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Soap had this recurring dream- nightmare, whatever.
It wasn't a memory exactly, it was too fluid, too changeable. But there was truth in it. Haphazard bits of a thousand odd jobs and bad nights pieced together to create his own personal hell.
It wasn't even that long a dream. It didn't leave him screaming and fighting. It had nothing on some of the dreams he'd witnessed his squadmates have over the years, but still, it got to him.
The dream was simple, formulaic. He’d be taking cover, hiding, sometimes in a home, an office building, an alley a few times- and there would be someone out there hunting him. He would hear them, shooting people, executing civilians, hostages, team members- all of it varied from night to night. If a mission went south sometimes there would be familiar faces amongst the dead. Then, at some point, Soap would look across the way, and lock eyes with this woman. A civilian casualty from his first deployment. She'd be terrified, shaking, crying, sometimes she’d be half dead already. She would beg him for help that he couldn't give.
Then, despite his silent warnings and protests, she’d try to crawl to him- to crawl to “safety”. And every time, she would get shot for it. Her head would explode into a thousand pieces, gore streaking across the ground, staining his front. A thousand times more bloody than her original death, which he'd watched from afar, with her murder settled in the sights of his gun
The part that got him though, wasn't the gore, or her distress, or the feeling of her brain on his face- the worst part was, this brief moment of relief that swept over him. The solice he felt knowing that she'd died before she could give away his position to the unseen enemy.
And then he'd wake up.
Soap sat on his bunk, hazy, his heart in freefall. He'd been in a... a warehouse this time. The woman had- it had taken a while this time, for her to die, for the dream to end.
The unfamiliarity of his surroundings was throwing him, he couldn't quite seem to ground himself in the present. Each moment flowed into the next fluidly, without conscious action or choice. Almost robotically, Soap found himself pulling on his boots and lacing them up tightly, trying to put himself together one step at a time. He made his way out into the hall. He had to move, had to- had to... something.
Distantly, he regretted not grabbing a jacket before leaving his room, the night was cold and the building was poorly insulated. Soap bet that if he sat near the front window he would be able to see his breath hang in the air, but he made no move to head back to his room and the relative warmth of his bed. There was a blanket of numbness draped over his shoulders holding him in place.
Part of Soap thought that he might still be dreaming. The stillness of the house, and the silence of it all, gave everything an unreal quality. He felt fake and disconnected from his body, drunk on nothing. He had the oddest feeling that if he sat down in the overstuffed chair Price had claimed for himself earlier that he’d be consumed by it- swallowed and entombed by the house itself.
A small wild laugh escaped him, that particular line of thought made him feel a bit hysterical. He was off and wrong, and could do nothing to shake the feeling from his bones. He could feel himself swaying a little, small jerky motions like his mind and body were fighting over the prospect of remaining upright. There was a small part in the back of his brain that was beginning to panic.
“Johnny?”
He heard the even steps coming up behind him and knew immediately who it was. Their solidness sharply contrasted the sleep-like unreality he was stuck in, gave him something to cling to. It was... it was good, he was always alone in his dreams. Ghost was… Ghost was good.
“Johnny, you alright?”
“Yeah,” his voice croaked as he spoke, “yeah, I’m- just a little-” he waved a hand dismissively, trying to shrug off the heavy fog that filled his brain.
Ghost hummed, and Soap felt the heavy weight of a hand coming to rest at the base of his neck. His whole body shuddered. “Sorry, sorry, I’m just…” the words escaped him as his senses honed in on the gentle way Ghost’s thumb rubbed against his nape. Time felt like it was stretching around him, and he had no idea how long he'd been standing there when Ghost spoke again.
“You’re cold,” he said, his voice still even and gentle in a way Soap rarely heard it. “Why don’t we get you back to bed? Eh, Johnny? Long day tomorrow,”
Ghost moved his hand and Soap mourned its loss for all of three seconds before it relocated to his shoulder. Carefully, Soap found himself steered back down the hall towards his room, braced securely against Ghost’s chest. It was necessary, he felt like his knees might give out with every step he took.
“Ghost?”
“Yeah, Johnny?”
“I think I’m asleep,” There was a soft sound from behind him, a breathly laugh that sent a wave of warmth down Soap's limbs.
“That’s alright Sergeant, I’ve got you,”
“Did I wake you up?”
“Nah, not me. I’m nocturnal,”
Soap hummed seriously, “Like a vampire,”
He was rewarded with another delighted sound. “Now who’s got jokes,”
Soap’s eyes must have closed at some point, because between one blink and the next, Ghost was sitting him down on the edge of his bed. “Easy,” he said, “just gotta get your boots back off and you’re all good to sleep again,” Soap hummed, feeling as the pressure was eased from around his ankles and cold air rushed over them.
“You done this before?” Ghost asked suddenly, “sleepwalk, or… whatever this is,”
“When I was a kid…” he trailed off, catching sight of Ghost in his balaclava. He looked almost fond, “A couple times. Went away. Not like this though, this- hey, Simon?” his thoughts jumped tracks abruptly, and he struggled to wrangle his mind back in order.
“Yeah, Johnny?”
“Had a shit dream,” Soap said softly, “really glad you’re here.” He paused, trying to explain why this felt so important to get off his chest, “I never- there’s never any backup in my dreams. It’s… nice, to have you, to be able to count on you,”
Ghost only watched him for a moment, and the silence held long enough that Soap began to wonder if he’d managed to say the words at all. But then Ghost let out a low breath and stood, “Always Sergeant, now, get some sleep,”