Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Late house warmin’ present?” Soap says as Callan opens the door, making a show to hold up the top-shelf scotch.

For all that Soap’s trying to be loose, Ghost can see the way he’s bundled with tension. It’s been there since they left his parents’ home. For as much as he’s been trying to smile, for as relieved as he’d been when they got out into the street, away from the MacTavish household—he’s cracked. Somewhere big, somewhere that Ghost can’t quite see, but Ghost knows the damage is there the same way that Soap knew he’d been hit by a bullet when the cover of night should have prevented him from noticing Ghost wasn’t whole.

Ghost knows Soap is trying to pull himself up by the bootstraps, to appear tall and strong even though things went bad. And Ghost, he’s happy for what he thinks (and hopes) is closure, that Soap made that decision not to take what his parents were giving—but a heaviness has lingered. A slight weave to his musculature, like everything just weighs more. Hurts more. Aches.

Ghost watches Callan’s face break into something bright and full of glee. “Oh, yer too good to me, John. Salsa dip is in the fridge.”

Soap chuckles at that, the bottle in his hand lowering. “Aye, now that’s a treat.” He turns to Ghost, beaming at him. “Callan’s great at cookin’.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call throwin’ the shite together for a salsa dip cookin’.” Callan steps aside and leaves room for Ghost and Soap to file in. “And what do you got Ghost?” He says, nodding toward the bottle in his own hand.

Ghost holds it up, label out, and lets Callan take it.

“Oh, yer bleedin’ joking.” Callan looks at Ghost, impressed, “I love a good bourbon. Tell me it’s for sharin’.”

“Callan,” Soap chastises through a groan, his face doing something complicated. “Traitor to yer own country.”

Callan raises an eyebrow at Soap, then gazes back to Ghost, eyes twinkling.

“Yeah, it’s for sharing. And you can call me Simon.” Ghost informs him, trying not to feel the weight of both Callan and Soap’s gazes as he starts peeling off his jacket.

The sole reason he’d shared his name with Soap’s parents was because he wanted to try and level the playing field, take out a potentially damaging variable. He’d known going into it that he wasn’t exactly welcome, and he didn’t want his callsign to compound that. It’s not exactly… people don’t usually accept it the way Callan had just earlier today.

But now, Callan gets Simon, because when Soap was having a hard time, Callan got him the help he needed. He saw Soap continue to struggle, and did what he could to make it better. He made fucking salsa dip for the man, whatever the fuck that is—but Soap seems thrilled about it. And the thing is, he wants Soap to have a support system like this outside of him, it’s something that could make the difference when he… if he…

But even if he doesn’t. Even if they get the luxury of time, he wants Soap to have as many good things in this world as Ghost can get his hands on.

Ghost sees the way Soap lights up where Callan is involved, how they get along. He knows it’s something that would benefit him.

“Well, Simon,” Callan says. He seems to understand the gesture Ghost has made, because he nods dutifully. Like he thinks this is a test, but it’s not. It’s the reward he gets for already passing with flying colours. Gaz doesn’t even call him Simon—Price, only rarely. “Alright if we crack this open, then?”

“Ye just made an ally for life, Callan, I hope you realize.” Soap teases lightly, but when he glances at Ghost, he sees how happy he looks.

“I was hoping our mutual ability to tolerate you would have already gotten me that far.” Callan claps Soap’s shoulder good-naturedly.

Ghost smiles into the back of his mask as he watches Soap’s belatedly offended expression twist into a surprised laugh.

Ghost could take or leave football, if he’s being honest.

But sitting on Callan’s giant, plush sofa next to Soap, a surprisingly good salsa dip in front of him, a nearly empty lowball glass of bourbon in his hand—it’s admittedly sort of… fun.

It’s innocent in a way that few things tend to be. Soap scoffs at players, Callan comments on poor plays, and neither of them are all too bothered when Ghost remains silent.

He’s not invested in the way the ball snaps across the field or the passes between the players or goals on either side. He’s hyper focused on the warmth of the whole evening—it’s a bit breakneck, going from the ice of Soap’s parents, to having all that water now pool at their feet because the sun is shining so bright.

About halfway the game, stomach full and second glass empty, he even starts dozing.

It’s half because he’s relaxed, half because he’s really, really tired.

He’s not that far into his recovery with the extent of damage he sustained, and his body demands more rest than he’s used to giving himself. Last night had been—fuck, last night had been one of the best sleeps he’s had in ages. So deep and so thorough that he didn’t even know his own name when he woke up—all he knew was the look on Soap’s face as he’d gazed down at him, safe and protective and happy. He’s been living off that one look all day.

Soap goes still the moment he notices Ghost’s head has tipped on his shoulder. But he doesn’t move, nor does he seem to be a proponent of personal bubbles today, because he relaxes under Ghost’s temple.

He’d worry about Callan seeing him in such a weak state, but he’s on Soap’s other side—what are the chances he notices? Or cares, frankly. Callan doesn’t seem fazed by all that much, where Soap is concerned.

It’s easy to fall asleep to Soap’s soft cheers, to Callan complimenting a good corner kick.

And then his head slips from Soap’s shoulder, grazes his chest, and lands in Soap’s lap in a mirror of this morning. It fully wakes Ghost up and he goes tense, scrambling to activate his core strength so he can lift himself back into a sitting position. But before he can, Soap lays his warm hands on him—one on his shoulder, one on his head. He starts playing with Ghost’s hair, fingers almost immediately dragging across Ghost’s scalp and absently massaging his temple, his jaw, his hairline.

His body reacts with an immediate melt. He settles with his head on Soap’s thigh, gentle warmth surrounding him through the touches and body heat. There are no consequences for finding peace here, he reminds himself. He is safe with Soap. Soap would not be touching him like this, if it wasn’t okay.

He drifts and drifts, successfully escaping into the warm embrace of soft darkness and healing silence. He listens to the moment his brain stops hearing the sounds around him, and he catches on consciousness again, then falls right back down—three steps forward, two steps backwards. He tries to focus on chasing the peace, chasing the heavy blanket of his subconscious, the welcoming darkness. Soap’s fingers draw swirls in his hair.

His eyes are a lost sense. Soap and Callan’s voices are distant, the TV more so—and he drops again. His hearing cuts out, his brain slows, his heart thumps wearily. Soap’s leg is warm under his cheek, the soft touches against his head are like the heat from a well-stoked campfire, a sensation that borders on feeling feverish.

His legs are still positioned like they were when he was sitting down, feet on the floor. It’s not overly comfortable to be twisted like this, and he thinks if he had any sense of energy, he’d pull them up on the couch.

But he’s fading, fading, fading. He goes loose, his eyelids are sealed with heavy glue, his bones pull toward the ground. His head feels like it weighs a hundred kilos.

Those touches are so soft. So soft. He sinks in it, lives in this parallel universe. He’s walking through molasses, he’s paralysed. Away from danger, from enemies, from fear. He lives in the sun, the ocean crashing on the shore not far away, the gentle breeze on his face. Soap.

