Chapter Text
Soap had been off all day.
He was quiet in a way that made the air in the room feel too still, like something heavy was pressing down on all of them. He hadn’t painted, hadn’t cracked a joke, hadn’t even smiled. Just stiff shoulders and clipped responses, his jaw locked tight enough to make his temples ache.
Simon had noticed. Of course, he had. He’d hovered, watching from a distance, waiting for Soap to break the silence, for him to say what was bothering him.
But the silence stretched until it snapped.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Simon, can you just stop?”
Simon blinked, recoiling slightly, caught mid-step as he hovered near Soap’s desk. “What?”
Soap turned, his expression twisted with something raw, something bitter. “Just stop staring at me like that! Like I’m some broken fuckin’ thing you need to fix.”
Simon took a step back. “I wasn’t—”
“Yeah well you were,” Soap snapped, voice sharper than a knife. “You always are. Watchin’, waitin’, hovering over me like some fuckin’ ghost. Christ, d’you even know how suffocatin’ you are sometimes?”
It was a direct hit. Simon went rigid, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Soap didn’t stop; didn’t even hesitate.
“You’re not my keeper, Simon. I'm not your problem.”
Something inside Simon twisted . A flicker of something cold and old and painful. A wound torn open too fast. Soap saw it. Saw the way Simon’s breath stilled in his chest , the way his eyes flickered with something raw and aching, but it was like a dam had burst inside him and he couldn’t stop.
“You think you’re so good at helpin’ people, but all you do is make everything about you. You need to be needed, don’t you? That’s why you do it. Not for us, but for you.”
Simon’s ears rang. His lungs locked up as Soap stepped forward, voice dropping to something lower, something cruel.
“Nobody fuckin’ needed you before, and that’s what kills you, isn’t it ?”
The words landed like a gunshot. A knife hitting its mark so perfectly before twisting in his guts. Simon staggered back.
His mouth opened, but no words came out. No air. Nothing but the sound of his own heart hammering in his chest. His hands clenched, his nails digging into his palms, his throat closing up as the world tilted and twisted around him.
Soap must have seen it, must have felt the shift in the air, because his lips parted, his expression flickering with something like realization, like regret.
But it was too late.
A hand gripped Soap’s arm, hard, and yanked him backwards.
Gaz.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Gaz’s voice was like a crack of thunder, sharp and unforgiving. “Get the fuck out. Now .”
Soap struggled for half a second, his body still brimming with the heat of whatever had just snapped inside him, but Gaz wasn’t letting go. He dragged him out, shoving him past the doorway by the back of his neck.
The door slammed and silence fell.
Simon was shaking hard.
His breath hitched, sharp and uneven, his hands locked in fists so tight his nails were biting into his palms, runnels of blood beginning to slip between his knuckles. He was there and not here , back in a different room, a different time, his body locked in place, muscles screaming, waiting for the next hit, the next soul-shattering insult.
A hand landed on his shoulder.
Simon jerked violently, flinching away so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet.
Price.
“Alright,” Price said, voice steady. Firm, but not demanding. Simon Riley wasn't his hardened lieutenant in that moment, he was a scared child. “Alright, son. I got you.”
Simon pressed his back into the wall, shaking so hard he thought he might be sick, his chest aching with the force of how hard it was to breathe. The world was too much, too big, too loud, the echo of Soap’s words rattling in his skull like automatic rifle fire.
Nobody fuckin’ needed you before.
Price took a step forward, slowly, his hands open, eyes locked on Simon’s with the patience of a man who had done this - seen this - too many before.
“Breathe, son,” he said, soft but insistent. “Come on. I know you can.”
Simon couldn’t. He couldn’t. He curled in on himself, hands flying up to his head, pressing against his temples, trying to push the noise out, trying to stop the fucking memories from pulling him under.
“Alright, take it easy, Simon.” Price’s voice cut through the panic. Strong. Anchoring. “I need you to listen to my voice. Just my voice.”
Simon clung to it, scared to let go. That dangerous pit was waiting to open up under his feet, to drag him under.
