Chapter Text
The engine of Price’s four-wheeler rumbled steadily as they drove into the fog that swept over the road ahead. The scent of pine and damp earth drifted in through the cracked window next to Ghost’s half-covered face. There was no music, no radio, only the occasional exhale of smoke from Ghost - on his third cigarette of the drive - a grey haze curling through the car and slithering out into the mist.
Twenty minutes prior, Ghost had strapped Soap firmly into the back seat, stare burning into every inch of the mans body, checking, rechecking Soap for signs that something might go wrong. “You’ll be okay,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. Price had watched with unease at the interaction, but said nothing as he got into the drivers seat.
“How're you feelin' about Gaz nowadays?” Simon spoke lazily, looking out the window.
The car bumped over a pothole, and Price adjusted his posture, letting out a short, reluctant sigh. His eyes flicked over to Ghost, wary.
“What about him?” He kept his tone cautious, but he failed hide his hesitancy - as though he was afraid Ghosts line of questioning might spark a chain reaction of bad decisions.
Soap’s stomach knotted. He didn’t follow the thread of the conversation, but he felt its curious pull, a current dragging him through dangerous waters. What was Ghost insinuating? His eyes flicked between the back of their heads in the front seats.
“Gaz,” Ghost repeated, “D'you think that you'd consider-”
Price’s eyes snapped off the road, to Ghost in the passenger seat. He gave him a glare, cutting him off mid sentence. “Don’t make me answer that.”
“Alright, Jesus, just think about it.” Ghost dragged on the cigarette, the smoke curling around his fingers before being dragged out the cracked window. “You can’t tell me you don’t fantasise about it.”
Price’s knuckles whitened against the edge of the seat. His body was rigid, tight, preparing for a fight that wasn't coming. Soap felt tension, the way Price’s shoulders squared as if bracing for impact. He sat stock still in the back, a weak attempt at making them both forget he was present.
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Price huffed, now keeping his eyes pointedly on the road, away from his interrogator.
“You do,” Ghost said quietly, in a monotonous, almost fed-up way, leaning back in the seat, smoke trailing from his mouth. “You just won’t admit it.”
Soap felt a chill crawl up his spine. He fidgeted where he sat, caught in the crossfire of a conversation that wasn’t meant for him, but left feeling afraid all the same.
Price let out a long sigh, rubbing at his face. His eyes flicked back to Soap briefly, and softened at his painfully readable - frightened - expression. Soap opened his mouth, unsure what to say, but quickly closed it again as nothing came to mind.
Ghost didn’t back down, and he continued to pester. “Come on old man, you could have him all to yourself,” he taunted, a smirk on his mouth like he knew he was winding Price up.
Price shifted in his seat, one hand fidgeting on the steering wheel, the other gripping as his knee like it tethered him to reality. His eyes hardened as they turned again to meet Ghost’s smirk. “Drop it.”
Ghost held the stare for a moment longer, defiant, then flicked his cigarette out the window. The ember disappeared into the fog, and he finally turned his attention back to the road. “Yes, sir.”
They drove into Hereford in silence. Familiar buildings rose through the mist, streets quiet as if the town itself was holding its breath. Soap watched through the window, the fog softening the edges of reality, lending the ordinary a dreamlike unreality. Normalcy felt alien.
The car slowed as they approached a small café tucked into a quiet corner. The sign was faded, the wood weathered, but warm yellow light spilled from the windows, a small promise of comfort in the grey day.
The café’s door creaked as Price pushed it open, the bell announcing their entrance with a hesitant chime that seemed too bright for the fog-laden morning. The sheer warmth of the place hit them instantly; rich coffee scents, the faint sweetness of the pastries on the counter. Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the room for potential threats in a way that made Soap’s skin prickle.
Soap shuffled behind them, trying to seem casual but failing miserably. He could feel Ghost’s eyes burning a hole through his chest as he looked back, watching his every twitch. Price strode ahead with bravado, attempting to ignore the pestering doubt in his mind about whether this was a good decision, to justify the logic behind thrusting this little experiment on two traumatised soldiers.
