Archive of Our Own

Ghost does not like being touched.

This is common knowledge among the 141 and all of the people at their home base. Some say he is just averse to touch, others whisper about his dark and mysterious past, thinking that might be the reason for his hatred of physical contact.

They’re not wrong, perse, but they’re also not really right.

Ghost doesn’t hate all touch, but he dislikes being surprised. When he initiates touches, it’s fine and others can touch him then, too. But if he’s surprised, touched out of nowhere, he will lash out. More than one unfortunate recruit has found that out the hard way, ending up with their back on the floor and a knife pressed to their throat, a literal demon looming over them.

Mask or not, Ghost is a scary man. What makes him even scarier is the fact that he has horns. Two slender, regal horns growing just two inches or so above his ears, pointing backward with a length of six-and-a-half inches. They have a curve to them and the keratin on the outside is ribbed.

Everyone is curious how he got them. Humans aren’t supposed to have horns and he is certainly no animal (though some may think that way). But they don’t dare ask him how he actually got them. Someone tried, once, and they were hospitalized for four weeks.

Everyone kept their mouths shut after that.

And nobody dared touch him, especially his horns.

That is, until Ghost met Soap.

“So do they actually grow from yer head?”

Ghost startles, flinching hard when Soap’s hand lands on one of his horns. His fingers are calloused from years of handling guns, but the touch is extremely gentle. Even so, Ghost’s eyes widen. He can see Price’s face morph into one of shock on the other end of the table.

Soap hasn’t ever asked anything about his horns since their first time meeting. Soap had looked at him funnily for a moment before shrugging and smiling instead of running away. Ghost had already thought that was curious, but now this?!

He shudders as Soap’s fingers trail the ridges of his horn and wrap around it. Ghost thinks he stops breathing for a good few seconds before he remembers he needs oxygen. He inhales and closes his eyes tightly, not moving as Soap explores his features.

He should probably be repulsed, feel anything besides the shudder going all the way down his body. But he can’t bring himself to move away. Nobody has touched him there except for himself and it feels foreign, yet incredibly wonderful.

“Ghost?” Soap asks, noticing his silence.

Ghost sputters for an answer, thoughts swirling as he tries to recall what Soap asked. His mind is blissfully empty and it’s annoyingly weird. He looks at Price, begging the other man to intervene. Price looks away from him and sips his coffee.

Bastard.

“I-“ Ghost starts but his breath hitches in surprise.

Soap wraps his whole hand around the horn and glides his fingers upward, his touch featherlight. Ghost exhales shakily, not a word on his tongue. His heart is beating loudly in his chest and his tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth. He should say something, but he can’t bring himself to.

What if Soap stops touching him when he speaks up?

Price is looking at them again, catching Soap’s gaze over Ghost’s head and the sergeant lets go. Ghost almost – almost – whines at the loss. He bites his lip to keep the sound in, so glad he’s wearing his mask. The fabric over his face hides his burning cheeks from the oblivious Scott and Ghost is never taking it off again.

“Yes,” he finally says, breathless.

“Cool,” Soap says as he sits down, smiling.

He kicks his legs up on another chair and pulls his sketchbook out of his pants, manifesting a pencil and beginning to sketch. Ghost sits frozen. After several moments, he exhales again and relaxes slightly. Nobody besides Price saw this moment, he’ll be fine. He’s fine, just fine.

Ghost glances at Soap and then away again when he sees the other looking at him with his tongue between his lips. The flush already on his face spreads to his neck. Ghost quickly goes back to his paperwork, pretending as if nothing happened.

After several moments of silence, Soap speaks up again.

“So how’d ye get them?”

Price inhales sharply, and Ghost glances at the man. There’s a strange look on his face. Not even the captain knows how he got the horns, and Ghost isn’t very keen on telling either of them, to be honest. Ghost sighs and leans back in his chair, dropping his pen and crossing his arms. He glares at Soap, who’s not looking at him anymore.

The Scott is furiously sketching in his book now that Ghost has sat up. His tongue is still in between his lips and it looks strangely tantalizing. Ghost clears his throat and chases horrid thoughts out of his mind. Soap doesn’t react to his silence, he simply waits. Ghost doesn’t know what to do.

“That’s classified…” Ghost replies eventually.

Soap looks at him, finally. There’s something there, an expression Ghost doesn’t know. But Soap doesn’t say anything. He simply looks, and then he goes back to sketching. Ghost looks at Price, Price looks away. The silence is deafening.

Ghost returns to his paperwork with a huff.

They stay silent, enjoying each other’s company and working on paperwork. Although, Soap should be working on that, too, but he’s not. Ghost doesn’t have it in him to tell him to do something else. Instead, he silently watches the other sketching.

He’s seen some of Soap’s work and, honestly, he’s pretty good. The detail is amazing and he hands out sketches to people like they’re pieces of candy. He’s even sketched on request for people. Ghost knows because he heard a recruit asking Soap to sketch their late grandmother.

The final sketch had the recruit in tears.

Price finishes his work and leaves, taking his coffee with him to find Gaz. Ghost has no idea what the man will do now, but he also doesn’t really care. The only thing that annoys him is the fact that he’s now alone… with Soap.

“Feck…” Soap mumbles.

Ghost looks at him and sees him erasing something from his sketch. He has no idea what the other is drawing and he’s a little bit curious, but he’s not going to ask. His head is still reeling from the fact that Soap touched him earlier and he has no idea how to feel about that.

Yeah, they work well as a team and Ghost likes Soap, but he hadn’t let the other man touch him besides some friendly pats or slaps on the shoulder. He’s not sure how to feel about this right now. Usually, anyone that touched him bit the dust, quite literally.

But Soap had touched him and Ghost had done nothing but freeze on the spot. What was so different about the Scott? Ghost shakes his head and sighs, getting back to work. It doesn’t take him that long to finish, but when he does, Soap is still drawing, looking extremely concentrated.

Ghost stands to leave, he’s done anyway, but Soap shoots upright and grabs onto his arm, startling him for the second time that day.

“Wait just a second,” Soap says.

He’s not even looking at Ghost, still gazing at his sketch. Ghost lifts his brow in confusion but sits back down. He doesn’t have to listen to Soap, but the other used a tone on him that felt more like a plea than a command. So, Ghost sits, and Soap sketches.