Price stepped marginally closer. “In for four. Just like we practiced, yeah?”
Simon’s breath hitched.
“Come on, son. In for four. That’s it.”
Simon tried. He dragged in a shaking, uneven breath, chest stuttering with the effort. It hurt, as if he was breathing needles.
Price nodded. “Good. Good, lad. Now hold it for four.”
Simon clenched his jaw. Held it.
“Out for four.”
Simon exhaled, but it was shaky, unsteady, his lungs fighting him.
Price didn’t waver. “Again. In for four.”
Slowly , slowly , Simon felt the world stop tilting beneath him. Felt his body start to register the ground beneath him again. Price stayed exactly where he was, steady as ever. “You’re alright,” Price said, softer now. “You’re here.”
Simon swallowed, throat raw. He didn’t trust his voice. Didn’t trust himself. Price sighed, shaking his head. “That- that bullshit wasn’t about you,” he muttered, running a hand through his beard. “That was about him.”
Simon didn’t answer but Price didn’t push.
Just stepped closer, slow and careful, until he could lay a hand on Simon’s shoulder, the weight of it solid and real.
“You are needed,” Price said. No hesitation. No doubt. “And I need you to remember that.”
Simon closed his eyes and nodded.
His breath hitched, a broken thing in his throat. His body still felt off, like the edges of reality were blurred and shifting, something in his head screaming that this wasn’t real. Not real. Not real. Not real- Not Fucking Real-
His fingers twitched. His breath stuttered. His skin burned cold. And then his hands moved before he could think. He grabbed Price. His gloved fingers scrabbled at the fabric of Price’s sleeve, then his vest, clutching hard, desperate for something solid. He pressed his forehead against Price’s shoulder, gripping tight enough that his knuckles went white, his breath hot and ragged against Price’s shirt.
Price stiffened for half a second before his hands came up, bracing. One on Simon’s back. One on the back of his head.
“Alright,” Price murmured, grounding. Real. “I’ve got you.”
Simon didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His chest ached like something inside had cracked open, his mind still reeling, still expecting to be punished for this, for reaching, for needing. But Price didn’t move. Didn’t push him away. Didn’t leave. He never would.
The hand on the back of his head shifted slightly, not holding him there, just being there. The weight of it burned through the static in his skull, solid and warm and real.
“You’re here,” Price said, firm. “You’re safe.”
Simon’s breath stuttered. He clenched his fingers tighter in Price’s vest, a small , almost involuntary sound slipping out of his throat. His brain was still whirling, still stuck in some fucked-up loop of past and present, but Price was-
Price was still here.
Still solid.
Still real.
Simon pressed his forehead harder against Price’s shoulder, nails digging in, trying to memorize the feeling of the fabric, the heat, the weight of another person in his space.
“I’ve got you,” Price repeated, voice low and steady. “Not goin’ anywhere.”
Simon shuddered. Somewhere in the haze, in the disorienting, sickening twist of the world, he realized he was leaning. Not just standing, not just gripping, but leaning against Price like something in him had simply collapsed.
His legs weren’t working right. His body felt wrong. But Price didn’t let him fall. Didn’t move away. Just stayed. For minutes. For an eternity. For however long it took for Simon to feel the weight in his lungs ease just enough to breathe properly again.
His grip didn’t loosen. He couldn’t let go yet. Price didn’t make him. Simon was a deadweight. Price could feel it in the way his body sagged against his chest, the way his fingers refused to let go, locked in a death grip on Price’s vest. H is breathing was still shaky, s till uneven, his chest stuttering like his body couldn’t figure out how to function properly .
Price had seen him like this before. But not like this . Not this bad. Not after that . Soap had ripped into him. Dug into places nobody should touch, pried open wounds Simon barely kept stitched together on the best of days.
It was no wonder he was falling apart.
Price adjusted his stance, sliding one arm around Simon’s back and the other under his knees. Then, with a practised ease, he lifted. Simon barely reacted, just buried himself deeper, fingers still clinging like he’d disappear if he let go.