One being held against his will, nonetheless.
They chose a table near the corner, partially hidden from the front windows but close enough to observe the comings and goings of the few civilians on the premises. Ghost sat first, pulling the chair back with a soft scrape of wood against floorboards.
Soap perched on the edge of the bench, knees brushing the table. He could feel Price’s attention on him, subtle but persistent, like a tether he couldn’t shake. He swallowed, wishing for invisibility, for the fog outside to somehow follow them in and shield him. His heart lurched at the sight of other people. Normal people, just going about their day.
He could feel their eyes. Every flicker of attention seemed magnified, pinned onto him with impossible precision. His ribcage suddenly felt too tight, oppressive on his lungs in a way that bordered on painful. Soap’s hands trembled in his lap. He pressed them together, fingers intertwining, trying to anchor himself, but it only made the tremor amplify spreading to the rest of his body. His breaths came out shallow, rapid. The warmth of the room, once comforting, now felt stifling, almost accusing as he started sweating. He could hear the clink of cups, the faint murmur of conversations - but each sound was amplified, jagged, and intrusive.
A bead of sweat traced down his neck, and he swallowed again, trying to force himself to calm down, to breathe normally. But each inhalation felt inadequate, not enough air, not enough air.
Patrons moved around the café like ghosts in a warm, sunlit haze, yet each shadow seemed to stretch toward him, each smile or glance a subtle accusation. Soap’s stomach twisted. The world had contracted, compressed into this table, this corner, this unbearably bright café.
He tried to ground himself, tracing the grain of the wooden table with trembling fingertips, but it offered only temporary solace. The faint aroma of roasted coffee and baked sugar, once inviting, now mingled with the scent of his own fear, tangy and acrid. Every clink of cutlery became a serrated edge in his ears, scraping at his nerves.
“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, though the word sounded fragile, inadequate. His mind flickered, darting desperately between objects he could use to anchor himself: the worn wood of the chair, the sunlight flickering through fogged windows, Price’s solid posture across from him. But even those tethers wavered under the intensity of his rising panic.
Ghost leaned slightly forward, the soft scrape of his chair inconsequential. His hand rested briefly on the back of the seat nearest Soap, not constraining, but just present. The subtle thrum of Ghost’s heartbeat seemed to pulse through him, steady and unyielding - a rhythm Soap clutched onto desperately. The warmth from it seeped through the tension in his shoulders, coaxing him back from the edge of an invisible cliff.
Price’s voice pulled him out of his head, calm but insistent. “Breathe with me, Soap.” He didn’t reach out, didn’t force the contact, but his presence was a counterweight, a reminder that someone stable and sane existed nearby.
Soap obeyed as best he could, shallow inhales deepening fractionally, his trembling hands unclasping just a little. He imagined each breath expanding into the tight cage of his chest, loosening it with deliberate focus. The hum of the café still buzzed, but less dizzyingly, the world regaining shape in his peripheral vision.
Time slowed. Soap’s breaths grew steadier, each inhale longer than the last. The sweat on his neck cooled gradually as he allowed himself a tentative glance around the café, seeing the civilians again, not as a swarm of accusatory eyes, but as ordinary, distant movements that had no claim on him. The oppressive closeness of the room eased, the weight lifting fractionally.
His pulse gradually synchronised with the quiet, steady rhythm of Ghost’s heartbeat—a tether he hadn’t realised he was seeking until it was there, palpable beneath his awareness. Soap leaned slightly forward, palms pressed flat against the table, testing the surface beneath them, drawing strength from the shared silence and subtle proximity.
For the first time since they'd entered the space, he let his shoulders ease, his back sliding slightly against the bench.
Soap’s hands fell into his lap, trembling still but with a faint steadiness returning. The fog outside pressed against the windows, muted and distant now, no longer a threat, only a soft barrier separating him from the world beyond. And inside, in this fragile sanctuary of yellow light and warm wood, Soap allowed himself a single, careful thought: he's protected, he's safe with Simon.