After about five minutes of sitting in tense silence, and Soap having glanced at him more than once, studying his features, the other smiles. He hides the pencil he had been working with and slides the book over the table toward Ghost.

Ghost takes it carefully. When he looks down at the sketch, he’s almost surprised. A feeling of fondness rises in his chest and he has to push it down hard. He trails his fingers over the sketch, taking it all in.

Soap sketched him. Horns and all.

Soap leans forward, smiling and eagerly waiting for Ghost to comment on his work. It’s a beautiful sketch. The Ghost in the drawing is looking ahead, three-quarters of his face in view. His mask has lines and folds just as they would actually fall over him. The eyes are detailed even for someone who’s seen Ghost’s entire face only once. There’s a little spark in them, the dark shades revealing mysterious thoughts. But the most startling thing is not his eyes, it’s the horns.

Their detail is intricate and regal. The ridges on the horns have shadows, gentle and soft, and Ghost wants to run his fingers over his horns or look in the mirror to see if the shadow actually falls like that. They stick out behind the Ghost in the picture and make him look like some sort of fantasy creature, the stark white skull on his face detailed yet subtle.

Ghost looks at Soap, then back at the drawing.

“It’s… good,” Ghost settles on.

Soap doesn’t move for a moment. Then a smile breaks out over his face, blindingly bright. Ghost feels his heartbeat pick up. He places the book down and slides it back to Soap, who takes it happily. They don’t say anything, but that’s fine.

Soap’s smile says enough for the both of them.

Soap touching him has become something of a regularity.

Ghost really doesn’t let any people outside the 141 touch him unannounced, and even then, he still flinches. But when Soap touches him, it’s soft, gentle, and friendly in a way that Ghost doesn’t understand. It doesn’t feel like his skin burns and he doesn’t want to jump a foot in the air to escape the touch.

He doesn’t feel like faulting Soap over the table each time the shorter man runs his fingers across one of the horns.

What he has noticed, though, is the strange looks he gets from everyone when Soap is touching him and he does nothing. Everyone who has ever seen him get touched knows he does not tolerate it, and yet he’s not throwing Soap off of him with a glare and a knife to his throat.

He knows it’s weird, especially right now.

They’re in the mess. Lunch is in full swing and Ghost is talking to Price about their upcoming mission. To nobody’s surprise, yet all of their confusion, Soap is standing behind him, one hand on his left horn, circling it and examining the texture.

Ghost is trying very, very hard not to shiver at the touches, not to let Soap see that this is affecting him. Price seems to have gotten used to it and Gaz also says nothing. He did stare the first time Soap did it in front of him, but now he keeps his mouth shut.

Ghost doesn’t mind. What he does mind, is the hundreds of stares he’s currently getting. He glances sideways to see several new recruits watching Soap with their jaws on the floor. Soap doesn’t seem to realize they’re there, or that all of the people in the mess are staring at them. Ghost feels his skin crawling, but not because of Soap.

“Do ye have feelin’ in them?” Soap asks curiously.

Yes, Ghost wants to say. He has so much feeling in them. They’re a part of his body, even if he wasn’t born with them on his head. Yes, he wants to say, because you’re touching them with your gentle fingers and it’s making me fucking crazy! You have no idea.

But he doesn’t say any of that. If Soap knew he could feel any of this, then he’d probably stop touching him, and Ghost does not want that. This is the only physical contact that doesn’t want to make him puke and he’s missed it, craved it. He’s afraid that if Soap will stop, then he’ll go insane.

“No,” he says instead, his voice tight.

Soap hums, the sound barely audible over the chatter in the hall. His fingers trail up the horn and touch the sharpened tip. Ghost has to bite back a sound. He has no idea what it would sound like if he let it out, but he doesn’t want to figure it out.

Price watches his face, his lips quirking into a smile that Ghost knows is made of all sorts of wrong thoughts. Ghost wants to punch him, but he’ll probably get punished for that, so he refrains. It’s never good to plan the murder of your superior, but Ghost is seriously considering it.

Their conversation continues and Soap never lets go of his horn. His fingers are gentle and the touch is barely there but Ghost still feels everything Soap does. It sends shivers up his spine but he doesn’t let his body move.  

Eventually, price leaves them because he has more paperwork and a mission briefing to complete. Ghost nods at him as he leaves and it jolts his horns. Soap yelps, a sound that is pulled from the bottom of his throat.

Ghost whips his head around and blinks in surprise. Blood leaks down Soap’s arm, the Scott looks surprised. Ghost stops breathing. Something drips onto his mask and he quickly realizes it is Soap’s blood. A disgusted feeling settles in his gut and he has to swallow to keep from throwing up.

“Are you okay?” he asks Soap.

Soap holds his arm, the muscle torn by the sharpness of Ghost’s horn. He nods, but he doesn’t move to stop the bleeding.

“They’re sharp…” he states like a moron.

Ghost rolls his eyes. Of course, they’re sharp. They were designed that way. They were made for killing, for the express purpose of hurting his enemies. Ghost has never used them that way, but they were made for it. He feels revolted by the fact that he has hurt someone with them, a friend no less.

“Fuck, you’re really bleeding,” Ghost murmurs, standing up.

Price has already disappeared into the crowd and some people are looking over curiously. Ghost is very conscious of the fact that his horn is blood-coated and the tear in Soap’s arm. He makes a split-second decision and grabs Soap’s other arm, hauling him through the mess toward the medical building. Soap doesn’t say anything, just cradles his arm.

Ghost feels guilt pressing on his chest, constricting his airways. He tries to breathe normally, but eventually, it’s a lost cause and he stops walking. They’re not even close to med yet and he’s having a panic attack. He begins hyperventilating and falls against the wall. Soap yelps as he’s dragged along.

“Lt?!” Soap says, grabbing his shoulders.

Ghost sags against the wall. The feeling of blood on his mask and his horn is too much. He claws at the fabric, heaving. Soap’s eyes are wide and fearful, but then some kind of determination takes over and the Scott is ripping his mask from his face.

Luckily, the hallway is empty when he does so, and Ghost takes a deep breath when the mask comes off. Soap uses the fabric to wipe his horn clean, and the feeling of soft cloth on the ridges is strange. He doesn’t like it. Soap drops next to him and takes his face in both hands, locking eyes with him.