Soon Ghost isn’t thinking anything—fast asleep, so gone that he couldn’t find himself if he tried.

“Hey, Simon.” A soft voice pulls him in. It locks a life preserver around his chest, secures a rope—and it pulls him into shore.

Ghost groans softly, shifting against the discomfort of his side. It’s a dull ache, annoying more than anything. What lingers closer to the forefront, what he really notices, is how he feels like he’s suspended in a pool of divinely hot water. He’s weightless, and at the same time, he’s a lead weight drifting to the ocean floor.

“Simon.” He repeats. Soap repeats. Warm hands are still in his hair, playing gently. “You with me?”

“Yeah.” Ghost mumbles shortly, trying to heave himself up but freezing when he’s immediately halted by a firm hand on his shoulder. It’s distressing at first, when he barely knows what’s going on, to have something restricting him—constraining him.

“Simmer, give yourself a second to get to the land of the living.” Soap hums, the tone gentle and easy. There’s nothing going on, nothing bad anyway. He’s okay—everything is okay. He just fell asleep, Soap is here, telling him to be calm, and it’s okay.

Ghost blinks blearily, eyes desperate to squint against the dim lighting in the room, but he fights it. “What’s wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Soap murmurs. “Just thinkin’ I better take ye back to the hotel.”

Ghost goes heavy in Soap’s lap, brows automatically furrowing at the thought of ending Soap’s night early. He shouldn’t have fallen asleep, it gave the impression that he didn’t want to be here, but that wasn’t it—and he doesn’t want Soap to miss out on this night, all because he—

“It’s past midnight, you’ve been out for about four hours.”

Oh.

“Fuckin’ hell. Shit,” Ghost mumbles, forcing himself to sit up slowly and look over, half-expecting to see annoyance or disappointment in Soap’s expression. He doesn’t find either. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no, I had a great time. You needed the sleep.” Soap shakes his head. “I hope it was okay that I let you rest.”

Ghost’s brain processes the information very gradually. “I—Callan must think I’m a fuckin’ piece of work.”

“First off, Callan likes ye.” Soap says gently. “Second, Simon, do you think I’d have encouraged you to sleep if I didn’t think it was a good idea?”

“Wasn’t aware you were encouraging it.”

Soap’s lips twitch like he’s holding back a smile, Ghost peers through the cracks and sees how fond the underlying tone is, and he finds he’s unable to hold back his own physical relief.

“Like I don’t know what playing with your hair does to you.”

“Have it all figured out, do you?” Ghost asks softly.

”Aye.” Soap hums. “Full disclosure, Callan offered for us to crash here tonight, he’s got a guest room—but I said we had to head back, figured you’d rather be in your own space.”

Ghost gives him a gentle nod. “Where is he?”

“Callan? He’s in the kitchen.” Soap says. “Makin’ his lunch for tomorrow. Told him I’d wake you and we’d say bye before we left.”

“Okay.” Ghost agrees, staring at the soft look Soap’s giving him, blinking heavily. Holy shit, he is so tired—so tired. He can’t even think, his cognitive ability is shot, he’s completely useless. “Sorry for—that I was asleep so long.”

Soap shakes his head, lips spreading in another grin—like he just can’t contain his warmth and delight when it comes to Ghost. He’ll just give it all away, never expecting a thing back because he’s generous like that. “Oh ye daft bloody bastard. Talkin’ like I didn't want ye right where I had ye.”

Ghost feels something in his chest shake his whole core. He feels such a sense of fucking belonging—that there’s a place in this world just for him, that he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be, doing exactly what he’s supposed to be doing. Ghost blinks, continuing to look at Soap’s eyes, letting his gaze trace his features in the dim light.

“Think you feel up to moving?”

Ghost feels the throb of his wound protest at the notion of it, but he nods anyway. He fishes his phone from his pocket and focuses all his energy on getting a car, because neither of them should be walking a distance.

His head has a difficult time adjusting to consciousness, and he nearly starts asking Soap if they can just stay here. If he can just go back to sleep, if Soap would be okay with that, if Callan would care. Ghost’ll take the couch no problem and Soap—to keep appearances, if that’s what Soap wants to do—he supposes Soap would take the guest room. Not that there’s much to hide, after Ghost used Soap’s lap like a pillow for hours on end.

But there’s… in the hotel room, Ghost can fully fall asleep with Soap. He can wake up and not need to wonder about operating procedures. He can ease against Soap, and they can lounge in bed for too long, worrying about breakfast only when they absolutely need to fuel their bodies. They have an entire, full day left here in Elgin, and Ghost will do whatever Soap wants. Whether that’s staying in bed until the sun goes down again, or seeing every single landmark, shop, and square inch of earth that Soap finds noteworthy—as long as Ghost gets to have tonight and the morning, he’ll do anything.

So Soap is right—he wants to go back to the hotel, to their shared pocket of safe space. Naturally.

Soap’s hand moves to rub his back, between his shoulder blades, and Ghost realizes his phone’s gone dark.

“Let me?” Soap murmurs, reaching out a hand toward Ghost’s phone.

Ghost unlocks it, hands it over, and leans forward to plant his elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands. He’s so fuckin’ done in and he just slept for four hours. Fuck sakes.

“Ride’s comin’ in five.” Soap says in a hushed tone, slipping Ghost’s phone back into his hands. “You want to sit here a bit yet?”

Ghost shakes his head. “Should say goodbye to Callan.”

“Aye. There’ll be time for that.”

Ghost’s not so sure about that, because there’s a lot more he should say than just ‘bye’. He should say ‘thank you for having Soap’s back,’ and ‘thank you for letting this be a place two broken soldiers could crash into and against,’ and ‘thank you for liking bourbon because that look on Soap’s face was priceless.’

Ghost’s body aches as he gets to his feet—heavy like he might be after an adrenaline crash, but maybe that’s what this is. He just can’t remember feeling particularly like he was swimming inside the kind of danger that adrenaline usually accompanies him in. Yeah, maybe things got tense at the MacTavish’s, but it didn’t feel like the heat of battle—he can’t compare it to the amount of cortisol that drops when you hear a bullet whiz five centimetres away from your ear.

Anyway, the walk to the kitchen is impossible. He does it, but physically, it should have been impossible.

Callan looks up when he and Soap stumble into the small kitchen, a smile instantly on his face—and for the briefest of moments, Ghost wonders if he’d never committed himself to the military, if he could have been as happy as Callan constantly seems to be. If working in nature, when it doesn’t just involve jungle ops and plane jumps into a lake, if that’s where it’s at. He can’t regret his choices because it’s how he met Soap, but a part of him does wonder.

Callan wipes his hand on a dish towel and steps toward them. “You two headin’ out then?”