Price hooked an arm under Simon’s thigh and adjusted his grip, securing him against his side like he was carrying a kid. His hip bore most of the weight, letting Simon rest against his chest, head tucked under his chin. Ghost made a small, wrecked sound but didn’t protest. Didn’t fight it. Didn’t flinch.
Price let out a slow breath, steadying himself before making his way towards his office, steps even and deliberate. Simon was still locked up, still somewhere else, but if he was accepting the contact, if he was seeking it, Price could work with that.
The door to his office was slightly ajar. Price nudged it open with his foot and stepped inside, closing it behind him before making his way over to the couch in the corner. He eased down carefully, settling Simon on his lap without forcing him to let go.
Simon’s breathing was still shaky, but Price felt the slightest shift as his body started to recognize the safety of the space. There was no rushing him. He just kept a solid arm around Ghost, rubbing slow, grounding circles over his back.
“You’re alright,” he murmured. “Just breathe, son. You’re alright.”
Simon made a small noise, half-choked, but pressed closer. Price let him.
—
Gaz had Soap backed into a corner.
Not physically—Soap could still walk away if he wanted. But Gaz was standing in front of him, arms crossed, face like thunder. And Soap? Soap looked as wrecked as Simon felt.
His fists were clenched at his sides, shoulders locked up, his jaw so tight it looked like it hurt. His eyes were wild, something unhinged and guilty and furious flickering just beneath the surface. But mostly, he looked lost.
“What the fuck was that?” Gaz asked, voice low, controlled.
Soap’s breath came out sharp and uneven. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers shaking. “I-” He stopped, exhaling hard through his nose. “I don’t-”
Gaz narrowed his eyes. “Try again.”
Soap’s nostrils flared. “I don’t know, alright?” His voice cracked, something desperate beneath the anger. “I just snapped.”
Gaz didn’t move. Didn’t soften.
Soap’s hands curled into fists again, his breathing uneven. “I don’t-” He exhaled sharply, his whole body trembling. “I don’t know why I fuckin’ said that.”
Gaz studied him, watching the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to tear at something, the way his expression flickered between regret and defensiveness like he couldn’t decide which one to settle on.
“You cut him open,” Gaz said, voice even, but sharp. “And you knew exactly where to cut. You knew exactly where to cut, with the past, the trauma Ghost trusted you with and you threw it back in his face. You used his own pain as the bullets to kill him.” Soap flinched. His breathing hitched. Gaz didn’t look away. “So I'll try again. You wanna tell me what the fuck that was?”
Soap let out a sharp breath through his nose, his eyes darting away like he couldn’t look at Gaz directly. “I-” His voice cracked. He scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers trembling. “I don’t know. I just- I had to make him stop.”
Gaz frowned. “Stop what?” Soap swallowed hard. His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer. Gaz stepped closer, voice dropping low. “Soap.”
Soap clenched his jaw so tight it looked painful. And then, barely audible:
“Caring.”
Gaz blinked. Soap’s breathing was ragged, his hands still shaking at his sides, his eyes flickering with something close to panic. “I couldn’t stand it,” Soap rasped, voice hoarse. “The way he looked at me. Like I was-” He stopped, chest heaving. “Like I was fragile.”
Gaz inhaled slowly, processing.
Soap let out a broken, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “He-he just-hovered, and I-I felt like I was gonna break, and I couldn’t let him do that.”
Gaz sighed. “So you broke him instead.” Soap winced. Gaz shook his head. “Jesus, Tav.” His voice wasn’t angry anymore. Just tired.
Soap collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting , knees drawn up, elbows braced against them. His hands dragged through his hair, tugging at the strands, his breath still c oming too fast.
“I fucked up,” he muttered, voice shaking.
Gaz exhaled slowly. “Yeah. You did.”
Soap let out a hollow laugh , tipping his head back against the wall. “He’s not gonna forgive me.”
Gaz sat down beside him, leaning back against the wall with a sigh. “Give him time.”