“Ah am fine, Lt,” Soap says, clear and strong.

Ghost takes a shaking breath, his eyes flitting across Soap’s face. He knows that. It isn’t why he’s having the attack. He knows it’s something to do with his horns and the feeling of liquid on them, but he can’t pinpoint the exact trigger.

Soap’s hands on his face feel cold, and it’s a stark contrast to how hot he feels. Ghost closes his eyes and inhales again, his chest stuttering with the breath. Soap sits there with him until he can breathe again.

“Thanks,” Ghost manages, voice rough.

Soap smiles but says nothing. They get up and make their way to med. Ghost doesn’t bother with his mask. He’ll hate putting it back on now that it’s gross. Nobody looks at him and even though he feels like crawling out of his skin, Soap’s hand in his calms him down enough to get the other checked out.

That night, Ghost dreams of impaling Soap on his horns and he screams himself awake.

The hail of bullets momentarily seizes as the enemy reloads and Ghost takes that opportunity to leave his cover and stab one man in the neck with his blade. Soap is next to him, gunning down several others and pressing a detonator.

A car explodes, sending men flying in all directions. The splat of their bloodied bodies is horrifying, yet incredibly satisfying. Ghost wonders if he’s losing his mind, but he can question that later. He drags Soap down with him behind a crate as the enemy begins firing again.

“Fuckin’ Russians-“ Soap mumbles, flinching when a piece of the crate gets blown to pieces.

Ghost hums. He reaches for a new knife that isn’t slicked with blood and throws the other to the floor. The tip is dulled and he has no time to sharpen it. He reaches for his radio and clicks it on, intent on making contact with Price.

“Bravo 0-6, this is Ghost, how copy?”

“Solid,” Price replies. “We’re on the West side.”

Ghost looks to Soap to see if he has heard the response and Soap nods. He reloads his gun and smiles at Ghost. Ghost doesn’t smile back, and even if he did, Soap wouldn’t be able to see it under his mask. A quirk of his lips is all Soap gets, and even then, he doesn’t smile often.

Bullets rain down around them and the crate is getting significantly smaller. They need to move. Preferably now. Ghost taps Soap on the leg and the Scott nods, peering around the crate for a moment, then throwing a grenade over it.

The grenade explodes and the Russian soldiers shout in surprise. Soap stands and runs to new cover. Ghost does the same. They split up to cover more ground and become a harder target. Ghost presses himself into the side of a building and takes down two more Tangos with throwing knives. He can see Soap setting up a sniper position not far from him.

The Scott takes out several more of their assailants and the herd is thinned. Ghost chucks another grenade and the remaining Tangos scatter. Ghost hears something over the radio about not letting the squirters get away and he reaches for his radio to confirm that.

Something slams into his back, ramming him to the ground. He curses and lands on his arms, the appendages thrown out so he doesn’t fall flat on his face and break his nose again. A blade is thrust between the softer parts of his gear and he yells, the knife piercing him in the shoulder. His attacker cages him in and Ghost barely has any room to move.

He flips them over with his legs, rolling the Tango off him. His enemy curses and throws out a hand, catching his vest and dragging him along. Ghost struggles against the grip on him and heaves up one of his knives, about to slam it into the guy’s jugular. The man’s eyes widen, and Ghost dodges his attack, the swipe barely tearing into his mask. Then the guy reaches for him and Ghost has no time to dodge. The man wraps a hand around one of his horns and yanks.

Ghost howls. His entire body goes slack and he half-falls on the guy. The man under him stills in surprise before spurring into action. He slams the side of his knife into Ghost’s head and the Brit’s ears ring from the impact. Then he tugs on Ghost’s horn again, harder this time.

The feeling is terrible and painful, nothing like how gently Soap handles his horns. Ghost hates it and he growls through his spinning thoughts. The soldier scrambles to sit up and a malicious grin comes over his face. Ghost’s whole body is unresponsive and his eyes widen when the man brings his knife down.

His horn is made of tough keratin, but the knife is sharp, and it slices through the boney material painfully. Something breaks, the shattering sound loud in the sudden silence of the battlefield. Ghost can hear Soap screaming somewhere ahead of him. Maybe his name, he doesn’t know…

The man drives the knife down to the ground. Blood pools. His horn splinters.

Ghost screams.

When he comes to, he’s still lying face-down on the battlefield. The man that broke his horn is lying dead next to him, with a hole in his forehead. Frantic yelling is all he hears and for a moment Ghost wonders what happened. His radio is going crazy and he groans, pressing the button to answer someone.

“I’m alive,” he mumbles.

“Ghost!” Price yells in his ear.

“Are ye okay?” Soap’s voice.

“I’m fine-“ Ghost begins, sitting up.

He cuts himself off with a yell, blood streaming down his face. Agony twinges the top of his head and his world spins. He falls back to the dirt with a choked-off scream. He breathes heavily for a moment. Blood soaks his hair and his neck, the ground below him coated in the red secretion.

He registers running footsteps and glances up to see Soap coming toward him. He has an incredibly worried look on his face and Ghost wonders why, but then realizes it’s because of him. A moment later, Soap is falling to his knees beside him, hands hovering over him.

“What happened?” Soap asks.

“I’m fine,” Ghost says.

He really isn’t. His horn is in agony and his entire body feels wrong. He hates his horns, but he can’t take away the fact that they are a part of him. He can’t take away the fact that Roba incorporated new nerves into his system so he could torture Simon by yanking on his newly implanted stubs, so he could hurt him by sharpening the tips and hurt him in many more ways.  

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped breathing until Soap is slapping him in the face. Ghost takes a deep, deep breath and blinks. He sits up, maybe a bit too fast, and the world spins. Soap catches him. It must be blood loss because Ghost buries his face in Soap’s chest with a quiet groan.

“Does it hurt?” Soap asks.

“Yeah,” Ghost admits.

“I thought ye said ye dinnae have any feelin’ in it?” Soap speaks quietly.

He looks almost betrayed and Ghost feels a little sorry for him, but he should really focus on other things. He ignores Soap for now and gingerly brings a hand to his broken horn. He can see the severed half lying on the floor by his side, but he doesn’t pick it up. It’s of no use to him anyway.