“Aye.” Soap gives him a solid nod, lips turned upward, eyes alight. “Thanks for the nice evenin’.”

“Hey, yer the ones who brought the liquor.” Callan chuckles. “Next time you’re in town, call me up—ye can stay here, not a hotel and no’ yer mam’s.”

Soap grins at that. “Aye, Callan.”

“Counts for the both of ye.” Callan looks pointedly at Ghost. “There’s always a place for you here as well, Simon.”

Ghost nods and his mouth sort of dries, because he can sort of see it—how there’s room for him in this part of town, where his callsign wasn’t flinched at, where falling asleep in Soap’s lap didn’t turn into a merciless jab. Nobody aside from Soap has ever offered their space as his own, nobody’s ever made him feel like there was some place he could land, away from hostiles and enemy territory. Realistically, he’ll never take Callan up on it—not unless it’s Soap that’s dragging him back to Elgin, but the thought is nice.

Soap steps up to embrace Callan in a way that makes them really look like friends—the heavy clap against his shoulder, the soft smile Callan has on his face as he murmurs a quiet, “stay safe out there, John.”

The way Soap nods and tightens his grip for a moment, pulling away with a grin. “Aye, tell the folks I’m sorry I didn’t make it over to see ‘em this time, give ‘em my best. And you don’t go fallin’ into rivers an’ shite, alright?”

“Of course.” Callan agrees firmly, turning his eyes to Ghost. “And you.”

Ghost nods again because he’s not sure what kind of twisted social scenario he’s in now, but there’s nothing in his repertoire that helps him determine the right way to act. So he stays stock still, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I am glad you decided to come with John.” Callan truly looks appreciative. “I didn’t worry nearly as much about him bein’ at his mam’s knowin’ you were with him.”

“Callan,” Soap scoffs in a way that sounds like ‘Come on, I can take care of myself’.

“I’m just bein’ honest, bleedin’ hell.” Callan tosses Soap’s way, eyes landing back on Ghost. “Anyway. Hope to see ye again.” And then there’s a hand thrust forward between them, an inquisitive tilt to Callan’s head. “Get him to take ye back here.”

“Might do.” Ghost says, shaking Callan’s hand firmly. “Was good to meet you.”

Callan seems to realize that’s about as good as a gleaming review from Ghost, because he beams. “Aye, you as well.”

“We’ll get out yer, hair, then.” Soap smiles, curling an arm around Ghost’s back like he knows he’s using every brain cell just to stay upright. “Until the next time.”

“Until then.” Callan gives them a lazy mock salute, which Soap snorts at, and then they’re heading to the door.

The dark night lies gently on their shoulders as they make their way out the door to wait closer to the road. It’s relatively quiet, and cold, too—crisp air puffing out into fog with every exhale.

There isn’t an exchange of words as they hold their position, two weary men standing near the sleeping street, waiting.

The headlights soon pull up. Soap shuffles into the cramped backseat first, and Ghost after, intentionally choosing the seat directly behind the driver. It’s an ideal position, wouldn’t take much to choke him out if the need should arise.

Soap’s fingers find his hand in the dark, surging into his palm and contently stilling there for the remainder of the drive. And at the risk of leaving them vulnerable, Ghost’s not even thinking about the driver. He’s not thinking about the borderline overwhelming scent of the air freshener that’s hanging from the rearview mirror, or even the fact that they’re being blasted by air conditioning when it’s already such a cold night.

It’s just so easy to hyperfixate on Soap, in a way that he never allows himself in the field. His head falls back against the headrest, and he just stares at him—at Soap. The dim light from the street lamps occasionally flashes his skin in a warm glow, then there’s a bit of a red hue from the brake lights in front of them. Soap is here with him—they did the hard part, they did the coming home. Ghost found out what ‘I grew up there’ really meant, and he discovered why Soap got so tense when the caller ID read ‘Mam’.

He did it—they did it. In and out of another hostile territory, no need to worry about a landmine blowing up under their feet.

When they get to the hotel, Soap pauses at the check-in counter. It’s the same woman who checked them in initially, and for a moment, Ghost has to wonder what could be so important that Soap needs to stop and ask now, when they’re so close to being done.

But then, in his exhaustion-haze, he remembers her face. Her yellow-blond hair wrapped in a stern bun at her nape, the crisp business-casual blazer that gives the illusion of raised shoulders. He recalls how she is the reason Soap had a panic attack. She’s the reason that Soap’s mum called, she’s the reason that their visit here took such a dark turn. Ghost bristles, eyeing the matte silver name tag pinned to the lapel of her blouse. Aila.

“Just wanted to ask somethin’,” Soap says, leaning against the counter with his left forearm, a harsh fire in his eyes. Ghost regards himself as lucky that he's never been at the receiving end of such a high calibre glare. His secondary thought is that the woman deserves far worse.

Aila looks a little caught out, a little worried. It's as if she knows that she's been made. If guilt was a person walking the earth, it would be her.

“Uh, yes, John, how can I help ye?” Aila blurts, her left eyelid twitching ever so briefly.

Soap’s eyes narrow and he hums like she’s just answered a lingering question. “Wonderin’ if I can get some ice. Hurt my knee.”

“Ye poor thing.” Aila looks partially relieved, but still entirely on guard, as she should be. “Just wait here a moment, I’ll find you something.”

Soap nods, his face carefully blank.

Aila scurries to a room beyond the check-in counter, leaving the two of them waiting in the lobby.

Ghost folds his arms over his chest and wonders if he went after her, if Soap would try to stop him. If he’d reach out with his soft touch and curl a hand inside his own in order to tether them together.

“You didn’t want to ask her about the hotel’s privacy regulations?”

Soap snorts softly, turning his head to look at him. “Better to let her sweat it out.”

“Is it?” Ghost could think of a few ways this could go, and this seems like the least satisfying. “You could give me a few minutes alone with her, we’ll soon know if she was the leak.”

Soap tries and fails to keep a smile off his face, shaking his head as his eyes gleam. “We know she was the leak, ye numpty.”

“Always good to confirm your intel.” Ghost muses dryly.

“Isn’t gonna do anythin’… Plus, everything in Elgin is built on passive aggressiveness. I’ll give the old woman a heart attack if I call her out.”

“Fair’s fair, I say.”

“You’re merciless.” Soap teases, warm and knowing.

“Just don’t like people thinking they can get away with messin’ with you.”

“Here,” Aila comes back a minute later with a moderate amount of ice cubes inside a freezer bag, and a fluffy white towel identical to the ones in their bathroom. “Will this help ye any?”

“Aye. Suppose it will.” Soap takes the ice and turns to Ghost. “Help me up to our room, darlin’?”

Ghost raises both eyebrows at the name—the term of endearment. Soap’s eyes are twinkling, amusement splashing across some of his features. To any other person, Soap would just look perfectly happy, but Ghost’s been around him enough to recognize the mischievous glee—and he’s got about two seconds to go along with this spontaneous plan before Soap’s expression will falter. He does not want Soap to falter when it comes to his reliance on Ghost to unconditionally have his back, even when it’s over something as harmless and innocuous as what’s being set up here. He won’t let him falter.

