowly, as Soap’s hands began to warm up, Ghost began to warm up to the massage. It still wasn’t exactly relaxing , but he had to admit that whatever Soap was doing, it was making a difference to his back.
The motions were repetitive enough that, after a while, Ghost could almost put aside his discomfort with them. He knew where Soap’s hands would be, knew how to anticipate it, and as he did so, he could feel the tension slowly melting out of him. It was almost nice.
Ghost let Soap continue to work at him, deciding he’d just close his eyes for a moment.
“All done, LT,” said Soap, and Ghost was suddenly snapped back out of the daze he’d been in. “Feeling better?”
Ghost grumbled something in response, not quite able to put his thoughts together coherently just yet, and Soap laughed.
“Anytime you need a massage, you come find me, okay?” said Soap, leaving Ghost alone in the common room.
“Okay, yeah,” replied Ghost, but Soap was already gone.
V.
Ghost was pretty sure he was dead. Scratch that, Ghost was pretty sure that he should be dead. Dead people weren’t typically in this much physical pain.
Things had been going so well, he and Soap had cleared the building they had been in almost entirely of AQ agents, but then they’d confronted the man they’d come for - an ex-CIA informant, who clearly had something of a grudge - and before Ghost could properly tell what was happening, there hadn’t been a building anymore.
Looking around himself, Ghost surveyed the rubble he was in. Through some stroke of luck, he’d managed to not be crushed by anything, but judging by the mounds of concrete and thick white cloud hanging over him, their target and Soap hadn’t been so lucky.
He just hoped that despite the odds Soap was still alive as well. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to pull a corpse out of the rubble today.
Checking that he still had his weapons on him, Ghost pushed himself up, steadfastly ignoring the way every part of his body screamed at him as he did so. He could handle all of that once he was on the exfil out of here.
Reaching for his radio, he tuned in to the channel they had been using, letting exfil know they needed a ride out ASAP.
With that taken care of, Ghost began to survey the wreckage. He shifted slabs of concrete wherever he could, looking for any sign of life - or, God forbid, death. It took him a while to find anything that wasn’t pure rubble, and at first he was hopeful.
That was distinctly a hand that he had uncovered, and while it wasn’t moving, it was still warm. Whoever it was, they might not be dead yet.
He began digging with a fervour, removing every piece of debris between him and the body. There was a lot of blood, but that didn’t mean anything. They could just… be hurt, badly. He tugged on the hand after a little bit of work, hoping to get a response, but was surprised when it came easily from the rubble. Too easily.
He was holding a severed arm. He prayed it wasn’t Johnny.
“Soap?” he called, hoping that maybe, the man wasn’t dead. Just… missing a limb. “Johnny? Can you hear me?”
There wasn’t any response. He kept digging. Soap was probably just unconscious. That was all. Just, unconscious.
He was digging through the rubble with haste now. His fingers were bleeding a little. It didn’t matter.
“Ghost?” called a voice behind him.
Great, now he was hallucinating.
“Ghost?” it called again, closer. “Simon?”
That didn’t seem right. Johnny didn’t call him Simon, and he was pretty sure that this was supposed to be him. Confused more than anything, he turned to look behind him. He wasn’t expecting to find anything at all.
Instead, he saw a very frantic looking Soap running for him, and he stood up, walking towards him slowly. He glanced down at the arm he had pulled from the wreckage. It wasn’t Soap’s arm. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered that they had been in a room with a target. That was barely the priority now, though. Soap was alive.
Soap was only a few feet away now, and Ghost opened his mouth to say something. His mouth felt heavy, sluggish. He didn’t know what to say.
Soap came crashing into him, arms wrapping around him. The hug was harsh, violent, hasty. Soap was breathing heavy into his ear.
“I thought you were dead,” said Soap, “Fuck, Simon, thought I lost you. I love you, I couldn’t lose you like that, I’m so glad you’re alive.”
Ghost’s mind took far too long to process what Johnny had said, only fully processing it as Soap pulled away from him.
“Shit,” said Soap, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- that was- I won’t do that again, LT.”
“No,” said Ghost, “uh. I mean, I wouldn’t hate if it happened again, is all.”
“Oh,” said Soap, “okay. Good, I mean.”
“Did you mean it?” asked Ghost.
“Mean it? Oh,” said Soap, “yeah, absolutely. I uh, I love you, Ghost.”
“Simon,” said Ghost, “you can call me Simon.”
“I love you, Simon,” said Johnny.
“I uh, I love you too, Johnny.” replied Ghost. And it wasn’t a lie.
+ I.
The two of them come tumbling through the door of the safehouse, both breathing a sigh of relief.
The mission wasn’t hard, but it was long, and tiring. And now, Ghost wants nothing more than to collapse and sleep for a while. Preferably with his boyfriend. God does he like being able to call Soap that.
The living area of the safehouse isn’t big, but there’s a couch long enough to lie on, and a pair of armchairs on either side. Deciding that it’s good enough, Ghost tumbles down onto the couch, face down into the cushions. It’s not terribly comfortable, but he doesn’t care. It’s so much better than the rocks he and Soap have spent the last few days on.
Soap chuckles a little at the sight, before taking a seat on one of the two armchairs. Ghost takes personal offence at this. How dare he use an armchair, when the couch with Ghost on it is right here?
Deciding this just won’t do, Ghost reaches out for him, making grabby hands at his boyfriend that he will steadfastly deny if he ever mentions it to anyone else.
Soap takes the hint, and stands, and Ghost uses the last of his energy to pull himself upright enough to leave a cushion’s worth of room for Soap at one end of the couch.
The moment that Soap sits down, Ghost drops his head into his lap, and he can feel the man go tense beneath him. Ghost isn’t touchy, and he knows that Soap knows that. But right now? All he wants is touch. From Soap, at least.
After a moment, Soap accepts that Ghost wants this, and brings a hand to settle in Ghost’s hair.
And Ghost falls asleep like that, hair being played with, face in his boyfriend’s lap. It’s all he needs, even if he doesn’t like touch.
Because really, he doesn’t. It’s just Soap.