He hisses when his fingers land on the open wound and blood soaks the digits. Soap seems to realize he’s still actively bleeding and the man curses, a slew of Gaelic coming from his lips rapidly. Ghost doesn’t have to energy to tell him to speak English.

The world is darkening around the edges and he feels weak. His mouth feels dry and his skin feels clammy. He doesn’t like it. Soap’s hands on him are his only source of warmth and Ghost leans on him, trying to soak it all up. Soap ruffles around in his pouches and produces some gauze, pressing it onto the open wound.

Ghost flinches, hard. The pressure hurts and he distantly hears Soap apologize. The world is all dark now and- when did he close his eyes? Had he even opened them recently? Ghost feels like falling asleep but he knows that’s a really bad idea. But the pull of unconsciousness is incredibly enticing and he sighs, almost letting himself fall into it.

“Ghost?” Soap says, but his voice sounds distant. “Ey, Ghost. Stay awake, ye eejit.”

Ghost sags against him, soaking up his warmth. Sleep sounds really good right about now. Maybe if he could get just a little bit of shut-eye, that would be fine. Right? Ghost groans when Soap shakes him, but he doesn’t move. If anything, he only falls further into Soap’s hold.

“Ghost!” Soap says, sounding urgent. “Dinnae go for a kip now… Simon!”

“They’re attached to your nerves system so you’ll be feeling everything, my pet.”

Roba’s words hold no love or anything resembling kindness, just malice. Simon glares at him but doesn’t attempt to take his face out of Roba’s hold. The man’s meaty fingers dig into his flesh and they feel far too warm. They’re soft, almost gentle, but Simon knows the real reason he’s not being hurt yet will come to light soon enough.

Roba examines the newly attached stubs on his head. They feel itchy and horrid, and the stitching keeping them in place is crude. Simon wants to rip them off his head but knows he’ll probably bleed to death if he does so.

He woke up about an hour ago from the surgery. Simon has no idea why Roba has done this to him, but he knows he’ll find out soon. The man regards him silently, with something akin to mischief in his dead eyes. Simon swallows dryly.

His wrists feel raw from where they’re cuffed, attached to the wall behind him. His knees hurt from the prolonged kneeling position he’s in and Roba is only satisfied if he bleeds. He knows this.

“They’ll grow to be about six inches, I think,” Roba continues, speaking more to himself than to inform Simon of his new bodily additions. “You’ll have to maintain them, keep them sharp. I’ll do it for you this time, pet.”

Roba flips open a knife, the edges jagged and sharp. Simon feels himself freezing. He goes impossibly still, eyes widening as Roba brings the knife toward the growing horns on his head. They’re still fresh and blood drips into his hair. But they grow impossibly fast. They were just an inch or so tall when they were implanted five hours ago, now they’re to their full length.

Roba smiles when he brings the knife closer. His fingers tighten in Simon’s flesh, surely leaving bruises. Out of desperation and some deep-rooted fear, Simon begins to struggle away from the large man. Roba shakes his head, demanding he stays still.

Simon does, if only in fear of harsher punishment.  

The knife’s jagged edge kisses the ridges on his horn and Simon braces himself for the pain. Roba waits a singular moment, before cutting into the keratin and the softness inside it. Blood spills and Simon screams. The pain is like fire liking down his back. A hand closes around his throat, cutting off his air. He chokes on the pain, black spots filling his vision. He can feel the knife slicing through the horns throughout his entire body.

The pain is overwhelming.

When, finally, Roba lets him go, he slumps forward, chains rattling. Blood pours down his head in rivers, soaking his hair and his tattered t-shirt. The blood coats the concrete floor red. His knees soak up the liquid and Simon swallows back the bile in his throat. He breathes harshly for a moment.

Then Roba grabs him again, angling his head to the other side. The man has a mad smirk on his face as if he is enjoying every second of Simon’s pain. And he is, that the other knows for sure. Roba gets off on other people’s agony. When Roba brings the knife closer to his head again, Simon realizes in horror that he has another horn...

When he wakes up, the unbearably bright lights of the medical building stare him in the face. Ghost groans and presses a hand to his forehead. A headache is banging around in his skull and his throat feels dry as fuck. There’s a dull ache on the top of his head.

What the hell happened?

He remembers a lot of pain, but that’s about it. They were on a mission, right? Ghost doesn’t remember it, at all. He groans again and shifts, trying his damnedest to not scream in pain as his horn catches the pillow. He stops moving quickly enough.

Beside him, someone shifts, and he glances over to see Soap. The Scott is sitting in a chair by his bed, chin on his chest. He’s snoring softly. One of his hands holds onto Ghost’s, his grip tight even in slumber. Ghost lifts a brow beneath his mask. What the fuck?

A door opens and Ghost slowly turns his head to see Price entering the room. He has a document in his hands and isn’t looking at Ghost or Soap, but sits down in the chair opposite Soap. When he looks up and catches Ghost’s eyes, he looks only mildly surprised.

“Good morning,” he says, keeping his tone soft and his voice low.

“Hey,” Ghost murmurs, his voice a croak.

“How are you feeling?” Price asks curiously, jotting something down on the document.

“Like shite,” Ghost replies.

And he does. His whole body aches and he feels like he got run over by a truck, twice. He knows he’s on meds, or it would be so much worse. He knows what it feels like without medication, and he’s incredibly glad to be on some shit. Maybe Price can even give him some more because the dull ache is turning sharper by the second.

“What happened?” Ghost asks softly.

Price hums and glances at Soap once before putting his document down and folding his arms over his chest. He looks like a dad judging his sons. Ghost knows that’s not too far off; Price sees them as part of his family. He feels kinda weird considering that. Price isn’t that much older than he is…

“You passed out due to blood loss on the field,” Price starts. “Soap carried your ass all the way to Exfil. The medics didn’t really know how to handle your injury so they just stuffed your horn with gauze and bandaged the shit out of it. You’ve been unconscious for about three days.”

“Oh,” Ghost mumbles. “What about the mission?”

“We got the intel we were after,” Price says with a small smile. “Gaz found a room full of computers and downloaded all useful data on a USB.”

“Good on him,” Ghost quips.