“Anything for you.” Ghost extends a hand and genuinely does provide Soap with support as he wraps it around his waist, helping him take the weight off his bad leg. It has the double edged benefit of letting him feel the silent chuckles that shake Soap’s chest, and that’s a treat. “Let's go.” He says, low and even.

Ghost briefly glances over at Aila, not because there’s value to be had in seeing the look on her face, but because he wants to ensure that she’s firmly stationary. That she isn’t one of those warriors of right and wrong, whatever her perception of the two may be—he needs to do that short danger analysis.

It does bring a small amount of satisfaction to see her deep frown lines and the flat palm over her chest. If the woman had pearls, Ghost reckons she’d be clutching them, eyes widened and lips parted as they are. So much for being passive.

“G’night.” Soap throws over his shoulder.

The moment they get up to their room, Ghost says—“I thought you weren’t trying to give her a heart attack.”

“Aye, well. You’re a bad influence on me.” Soap laughs softly, sliding to the ground to get rid of his boots. “And I saw the opportunity.”

Ghost peels off his jacket and drops it to the floor, looking at Soap in his Nirvana t-shirt, fighting impatiently against his laces with the residual effect of a smile still lingering on his face. “Just when I thought you were getting predictable.” He says, almost incredulously.

Soap’s head jerks up and he beams at Ghost, and it shouldn’t be such a thing. For Ghost, to have this sense of outrageous connection with a man like Soap. But fuck him—it is. His whole chest is swelling for the hundredth time these last couple days because they’re here, together. Soap would rather spend his time off with Ghost, than alone, and maybe that’s a hint that the bar is literally on the floor—but for Ghost, who’s spent so much of his life seeking out isolation, it’s so fucking much. It means so much.

Ghost can do nothing but stare as Soap fights his boot—he didn’t loosen the laces quite enough, but he’s apparently too stubborn to go back and pull the laces looser, so now he’s just bloody pulling at the damn boot. It’s going to destroy his knee, and Ghost will help in a second, he will, he’ll help—

In a second. He just needs a second, because it feels like his chest has just caved in on itself. His heart is racing, going faster than hurricane winds and harder than the pelt of a downpour. He’s staring down at Soap and hearing the way he said darling, a soft term of endearment, even though it was in jest, and he feels like the luckiest man in the world—he’s so fucking lucky that Soap is this comfortable with him. That he’s trusting, that he knows him, that they’re in this together.

Ghost crouches and he steals Soap’s boot, swatting away Soap’s hands, and he undoes the laces properly. “You’ve got no patience, Johnny.” But he’s grinning into the fabric of his mask and he’s feeling his cheeks ache with the simple pleasure of unprovoked happiness.

“My next boots’ll be slip-ons.” Soap says, like it’s a punchline to a joke.

“The fuck they will.” Ghost shoots him a soft glare, still smiling for all he’s got. “You need proper foot support.”

Soap gives him a sweet look in return—genuinely, it’s sweet. It’s so soft and imploring and kind, no other words for it. “Always lookin’ out for me, aye?”

“Always.” Ghost confirms easily, shaking his head fondly as he pulls off the boot and goes to start unlacing the second.

Soon enough, their two pairs of boots are neatly lined up near the door.

Ghost helps him up, feeling Soap bounce on his good leg a couple of times before he settles a little of his weight onto his other knee.

They brush their teeth in silence, Soap standing in front of the sink, Ghost leaning against the wall perpendicular, head tipped back, eyes so heavy they’re almost closed. Another one of those mundane moments that Ghost could live in forever, purely due to the simplicity.

The exhaustion has him waning through the moments, time curling around him like a fog. It could be seconds or minutes passing, all he’s thinking about is the task at hand and Soap. Those are the only two things he allows on his radar. The only things he bothers to concern himself with—despite the fact that the world is only one door away. Right now, it’s just them.

They’ll finish getting ready for bed. They’ll get the ice pack situated, they’ll find a comfortable position against each other, and tomorrow night they’ll do it all over again.

“See you in bed.” Soap murmurs softly, giving Ghost’s shoulder a soft squeeze on his way by.

See you in bed. So casual, like it’s not the most monumental milestone Ghost has ever achieved in his life. Soap talks to him like Ghost is a permanent fixture in his life, like there’s going to be a river of these comments to come, like he’ll be able to follow it downstream and see landmarks of domesticity go for a thousand klicks ahead.

“I’ll get the lights.” Ghost says around his toothbrush, listening to the echo of his own little set of rapids. He spits and rinses the sink and places his toothbrush on the clean, dry wash cloth laid out on the counter. It sits right next to Soap’s own toothbrush. Side by side. One red, one blue.

Soap is already collapsed against the mattress when Ghost emerges from the bathroom—he’s somewhere towards the middle, arms folded behind his head, eyes closed, hasn’t even bothered to sort out the covers yet.

Ghost urges himself forward, tiredness be damned. It’s so easy to go this extra little bit, when the promise of what he’s been waiting for is right in front of him.

Ghost plucks the bag of ice off the side table and shuffles onto the bed.

Soap blinks his eyes open and turns his head toward Ghost, the corners of his mouth pulling up in an effortless smile. It’s weak, a little tired—but Ghost is dazzled by it nonetheless. With his heart beating in his throat, Ghost gently moves to place a pillow under Soap’s leg in a way that he hopes helps, and carefully lays the makeshift ice pack over his knee.

“Good?” Ghost asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” Soap nods once.

Ghost leans over, having to reach further than expected in order to turn off the lamp beside the bed. He sighs softly and curls back in Soap’s direction, intent on lying right next to him—but it seems that Soap’s got other plans. He tugs on the shoulder of Ghost’s t-shirt and rolls him closer.

Ghost goes willingly because at the end of the day, going where Soap wants him is no hardship.

Especially, like this.

Because Soap gingerly guides his head to rest between his shoulder and his chest, using his good leg to hike the blankets high enough that he can grab them with his hand, gingerly covering them both up.

Ghost slides an arm around Soap’s middle and exhales lightly, feeling how they’re connected. Each point of contact. Narrowing his consciousness down to each hint of warmth that’s not his own, being intentional about soaking it all up.

“Thank you for today, Simon. For everything you did for me.”

Ghost lets the words swirl in his head for a moment before he responds. “Didn’t do anythin’.”

Soap chuckles softly. “You’re fuckin’ daft, if that’s really what ye think.”

Ghost hums, smiling into the dark, into Soap’s chest. He’s more comfortable than he knew a human could be, his body rapidly relaxing into the warmth that’s coming off Soap in waves.

“I don’t know how I would have done it without you. Any of it. And I’m really sorry for the shite my parents said to you.”