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
Simon wanted to help more, really he did.
But there was something about seeing Johnny all worked up - pale and sweaty, panting like a bitch in heat, his pulse fluttering in his throat like a trapped bird. The way his fingers twitched in his lap, the way his breath hitched when Ghost’s hand had brushed his back - fuck. Simon didn’t care where they were. Didn’t care that Price was watching across the table, trying to decipher what the interactions occurring in front of him meant in their current situation.
Neither of them had noticed the hard-on pressing against the inside of Ghost's jeans, thick and insistent since Soaps breathing first picked up. He had no intention of revealing that fact. He dragged his tongue over his lower lip, tasting the faint tang of nicotine, and let his eyes laze on Soap’s hunched form.
So pretty. So panicked.
A prey animal in the presence of wolves.
"Need to go to the toilet before we get a drink, Johnny?"
The suggestion was innocent enough, just another way to give the poor bastard a moment to collect himself. But the way Ghost’s fingers curled around the back of Soap’s neck, possessive and warm, the way his thumb traced the jump of Soap’s pulse - that wasn’t innocent. Not in the slightest.
Soap looked up at him with hazy, dilated eyes, dark with residual fear and something else - something softer, something that made Ghost’s cock twitch at its innocence. Trust. Johnny didn’t think twice before nodding, his body swaying slightly, like he was still half-lost in the panic attack, too out of it to question the predator leading him away.
"Alright," Ghost hummed, "I’ll take you. Price can get us some coffee to come back to, yeah?"
He left no room for argument. His fingers tightened just a fraction, nails grazing the cooling skin, before he guided Soap up from the bench. The other man moved like a sleepwalker, pliant and unsteady, letting Ghost steer him toward the back of the café where the toilets were tucked into a dimly lit hallway.
Price’s stare burned into the back of Ghost’s skull as they walked away, but he didn’t look back.
The bathroom was small, filled with the classic smell of industrial cleaner and stale urine. A single white fluorescent light made everything look washed and flat, giving Ghost the feeling that if he looked at it for too long, his eyes would start burning. He kicked the door shut behind them, clicking the lock in place.
Soap blinked at the brightness of the light, dazed, like he was only just realising where they were. His back hit the tiled wall with a soft thud as Ghost crowded him, one hand braced beside his head, the other still curled around the nape of his neck.
"You alright, Johnny?" Ghost murmured, tilting his head, studying the way Soap’s chest rose and fell too fast, the way his lips parted on a shaky exhale.
Soap swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. "Y-yeah. Just-" His voice cracked. "People could see me."
Ghost hummed, approving the comment, his thumb pressing into the sensitive spot beneath Soap’s ear. "Mhm. You’re doin’ real good, love."
The endearment slipped out without thought. Ghost watched the way Soap's pupils blew wide when his free hand dropped to his waist, fingers splaying over the dip of his hip.
"Such a good boy," Ghost whispered, voice rough, "bein' so brave."
Soap’s hands fluttered at his sides, like he didn’t know whether to push Ghost away or pull him closer. Ghost didn’t give him the chance to decide.
He started to push Johnny down, gently onto his knees, back against the wall. Soap didn't even question it, going down almost too willingly.
"Fuck, d'you know how fucking hot you look when you're scared?" Ghost choked out.
Soap's eyes darted up to Ghost's, a mix of uncertainty and willingness swirling in their depths. His hands trembled slightly as they rested on Ghost's thighs, fingers curling into the denim.
"Simon," Soap whispered. "What are you-"
Ghost silenced him with a rough grip on his chin, "You know what I want, Johnny. Don't fucking play innocent now."
Soap flinched at the sudden change in tone, Ghost's nails digging into his skin. His body responded despite the lingering fear, goosebumps rising on his arms. He leaned into Ghost's touch, regardless.
Ghost's other hand moved to the buckle of his belt, quickly undoing it and pulling down his zipper. He reached into his boxers, letting his cock slip out of its fabric confines.
"Open your mouth," Ghost commanded. "I've taken good care of you haven't I? Now take care of me."