Price nods. They stay silent for a moment. Both are lost in their own thoughts as they think over what will happen next. Ghost knows recovery will take a little time for him. He knows the horn will grow back soon enough, but perhaps it’ll take a little longer. They grew pretty fast when they were new, but with age, they mellowed out a little. Not to say that was a bad thing, but it did mean that injuries were slower to heal.

It also meant Ghost didn’t have to cut them himself when they got weird.

“I’ve requested some leave for you to heal up and rest,” Price eventually comments.

“How long?”

Ghost dreads the answer. The military is his life. He has no idea how to act as a civilian and honestly, people stare at him. He does have horns on his head. That’s not normal for humans. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he got sent home. Not that he has one, but still.

“Two months,” Price says.

“Fucking hell,” Ghost groans.

He does not want to be gone that long. Price looks at him a little apologetically but stands by his decision. Ghost knows it’ll be for the best. He also has a knife wound in his back that needs healing. He can feel the stitches. They itch.

“Where?” Ghost asks.

He wants to ask so many more questions, but this is all that comes out of his mouth. He doesn’t know what to ask first. Will he be alone, will anyone go with him, does he need regular check-ups, can he stay in contact, what if they need him before he’s fully healed?

“North East England,” Price replies cooly. “Small house on the outskirts of a smaller town. It’s quiet, you’ll fit right in.”

“Okay,” Ghost says because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Soap will be going with you,” Price then adds.

Ghost’s eyes widen, “What? Why?”

“He asked,” is all Price says, a small, knowing smile on his face.

Ghost feels his cheeks heating and he’s very glad for his mask. Price pats him on the shoulder and stands. He doesn’t look in a hurry to leave but Ghost knows he probably has more important things to attend to. There are always more important things than a wounded soldier. Even if it is your friend.

“I’ll let you two catch up. Flight’s tomorrow evening,” the captain says, then leaves him and Soap alone.

The silence is nice, Ghost can think a little bit about what to do next. He’ll have two months to himself… with Soap. That’s… nice? He isn’t sure. Doesn’t matter, he’ll ask Soap about it once the other wakes up. For now, a nap sounds really good.

His head hurts and Ghost wants to be rid of pain, though he knows that won’t be happening for a while. He closes his eyes and sighs, settling comfortably against the pillows. He falls asleep almost immediately.

The house is indeed small, but not as small as Ghost thought it would be. It has a little garden out front, some flower patches here and there. The back of the house has a vegetable garden and is about thirty feet away from a densely packed forest. There are meadows around them on the other side and one field with cows. The gravel road leading up to the house is the only road in the vicinity and Ghost knows they’ll hear any and all people coming up to the house.

He looks over his shoulder at Soap, who’s pulling their bags out of the trunk. The cab driver looks at Ghost through the windshield, eyes wide. He hasn’t stopped staring since they got in the cab at the airport several hours ago.

Ghost made sure to tip the man so he’d keep his mouth shut.

Soap slams the trunk closed and pats the back of the car, signaling the cabbie that he’s clear. The man reverses the car, and takes one last look at Ghost’s horned head, before hurriedly driving off. Ghost sighs, but doesn’t think about it further and instead unlocks the front door.

The inside is nice, if a bit dusty from lack of use. There’s a small living room with a kitchenette. A sofa lines the wall with a small TV on a coffee table. There are two comfortable-looking chairs on the other side, and a bookcase is stacked full of books. There are two bedrooms, one with a double bed and the other with a single bed. There is only one bathroom, but there is a separate toilet, so it’s all good.

Ghost drops his bag in the hallway and makes his way toward the kitchen. Price said it would be stocked, but he doesn’t really trust that judgment. He wants to make sure for himself. He pulls open the fridge, which is definitely stocked and closes it after pulling out a carton of milk. He finds tea bags in the cabinet and puts water in a kettle.

“Want tea?” he asks Soap as the other comes into the kitchen.

“Hell no,” Soap laughs. “Ah ain’t drinking yer filthy leaf water.”

“It’s not that bad…” Ghost says, resisting the urge to pout.

Soap looks at him with a quirked brow and Ghost knows he’s lost the argument, but he doesn’t give Soap a reaction. He turns his back to the sergeant and makes his tea, adding a generous splash of milk to it.

Soap snatches a beer from the fridge and moves to the sofa, falling on it with a groan. They’ve been on the road for more than twelve hours, and they’re beyond exhausted. Soap tips his head back when Ghost exits the kitchen and sits in one of the chairs. He smiles at the other and sips his beer.

“Cannae believe ye let me come with ye,” Soap states, grinning.

“Just don’t be an annoyance and you might actually be nice to hang around with,” Ghost mumbles into his tea.

Soap sputters a laugh and almost chokes on his beer. Ghost grins in victory. Soap glares at him but doesn’t say anything in return. In all honesty, Soap isn’t just here to be just company. He’s mostly here to make sure Ghost actually rests on his leaves for once. Price knows that the Brit rarely actually lets his body take the time to heal.

Hence Soap, his babysitter, essentially.

Soap is also here to help Ghost with taking care of his horn. Ghost can do it himself, but it’s a little difficult to reach sometimes and the pain can make it hard to work on. If someone else does it for him, he can just suffer in silence.

“We should change the bandages,” Soap says as if he knows what Ghost is thinking.

Ghost finishes his tea and nods. They make their way to the bathroom and Soap gathers the supplies. Ghost plants himself on the toilet and watches the other man lay out gauze and new bandages. He also grabs antiseptics and swabs.

Ghost tenses when Soap unwraps the bandages but he doesn’t say a word. Soap doesn’t either. He gently cleans the wound and the sting is agony, but Ghost bites his lips and doesn’t let a single sound slip out. Soap’s hands are gentle and fire licks down his horn toward his spine, but the fire isn’t made of pain.

Ghost refuses to look at Soap, scared the other might see something in his eyes he’s not ready to admit.

Instead, he waits for Soap to press gauze to the open wound and wind bandages around it again. Then Soap cleans up the supplies and looks at him. Ghost is fisting his pants between his hands and he hasn’t made a move to stand back up.

Nausea curls in his stomach, he’s afraid that if he’ll stand he’s going to throw up. Soap says nothing. He places a gentle hand on Ghost’s shoulder and leans down to look at him through the mask. They stare at each other for a moment. Soap curiously looks to see if he can find any pain in Ghost’s face, Ghost desperately trying not to stare at Soap’s lips.