“I’m not sure I remember anything they said to me.” Ghost answers truthfully—Soap doesn’t need to know that the only tally he holds is the column of derogatory remarks the MacTavishes made about Soap. Those, he won’t so easily forget about.

“Still.” Soap murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

Ghost’s chest swoops and he curls his arm more deliberately around Soap. He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be sorry for them, you didn’t have any part in the way they acted.”

“Yeah, but… They’re my parents.” Soap breathes. “And if I don’t apologize for them, you won’t get the apology you deserve.”

“I don’t need an apology, Johnny. I’m not the one they hurt.” Ghost murmurs softly.

Soap shrugs a little. “It’s nothin’. Been through far worse.”

“Thought of the two of them, your father was more likely to make it physical.” Ghost comments hesitantly. “Not your mum.”

“Neither of them are violent people, sometimes they just get so angry they don’t know where to put it… so it just, it comes out like that.”

Ghost pulls all the unsaid implications that hang in the air and lets them sting against his own chest. “So they’ve hurt you before.”

Soap shrugs a little, and it’s answer enough in Ghost’s eyes, but then he continues, scoffing lightly. “I wasn’t abused or anythin’.”

Ghost hums softly, and he wants to say ‘you sure about that?’ because he’s under no illusion that all forms of abuse look like the way he was knocked around as a kid. But Soap is calm in his arms, he’s safe—and Ghost selfishly doesn’t want to bring up something that could potentially zap the heat from their embrace.

“I’m glad I was there with you.” Ghost says instead. “If you ever decide that you need to see them in the future, I hope you’d take me with you again. You shouldn’t do that alone.”

“You’d willingly sign up for part two of that shit show?” Soap huffs humourlessly, but his grip on Ghost tightens nonetheless.

“I would.” Ghost nods succinctly.

“Aye, you would.” Soap mumbles, his head shifting, and then Ghost is feeling lips press into the top of his head.

Ghost finds himself partially leaning into it and he sighs contently.

“Sweet dreams, Simon.”

Ghost hums, feeling the heaviness of sleep just outside his peripheral—with Soap so close, it’s always just an inevitability. “You too, Johnny.”

The wee hours move sluggishly. Neither of them are all too eager to wake, clinging on to each other even though there’s no amount of conscious thought going into it.

Ghost is holding Soap like an old vine that’s grown to tangle itself around its environment—and he wonders when he started to do this without thinking.

Ghost has done many things on autopilot throughout his life.

Drills, mundane forms, eating, sleeping, crack of dawn wake-ups briefings, changing mags, keeping watch—all shit he’s done enough times that he can do them almost independently of thought. But fuck if he’s ever imagined himself being soft, automatically.

Another thing, is that Ghost doesn’t have to fight against himself in order to be this person. He doesn’t have to battle his nature, try to change himself in order to fit into this role.

If his sleep is any indication of his virtues, then maybe he’s not an inherently bad person, which—that’s an earth-shattering revelation, because he’s grown to accept that he doesn’t have a kind, caring bone in his own body. But if his subconscious feels Soap’s body next to his and treats him like this—like he’s to be held, protected, comforted—then he wagers that might say more about himself than whatever his inner voice has convinced him of.

The insecurities. The fears of turning into his father.

Soap called Ghost his family, called him his Home.

Ghost’s not sheltered, blind, or ignorant—he knows what a family looks like to most people, what a healthy family looks like. But every model he’s seen with his own two eyes ends up bad. His family—the one he’d had with his mother, his father, with Tommy…

He knows it’s different.

Ghost knows better than to compare it to the way that Soap’s hand is currently curled in his hair, or the soft way he breathes, or the way he’s pressed into Ghost like his life depends on the world not being able to tell where one of them ends and the other begins.

But it does ignite a little fear in him. Because he doesn’t understand how he could look at Soap and ever think to hurt him. But that’s what his father did to him—to Ghost, to Tommy, to their mum. He’s always wondered if he was capable, if he’d become the very thing he’d resented all those years, if it’s just built into his DNA. Being in the military has done some legwork in confirming the suspicions—violence comes naturally to him, he has no remorse for taking lives in the heat of battle, for making people hurt.

But now… now he’s holding Soap, and he knows he’s willing to burn the whole world down before he’d ever consider laying a finger on him.

Soap hasn’t really ever upset him, and that worries him a little, because maybe it’s still possible. Maybe he just needs to be set off like his father so often was, maybe he’ll trip into the blind rage and be carried away, maybe—

Soap shifts in his arms a little, a soft breath leaving his lips, and Ghost automatically tightens one arm around him, his other hand dragging gently through Soap’s hair.

Maybe it starts after he knocks over the first domino. Maybe it happens one time, just a misjudgment or a lightning fast reaction that he doesn’t have time to prevent, and it becomes an avalanche he can’t stop.

There’s the other side too—he could become his mother.

He thinks it may just be worse if that happens, and with his luck—

“Simon?” Soap murmurs into his collarbone, voice ragged with sleep.

“Yeah?” Ghost whispers into the top of Soap’s head.

Soap hums softly, a few gentle moments of silence pass. “What are ye doin’ awake?”

Ghost inwardly acknowledges every point of contact between them, and absently thinks it would be easier to count the spots where they aren’t touching. “Go back to sleep, Johnny.”

“Why are ye not sleepin’? Isnae even light outside yet.” Soap’s hand slides up and down Ghost’s back, fingertips ever so gently running alongside his spine. The light touch sends a shiver down Ghost’s skin and he leans into Soap.

A soft hum that turns into a sigh leaves Ghost, his skin echoing with pleasure after each pass of Soap’s comforting touch.

Soap keeps going and going, fingers swirling around his hip and his ribs and shoulder blade.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” Soap murmurs into the dark, sounding inquisitive and maybe a little worried, but not overbearing. It’s the perfect combination to pull Ghost’s thoughts out of his head, but Ghost finds that they just sit there, stuck inside his skull like they’re cemented in place.

“I don’t… want to talk about it.” Ghost whispers, feeling his heart sink because he’s letting Soap down, he thinks. Soap wants to know what’s bothering him, and Ghost is practically shutting a door in his face. They share everything—Soap showed him what made Elgin feel unsafe, Soap practically severed his own spine and pulled it out of his body just to show Ghost the cross-section of each vertebra, pointing out the way he grew, like they could both count the tree rings to figure out his age.

And Ghost? He can’t bring himself to unload a few simple words.

Soap’s hand stays moving in Ghost’s hair, his breathing stays the same—everything stays the same. This moment doesn’t implode like Ghost sort of thought it could the moment he spoke—as if whatever curse was laden on the Riley family could pass through to this.

“That’s okay.” Soap affirms very gently, like he’s got an idea how much this is ripping Ghost apart, the fact that he can’t bring himself to share with Soap the way Soap has been sharing so freely.