He idly wonders what it would feel like if Soap kissed him there, then banishes the thought.

“Let’s make dinner, yeah?” Soap smiles.

Ghost nods when the other makes to move. He catches Soap’s wrist in his hand and the Scott looks a little surprised, cocking his head to the side in question. Ghost never really touches him, so this is a little bit of a surprise. It’s usually the other way around, with him touching Ghost instead.

“Thank you,” Ghost says. “For staying with me.”

Soap smiles, “Anything for you, Lt.”

That shouldn’t send butterflies whirling in his chest like it does, and Ghost quickly lets go of Soap’s wrist. Soap leaves the room and Ghost stays on the toilet seat for a good few minutes to will away the nausea and get his frayed nerves under control.

He can feel the jagged edges of the knife that cut his horn, like a phantom touch he can still feel it there, cutting him, slicing him open until he bleeds. He swallows heavily and shuts his eyes, trying to will the image away. It reminds him too much of how Roba used to cut his horns.

Ghost uses pain medication before he even attempts to sharpen his horns. Roba had done no such thing. The situation is all too similar to what the soldier did to him and Ghost feels his skin crawling. He knows he’ll be having nightmares tonight and is very thankful for the fact that this house has two bedrooms. He will still wake Soap with whatever scream is torn from his chest, but at least the other won’t be there directly.

Small comforts, Ghost thinks, and leaves the bathroom.

He does scream himself awake that night, the sound ripped from his throat as he shoots upright. His skin is clammy and his eyes contain unshed tears. He’s breathing heavily, far too fast, and shallow. He fists the sheets and scrunches his eyes shut, wishing the nightmare away.

The feeling of hands on him everywhere has his heartbeat picking up and Ghost faults out of the bed, dropping to the floor where he can press himself into the wall between the bed and the nightstand. It’s not comfortable by any means, but it’s better. The cold grounds him and his breathing gradually slows.

Not quick enough, it seems.

The door opens with a soft creak and Ghost’s eyes flit to it, recognizing Soap’s shadow as he enters the room. He’s backlighted by the light in the hallway and Ghost can’t see his expression, but he knows Soap is worried about him. There’s a gentleness to his steps as he comes closer, a hesitance as he places his hand on Ghost’s knee. The touch should be burning. It is anything but.

Ghost leans in, knocking his forehead against Soap’s chest. He can hear the other man breathing and the sound is calming, grounding in a way he can’t do for himself. He tries to mimic Soap and tries to attempt to breathe normally. Soap’s hand finds the back of his hair, flitting through his strands of dirty blond hair. It feels nice to be touched like this.

Nobody has ever done so before. At least, Ghost doesn’t remember if anyone ever did. He knows his mom probably stroked his hair, but he can barely remember her doing it. All of the memories of his family are tainted with pain and grief.

Soap’s touch also doesn’t feel disgusting like he thought it would in the beginning. It’s actually quite subtle, gentle, and soft as his calloused fingers card through his hair, grip the back of his neck, and steady him. They don’t say anything and Ghost is grateful for the silence.

He likes it when Soap touches him, but even if he does, the touch soon becomes too much and he slowly pulls away from the Scott. Soap looks at him, curious blue eyes shining in the darkness. Ghost realizes he’s not wearing his mask, having torn it off before going to bed.

He stares at Soap, Soap looks at him. They don’t say anything. Soap’s hand carefully comes into view, tracing the shape of his jaw to his cheekbones, gently over the scar that runs there. They move to the one that caught his lip, the scar that runs from the top of his other cheekbones, jaggedly running over his lips and down to his chin.

It’s an ugly scar, one Roba took pride in. Ghost hates it, hates the way it looks on his face, and deforms his lips so his mouth is always a little bit open. He hates looking at it in the mirror, but Soap seems enamored with it, entranced as he traces it down to Ghost’s lips.

He stops there, finger sitting gently on Ghost’s upper lip. Soap’s eyes flick up to meet his and Ghost’s breath stops in his chest. He’s not sure who moves first, but the gentle touch of lips on his has him melting. It’s the softest touch of skin on skin, but it’s enough to set fire to him everywhere.

Soap angles his face and catches him in a firmer kiss.

Ghost thinks he dies right then and there, and he has absolutely no complaints.

Ghost still doesn’t like being touched, but Soap’s touch is different.

The Scott trails his scars with fingers so gentle Ghost almost doesn’t feel it. He arches his back and sighs into the silent room. Soap hums, hand going down his chest and tracing each scar he finds there. Ghost trembles under his touch, shaking from the overstimulation.

This is the most touch he’s had in years and it feels fantastic, yet a flood. He gasps and shakes and doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Does he touch back? Will it be too much? Do they stop? What happens now?

There are so many questions he has, but when Soap kisses him, a gentle press of lips on lips, all his worries fly away. Ghost knows that if he asks Soap to stop, Soap will. He always will. Soap is here to make him feel good, not to make him feel caged or in danger.

“Ye okay?” Soap asks softly.

His voice is loud in the silence of the room, the only sound that of Ghost’s heavy panting. He’s not used to this much touch and it shows. He’s flushed head to toe, shaking, his muscles trembling. His body wants more, but his mind is telling him to run away, to make the strange feelings disappear. To drive a knife into Soap’s hand and flee.

He does none of that. Instead, he just nods his head, breathless.

“Tell me when it’s too much?” Soap asks.

“Yeah,” Ghost murmurs.

He wets his throat and swallows. Soap’s fingers trace up his chest toward his neck, where they play with his collarbone for a moment. Ghost trembles, hands fisted in the sheets. His horns scrape the bed, a twinge of pain coming from the one not fully healed yet.

Ghost wishes Soap would touch him there. To feel his hands on one of the most sensitive parts of his body. He wants the touch there. He wants something else than the repulsing thought of Roba’s painful hands there.

Soap seems to sense his thoughts and he shuffles, letting go of Ghost’s collarbone to settle on his hips. With their bodies flush like this, Ghost can feel Soap’s erection through his pants. It makes him groan softly in the back of his throat. He’s sure that Soap can feel he’s equally excited.

There’s a hesitance just before Soap’s ever-gentle fingers land on his good horn. Ghost exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding and all but melts in Soap’s touch. Soap smiles and runs his fingers down the horn to touch the base of it, where it connects to Ghost’s skull.

Ghost arches his back with a strained gasp.

“Johnny!” he breathes, startled.

“That okay?” Soap asks gently.

He keeps his fingers there, tracing the shape of the horn, feeling the raised skin that hides the way the keratin is attached to Ghost’s skull. It feels foreign, to be touched there, but it also feels so fucking good. Ghost rearranges his feet and kicks the sheets, desperate for anything more.

“Yes,” he gasps.

Soap says nothing more and uses his other hand to brace himself on the mattress. His thighs are touching Ghost’s side and the contact is burning but in a good way. Ghost doesn’t feel his skin crawling, he doesn’t want to run away and hide.

He does, however, feel very overwhelmed.  

“Too much,” he manages when Soap’s grip tightens.

Soap immediately lets go of him and sits back on his hips, slotting together with him like a perfect puzzle piece. He looks concerned but keeps his hands well off Ghost as long as the other hasn’t given the all-clear sign.

Ghost breathes for a moment, inhaling and exhaling perhaps a little too fast. Soap looks a little apologetic but there’s nothing to be sorry for. Ghost likes this, it’s just… a lot. He doesn’t know how to process so much touch, well, everywhere, all at once. It’s too new.

“Okay…” Ghost says after a few more moments of simply breathing. “I’m okay.”

“Are ye sure?” Soap asks, looking concerned.

“Yes,” Ghost says. “I want this.”

Soap smiles and leans down to kiss him, a firm press of lips on lips. When he sits back up, his cheeks are flushed and he gazes at Ghost’s naked face in the low lighting of the room. Ghost feels extremely exposed, but that’s okay because Soap will never judge him for how he looks.

“What?” Ghost asks when Soap stays silent.

“Yer braw,” Soap admits.

“I’m what now?” Ghost questions, confused.

Soap chuckles, “It means good-looking, ye numpty.”

Ghost thinks he should feel insulted, but he doesn’t. He smiles a little and lifts his hands to place them on Soap’s hips, feeling his naked skin. Soap took off his shirt a long time ago, yet Ghost is still fully dressed.

“Wanna help me out of my shirt?” he asks Soap.

“Are you certain?” Soap asks, looking at him curiously, yet with a huge amount of excitement.

Ghost nods, “Just… take it slow.”

Soap nods and worms his fingers under Ghost’s shirt. The touch of his skin on Ghost’s stomach has a fire starting again, and Ghost bites his lip to keep from making a sound. Soap pulls the shirt up and helps him out of it, carefully evading his still-healing horn as he does so. The shirt is then tossed aside.

Soap is looming over him, almost touching but not yet. He looks like he’s about to hug Ghost, but hesitates. Ghost lifts his arms to invite him in and Soap all but falls on him, nuzzling his nose in Ghost’s neck. The amount of naked skin-on-skin contact is so much that it startles Ghost for a long moment. Eventually, he does relax, if only slightly.

“All good?” Soap asks softly.

“Mh,” Ghost manages.

He doesn’t think he has the words for this sensation. He feels like he’s floating. It’s amazing yet terrifying at the same time. He wants more but he also really wants to run away. Should he put a stop to this?

Ghost shakes his head and mumbles about being a coward. Soap says nothing, and lets him have his moment of annoyance before they continue… whatever this is. Ghost takes a shaking breath and then presses his face into the juncture between the neck and shoulder of Soap’s body.

It feels warm there and Ghost nuzzles the skin, pressing a light kiss there. Soap smiles into his skin and nips at him with a sharp canine. Ghost shivers, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips. He feels so… vulnerable right now. But Soap has him, he’s safe and okay.

Soap lifts himself and kisses Ghost again, firmer this time. Ghost likes this, the gentleness of it, the kindness that he has missed for so many years. Soap teases his lip with his tongue and Ghost parts slowly, hesitant. Soap takes all the time in the world and carefully, gently, slips his tongue into Ghost’s mouth.

The first contact of tongue on tongue is electrifying and Ghost groans into the kiss, back arching. He’s never had the pleasure of doing this before. It sends shivers up his spine and sets his lungs ablaze. Soap angles his head a little to the side and deepens the kiss. Ghost is breathless, saliva dripping down his chin when Soap moans into his mouth.

Heat gathers in his lower abdomen and Ghost clenches his hands on Soap’s hips. The touch is so much, so real, so very much Soap that he can’t think of anything else.

Soap finally pulls away, a silvery string of saliva connecting them for a moment before it breaks. Ghost pants, chest heaving up and down. His head spins and he closes his eyes for a moment to gather himself. He jerks when Soap swipes a finger over his saliva-wetted chin.

“How’s that?” Soap asks curiously, smiling at him when he opens his eyes.

“Good- It was good,” Ghost manages through a rough breath.

“Wanna continue?” Soap asks, a happy smile on his face.

He looks relaxed and Ghost knows he is. If he asked Soap to stop right now, the other would. He wouldn’t even complain. But Ghost doesn’t want to stop. He wants to explore where this will go and he wants to know how much touching he can handle before his mind is roaring at him to run the fuck away.

“Yeah,” he whispers, pressing his thumbs into Soap’s hipbones.

Soap sighs at the contact and makes eye contact with him as he slowly grinds his hips down. Ghost bites his lip and stifles a moan. The contact is burning. The touch sends good shivers up his spine, heat growing only stronger.

Soap moves off him for a moment, making quick work of both their pants and underwear. Ghost feels exposed and wants to hide, but his hands fists the sheets instead. He watches as Soap gets a bottle of lube and a packet of condoms, dropping both on the bed beside him. Then the Scott settles back on his hips. Naked skin on skin.

Ghost holds his breath, tensing for a long moment. Soap doesn’t move, lets him acclimate to this new sensation. Eventually, he relaxes and Soap smiles at him. The smaller man brings his hands to Ghost’s chest and softly touches him, gently moving over his scars. There’s a kind of love there that Ghost isn’t used to and he kind of feels like crying.