Ghost instantly feels himself relax, and things are quiet for a long few moments as Ghost sorts through the pile of shit in his head. “I’m sorry.” He says after a beat.

“For not wanting to talk?” Soap’s voice is still sleep-rough, and the way it curls around Ghost’s ears is music. “Ye shouldn’t be sorry about that.”

Ghost nods his head a little. “I am.”

“Simon… M’never gonna get upset with you for bein’ honest with me.” Soap says it easily—and that single assurance instantly makes Ghost want to spill everything. He wants to unload it, suddenly—just because he can and because he trusts Soap. He wants to tell him all the good and all the bad, and release the burden of being the only one who knows what the Riley name really means.

Ghost takes a deep breath and reinforces the iron gates that hold back those particular demons. This is their break and he doesn’t want Soap to look at him and see the darkness that’s hiding in plain sight. “I just don’t want to fuck up.”

Soap’s fingers gently trace the side of Ghost’s ear. “You’re so worried for no reason.” It’s almost exasperated except for all the ways it’s fond, and Ghost presses impossibly closer to him.

“I’m worried for every reason.”

“Sometimes, it’s like you think if you make one wrong move, everything is gonna fall apart.” Soap breathes, his fingers trailing along Ghost’s hairline in the dark, knuckles brushing down against his jaw. “But it’s not. Promise it’s not.”

Ghost closes his eyes, his chest heavy in a way that hurts but also provides a semblance of comfort. He can smell the bleach-y scent of industrial detergent on the sheets, mixed with the complimentary body wash, and Soap’s warmth.

“If you say so.”

“Aye.” Soap grins into the words. “I do say so.” He whispers as he shuffles a little closer, not that he wasn’t already close—and he envelops Ghost inside the secondary layer of his personal bubble. Ghost feels encompassed. He feels like nothing could get to him, not the nightmares, not the bad thoughts. “And I don’t lie to ye.”

Ghost just makes a soft noise of vague agreement, easing into the feeling of Soap’s kind touches.

The football pitch looks like every other community football pitch that Ghost has ever seen. Almost deplorably so. Green grass, green netting stretching the perimeter to catch stray balls, and perfectly oriented white markings on the ground to indicate the lines.

But for as uncomplicated as Ghost finds this to be, Soap is at his side looking a little lost. His eyes are carefully overlooking the empty pitch, like he’s imagining a whole different scenario—a field full of players, parents cheering at the sidelines, a ref blowing a whistle occasionally. Would the MacTavishes have been yelling encouragement to Soap, he wonders?

He’s not sure he sees the merit of it, but after they’d spent the morning lounging in bed, room service breakfast practically inhaled—Ghost had asked Soap where he wanted to go.

And the football pitch was clearly first on whatever list Soap has in his mind—the itinerary hasn’t been shared with Ghost, but he can’t really complain considering he still hasn’t told Soap the destination of the trip he planned and bought tickets for without asking.

“So, this was where you played.” Ghost murmurs, folding his arms over his chest as he attempts to visualize it himself. A younger Soap somewhere in the looming span of the goal posts, watching the play ahead of him, preparing to protect the net. He sort of struggles to imagine whether or not the mohawk came before or after the military, if that should be a part of his mental image.

“Aye.” Soap points to the farther goal. “That was my favourite net. I’ve no idea why, but I’d always have more saves on that side.”

“Makes sense you were a keeper.” Ghost says thoughtfully.

“I was good at it.” Soap states, not quite smugly—but something close to it.

“Where did your parents sit?”

Soap doesn’t even stiffen, just shrugs. “Not sure. Da never made it to a game, mam was there a few times, but I don’t think I ever noticed her in the crowd, she’d just come find me after.”

Ghost nods slowly. “Callan play with you?”

“Yeah, he played defender. A lot of times, he’d hang out by the net and we’d goof off together when the ball was on the other side of the field.” Soap’s eyes light up in a soft way. Soap points to the side of the field that’s close to his favourite net, to a long section of benches. “Callan’s parents always sat there. They cheered on the whole team, and knew every player by name. And Callan’s mom always brought a snack for after the game.”

And it’s really not such a mystery, is it? Why Soap liked that net better? Performed better? Surely the man isn’t that blind to it.

…But maybe he doesn’t know, and maybe that’s a string to unravel another time. Because right now, Soap’s expression is quiet and smooth, no demons lurking under the surface. He’s just reminiscing about being a kid playing football.

“You ever miss playing?” Ghost asks after a beat—eyes still on Soap rather than the pitch.

“Not… really.” Soap answers tentatively, looking confused by himself. “I think there’s just a part of ye that remembers how carefree shit was back then, compared to being all grown up.”

Ghost can’t really relate because he can’t ever remember a time where carefree was in his vocabulary. Right from the get-go, it was a struggle. But he’s sort of weirdly relieved that Soap didn’t have the same experience as him (even if his mum was a cunt)—that he had a real childhood that he can live vicariously through.

Ghost takes a few steps forward and sits heavily on the nearest bench. It’s still a little damp from this morning’s rain, but miracle of all miracles, the sun’s actually come out to help dry up cold, bitter Elgin.

It’s quiet, the traffic is a little more distant here than it was at the hotel—the breeze is silent and unassuming, everything is still.

Soap sits at his side, close enough that they’re touching from hip to knee, and it’s a welcome warmth against the cooler weather.

“She texted me.” Soap says, a little distantly. “Last night. But I only just read it this mornin’ after I woke up.”

Ghost’s eyes trace the tops of the tall netted fencing, the way they drape down a little in the middle because there isn’t quite enough tension between the panels.

There can only be one she that Soap would speak about without context. Margaret. If she texted, Ghost doesn’t know what that means.

He suddenly wonders just how often she reaches out to Soap on a regular basis, if it’s a little or if it’s a lot. If she towers against him with words that can’t be interrupted, walked away from, or otherwise dismantled. Soap’s never spoken about it before, but that doesn’t mean it never happened—what if Margaret is at fault for a few of those late nights that had Soap crawling into Ghost’s bed at his most hesitant? The times when Ghost had to reach out and physically pull him in and whisper a promise of—’I have you’. What if Margaret has been pitting against Ghost for longer than he thought, and Ghost had no fuckin’ clue, all the while Soap was coping in silence?

“Hope she apologized.” Ghost says dryly. It would almost come off like a lazy joke if Margaret hadn’t thrown shit at Soap, if she’d just stayed a mess of emotional manipulation and textbook narcissism. But she made it physical, even if her aim is shit—thankfully, her aim is shit.

Anyone else and he would have put them on the ground for even considering the thought of hurting Soap, let alone coming so close to actually doing it—but Ghost is stuck in this weird purgatory of understanding, to some extent, that Soap’s parents are important to him and also that Soap’s parents are not good for him.

He doesn’t… get why Soap tries. Why he tried so hard yesterday, why he agreed to see them—he can’t find a rationale that fits, nothing that makes sense.