He moves his own hands back to Soap’s hips, feeling the smooth skin there, letting his fingers sink into the flesh. It’s warm, burning under his touch, but it feels good. His eyes stray down, toward Soap’s erection. It’s prominent, very much hard, and girthy. It’s shorter than his, but a little thicker. Ghost bites his lip, resisting the urge to say something he’s not ready to say yet.

Soap’s hands trail up his skin, past his neck, and over his hair to his horns. His bad horn is evaded altogether, traded for feeling up the other. Hard ridges smooth Soap’s fingers and the feeling of being touched there is still strange to this day, but Ghost loves it. Soap wraps his whole hand around the horn and tugs.

Ghost gasps, a moan tumbling off his tongue without his permission.

Soap smiles victoriously.

“Sensitive, Simon?” he asks with a beguiling grin.

Well, fuck. He’s so doomed. His name on Soap’s lips sounds divine and Ghost wants to hear it again, more often. It sends electricity up his spine and makes his hands tingle. He angles his head and presses more of his horn into Soap’s hand.

“Say it again,” he demands.

“What?” Soap questions, trailing his fingers down to the base of the horn.

“Say my name,” Ghost almost begs.

His hands are bruising Soap’s hips, his grip so tight. Soap doesn’t seem to care one bit and rocks his hips once. Ghost hisses through his teeth, air rushing out of his lungs at the feeling.

“Simon,” Soap whispers, leaning down to say it directly into his ear.

Ghost bucks his hips up, growling. Without input from his brain, his hands slam Soap down on him, and the impact is jarring but heavenly. Soap gasps, unsuspecting the action. He drops one hand to the mattress in surprise, a groan ripped from his throat.

“Johnny,” Ghost whimpers. “More, I need-“

“Ah hear ye,” Soap laughs.

Ghost feels out of his mind. He watches with bated breath as Soap lifts off him just a little bit. The Scott’s hand lands on his cock, the touch foreign, scalding, delusionally good. Ghost moans, can’t help the sound that comes from him. Soap smiles and rips open a condom, rolling it on him before Ghost can even ask who’s going to top.

He is, it seems.

The breath whooshes out of him when Soap grins at him. The smaller man lifts himself up and positions Ghost carefully. His touch is featherlight but it feels like the only thing in the world. Ghost braces himself, trying to relax but knowing he’ll be very, very overwhelmed.

Soap slowly sinks down on him and Ghost’s whole world goes white for a second. He gasps and throws his head back, making pathetic noises in the back of his throat. Soap bottoms out and stops moving entirely, giving Ghost time to adjust.

He’s heaving, each breath a struggle. His hands are tearing the sheets apart, knuckles white with the strength of his grip. Soap rubs up and down his arms, trying to calm him down and bring him back to the moment.

“Ye back with me, Simon?” Soap asks after a moment.

“I think you just killed me,” Ghost mumbles.

Soap laughs and it contracts his muscles. Ghost mewls. They don’t move for several more moments, but then Ghost gives Soap the all-clear. Soap lifts himself, slowly, agonizingly so, and then carefully drops back down.

Ghost thinks he’s really dead now.

The touch of skin on skin like this is fire across him everywhere. He feels electric, the contact smooth, rough, and jarring at the same time. His mind is quiet beyond the roar of pleasure, pleasure, pleasure. It’s so much, yet not nearly enough.

He grapples for Soap’s hips, anything to hold onto as he’s taken on the rollercoaster of his life. His feelings are all over the place, but the most prominent one he feels is love. So much love and it’s all for the man sitting on his cock.

Ghost groans when Soap speeds up, carefully giving him enough time to signal stop or continue. One of Soap’s hands finds his and Ghost takes it, squeezing. There’s heat growing in the pit of his stomach and it feels amazing.

Soap leans forward suddenly, the angle changes, and Ghost bucks his hips up with a yell. Soap garbles a moan and almost falls on him. But he keeps upright and Ghost thinks he’s about to get kissed, but then Soap grabs his horn, tightly wrapping his hand around it.

Ghost’s eyes cross.

Soap strokes the horn in time with the lift of his hips and Ghost sees stars. Electricity runs down his entire body and he’s shaking all over. Soap brings his face down and catches Ghost in a needy kiss, fingers gently tracing the ridges of his horn.

Ghost can die happy now.

Soap keeps moving for a little while longer, drawing out whimpers and moans from Ghost’s mouth without his permission. The pleasure is rising, bursting through his chest and outward. He feels like he’s actually dying. Soap bites his lip softly, then lets go, and leans over him to whisper in his ear.

“Ah love ye, Simon,” Soap all but moans.

Ghost whines, bucking his hips up once more before the world explodes in a flurry of color and sensation. His entire body locks up and he can just hear Soap’s startled cry before he blacks out abruptly.

When he comes to, Soap is running a damp rag over his body. Ghost groans and places a hand against his forehead. His head is pounding, and his body is sore in a good way. Soap tosses the rag aside and drops onto the mattress beside him.

“How are ye feeling?” Soap asks, placing a hand over his chest, gently tracing scars again.

“Sore,” Ghost mumbles, turning on his side to pull Soap into a hug.

“Good sore or bad sore?”

“Good sore,” Ghost whispers.

Soap smiles into his skin and wraps his arms around Ghost, trailing fingers over his back. It feels nice. The touch isn’t too much anymore. Ghost nuzzles into Soap’s skin and sighs deeply, sated.

“Your horn healed,” Soap says quietly.

“It did?” Ghost asks, surprised.

He lifts a hand to his broken horn and touches it. The healed parts are tender but they’re closed. He’ll need to sharpen this one again, but other than that, it’s good as new. He huffs in surprise and drops his hand, curling it around Soap’s arm.

“Does it usually heal that fast?” Soap wonders.

“No,” Ghost answers. “It used to heal much faster actually. Back when… they were new.”

“Oh,” Soap says. “Ye wanna-“

“No,” Ghost says again, cutting Soap off. “I don’t.”

“Okay,” the Scott says.

They say nothing more. Soap cuddles into his chest and Ghost stares into space. The room is dark, the world slow and silent. He’s safe, in his house, his and Soap’s house. In a village in the middle of nowhere where nobody knows who they are. Where there is no danger and nobody to judge him.  

Soap’s skin is warm on his, and for the first time in his life, he falls asleep and doesn’t dream about anything at all.