But not understanding it… that doesn’t stop Ghost from wanting to support him in it—Ghost doesn’t have one foot out the door, he’s standing right in the middle of this particular boat with Soap. It’s cracked and there’s holes where the water is flooding in, too fast for them to bail it out, but he’ll be here as long as Soap is. He’ll stay until it’s on the bottom of the ocean and he’s swimming up to the surface, Soap’s limp body clutched in his arms, and he’ll go through every desperate action of resuscitating, he won’t stop until all the murky water is back out of his lungs. Until he’s breathing, freely and on his own. Ghost will do this.

“No.” Soap says eventually, shaking his head like he’s just as unsurprised.

Ghost thinks about how Soap apologized to him because he knew that Margaret wouldn’t and he thought Ghost deserved an apology. Well, if anyone deserves an apology for this shit show, it really should go to the one who’s been getting hit in the crossfire.

“I’m sorry…” Ghost starts, quickly trying to think about what Soap would most need to hear from her—from Margaret. If it’s remorse for snippy remarks, the physical aspect, her overall demeanour, maybe he should just touch on everything so that—

“Thanks.” Soap replies, before Ghost can even utter another word.

And maybe that’s because it was enough—maybe it was enough for him just to hear I’m sorry at all. Which crushes Ghost, naturally, because Soap shouldn’t have to settle for the bare minimum. He deserves so much—he deserves more than any living soul is poised to give him, and Ghost won’t stop trying to surpass the limit anyway, but holy shit, he deserves.

“She, uh—” Soap inhales deeply, like he’s setting up for a long-winded explanation. “The text… It was about my inconsideration, the way I treated ‘em, she’s not happy and apparently neither is da… she wants to meet up before I go.” Soap pauses. “But I don’t know that I want to… Reckon that makes me a bad son?”

Faced with such a ridiculous question, Ghost can’t help but snort, shaking his head. “You’re not a bad anything.”

Soap doesn’t really react, as if he doesn’t believe what Ghost is saying, and Ghost… doesn’t really like that. Because it should be one of those solid, irrefutable facts—grass is green, Elgin is cold, Ghost’s favourite weapon is his AW40; Soap isn’t bad. Not in any way, shape or form.

“To the wrong people, you’ll never be enough.” Ghost adds quietly.

That seems to do something, because Soap’s head turns to look at him and his eyes go a little wide and soft. Soap lets his eyes linger for a few moments and Ghost holds his gaze, and then Soap glances back to the field in front of him. A crow caws somewhere in the distance, and somebody honks their car horn.

“Maybe they’re just… the wrong people, Johnny.”

“They’re my parents.” The 'how can they be wrong’ goes heavily unsaid.

“Yeah.” It’s sullen, not really an agreement as much as it’s just an acknowledgement. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever quite understand how those two people made you.” Ghost adds, the barest hint of amusement colouring his voice. “Reckon you’re as close to a walking miracle as I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m far from that.” Soap shakes his head firmly, like he really means it—and Ghost is dead set on uprooting this assumption from Soap’s awareness, because it really doesn’t belong.

“Wouldn’t be so sure.”

“I’m… I’ve always sort of felt like I was just an accident, that I wasn’t even supposed to be here.” Soap says tentatively, looking down at his hands in his lap. “A mistake, I guess. Because it’d explain it, ye know? Why she had such a hard time with me growing up, and even now. If I was just an inconvenience that she had to deal with along the way, instead of something she’d spent her life wanting.”

“You weren’t.” Ghost says, so honest that he feels like he’s just pulled out the knife that’s currently tucked in his boot and sliced his chest open, just so Soap could see his bloody heart. To prove it exists and that it’s beating, give him a glimpse of that tissue etched with a jagged ‘Johnny’ that’s been long-since scarred over. “And anyway, doesn’t matter how she saw it, the fact that she’s your mum doesn’t have to mean she was the one who spent their life waitin’ for you.”

Soap’s lips twitch in a genuinely happy smile but he doesn’t look up, as if he might raise his head to discover that the words are just a figment of his imagination, that there won’t be a matching expression. But there is, Ghost can feel it on himself—he’s exposed to the point that even the gentle breeze feels like sandpaper on his raw skin. He’s almost relieved that Soap isn’t looking yet, it’ll give him time to pull together, to—

“That right?” Soap asks softly.

And Ghost can’t help but think of being a kid—being that little kid with nothing to live for. Who had to channel the primitive art of survival in its truest form, who had nobody to turn to, who yearned for the chance to stop fucking fighting for everything he had. He thinks about being a teenager struggling to hold his family together, so much pressure on shoulders that weren’t built to sustain the weight. And then those early days of becoming a soldier—how his fellow recruits were struggling with the change of pace, but for the first time in what felt like years, Ghost actually felt himself relax a notch.

He thinks about how through all of it, even after, there was never a single constant. There was a gap in his whole world that he didn’t even recognize as something to be filled, not until something finally took up the space—a little like mortar between bricks. There was nobody watching his back, nobody who cared about him enough to see it through, to make sure he was keeping his head above water. Not to the extent that he became better for it. Not until Soap.

“Yeah.” Ghost confirms, partially wishing he could abate his racing nerves but at the same time, he wouldn’t be upset if they’d just go forever and ever and ever. He feels so fucking alive and he likes it—Soap makes him experience spectrums of being human that he didn’t even know existed, and just when he thinks he’s peaked, there’s more. This is more. “You…”

Soap’s hands stop fidgeting, and Ghost can feel his throat threaten to close.

Ghost’s eyelids flutter, his lashes tickling his own skin. He looks at the nets again, his heart is racing.

His mind tries to reach for words that aren’t there, that maybe don’t even exist to begin with. All he has to go on is the feeling in his chest. The sticky sensation of warm syrup oozing through his ribs and in the spaces between his organs. The lack of alarms going off in his head, the gentle quiet, because nothing ever feels wrong when he’s with Soap.

“Yeah.” He repeats, tentatively accepting that he can’t say anything to drive it home, and hoping, all the same, that Soap will understand where he’s going with it anyway.

But then Soap tentatively reaches a hand out and slides it over the back of Ghost’s hand, his fingers interlacing between his own from behind, gentle fingertips pressing into the top of Ghost’s palm.

“You weren’t a mistake.” Ghost says again, because he needs Soap to know—it’s important that he knows.

“Okay then.” Soap says, his words stretched out like he’s smiling. Ghost looks over and sees that he is, lips spread wide, eyes gleaming softly. He’s looking at Ghost and he seems so fuckin’ relieved and happy and like Ghost’s just handed him an answer he’s spent his life looking for.

Ghost buys him dinner at a pub that Soap shyly suggested they head to—like he wasn’t sure whether Ghost’d say yes or not. It’s probably for the best that he doesn’t know Ghost would put the rest of their trip on hold just to stop in at every single other pub in this blasted town, if only that was Soap’s wish.

So they go, and Ghost is pleasantly surprised by the low key atmosphere and the soft edges of it all. Soap almost immediately whisks them away to a corner booth and orders food and drinks for them both, because—’trust me, Simon, you’ll love the steak pie here.’ And the man taking their order gathers their menus and heads for the kitchen before Ghost’s even fully processed that he hasn’t got a word in edgewise.

Soap looks smug, the bastard. Eyes crinkled in the corner, feigned innocence at the forefront. Ghost should probably be offended but he’s just ceaselessly pleased.

And he does love the steak pie, as well as the beer Soap’s chosen to pair with it. But he doesn’t say that because he’s not sure he’d be able to stop grinning if he did.

He swipes the bill before Soap can even blink, and then it’s Ghost that’s unbearably self-satisfied, watching the frown that turns hopelessly fond not even a split-second later.

Ghost can see, in these quiet moments of the pub, that there are some undeniably nice things in Elgin. The good to go along with the bad, the balm that soothes where Aila, and James, and Margaret decided to try to lay their marks.

They walk down the street without any real destination in mind, Soap pointing out this or that, Ghost trying to make sure Soap doesn’t run into anything.

There’s a little shop tucked away, hand-painted signage in the front window that spells out ‘Souvenirs’, and Soap is like lightning, the way he taps Ghost’s elbow twice and grins and makes his way to the door.

A little bell clangs as they enter, and Ghost immediately looks around at the overwhelming displays of shit on every surface. It’s a crude mix of Scotland flags, tacky trinkets, figurines, and bloody tartan plaid everywhere. It’s a hit to the senses, that’s for sure—but Soap is at ease, excited as he drags Ghost through the shop.

“Should I get Price a kilt?” Soap is positively gleaming with joy, and Ghost won’t do one thing to stamp that out of him, so he just smiles and says—”I’m not going to stand in your way.”

It’s a maze of overfilled shelves and racks and hanging paraphernalia. Ghost has to awkwardly sidestep some shit just to make sure he doesn’t start knocking things over like a bull in a china shop.

Soap picks up a t-shirt from a display, unfolding the deep blue fabric and holding it against his own chest, peering down at it.

Ghost reads the block letters and scoffs at the phrase—’I’m not perfect but I am Scottish and that’s basically the same thing.’

Soap gives him a wink and folds it back up, placing it on the shelf, and immediately Ghost wants to reach out and say wait, because he wants Soap to have the thing that implies him to be perfect. The words never leave his throat and Soap floats on to the next thing that catches his eye: another t-shirt. This one, Soap reads silently, lips moving slightly like if he’d just add a little volume, Ghost would be hearing it too. Then there’s a snort that tells Ghost that even Soap thinks this one is out there, but he shows it to Ghost anyway.

‘KILT. IT’S WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LAST PERSON WHO CALLED IT A SKIRT.’

“You should get it,” Ghost says quickly, before he can stop himself.

Soap grins, wide and lazy, so relaxed in the way he holds himself. “Noo,” he says long-sufferingly, shaking his head in glee. “You’ll not catch me wearing that.”

Except Ghost wants him to. Ghost wants to be reminded, even when Soap isn’t bloody speaking, just how Scottish he is. He wants every single aspect of Soap to constantly scream in his direction, like the constant high frequency ring Ghost has in his ears from years of not caring enough about hearing protection at the gun range. Selfishly, Ghost wants to drown in it, to breathe in and know Soap, to hear his voice, hear his heartbeat, to remember the little town he grew up in with the bright green footie pitch and the dark grey clouds—

Soap chuckles at another shirt, not even lifting it from the shelf because the entire design is visible the way it’s folded. A bright red bag pipe, two words arced above the illustration that say—’Blow Me.’ He moves on a moment later, past the gaudy t-shirts and to a rack full of souvenir magnets.

That’s when Ghost spots it. A soft, light blue t-shirt, at the end of the rack, the one he instinctively knows he’ll be walking out of here with, no matter how much Soap protests. The font on this one is not nearly as imploringly grating as the rest, a soft white sans-serif lettering, just one line. ‘Haud Yer Wheesht.’

Ghost remembers with fondness the times that Soap has said the words to him—the first time included. Even in the streets of Las Almas, it was as comforting as Soap saying, you won’t get rid of me that easily. Something lighter, for before they had the words to show how much they really cared.

Ghost snatches one out of the stack blindly as Soap already moves on, glaring down at it only to realize he’s grabbed one in his own size. He goes to put it back so he can get Soap’s size, but then freezes, fingers tightly clutching around the light blue cotton.

Soap stops a few metres ahead and Ghost immediately looks up, watching Soap zero in on a bright blue bucket hat with several dozen small embroidered Scotland flags littering the damn thing. He's so smug about it, too. Grin on his face as he picks it up and examines it.

Ghost balls up the t-shirt into his tight fist and folds his arms across his chest, walking forward and keeping the shirt out of sight behind his bicep.

Soap looks over to him and grins—”Ye think I’ll get in shit for this?”

Ghost can't help but nod, trying to imagine a world in which Price will agree to wear that monstrosity over his regular hat, even for a second. Worth it all the same, just for the smile that Soap has on his face. “If you can get the old man to wear that, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed for two weeks straight.”

To which Soap laughs, soft and sweet. “You’re on.”

The next one of Soap’s discoveries is a plastic Scottish Terrier figurine attached to a stainless steel chain, which is accented with small charms that alternate between flowers, Scotland flags, and twinkly stars. It would be perfectly suited for a young girl’s purse or school bag. He tosses it to Ghost without a second thought. “And Gaz needs an accessory for his go-bag.”

Ghost catches with immediate precision and examines it carefully, raising an eyebrow before glancing back at Soap. Soap, who is ecstatic, eyes gleaming with unbridled joy.

His heart stops and starts about four times in a row and he just nods, looking away for a moment so as not to give himself away. “Why don’t you let me pay for this stuff already, while you go lookin’ at what else they have.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to go look at the rest together, and then we can go to the checkout an’ I can pay for this shite, since you’ve been payin’ for everything already?” Soap points out, folding his arms across his chest, amusement clouding his big blue eyes. “Or are you trying to pull a fast one on me?”

“Trying, apparently not so much succeeding.” Ghost admits with a bit of a smirk. “Away with you, MacTavish, or I’ll make you sleep on the couch tonight.”

“We donnae have a couch in the room.” Soap snorts.

“All the more worrying of a threat then, isn’t it.” Ghost deadpans, letting his fingertips find Soap’s shoulder, settling there for a moment before he uses the light grip to turn Soap toward the back wall of the shop, and giving him a soft, guiding push forward. Last second, he reaches out to snatch the hat and keychain from Soap’s hand, ignoring Soap’s borderline unenthused look.

“It better nae be that kilt nonsense or I’ll tell Price the hat was your idea.” He says over his shoulder, leaving Ghost to watch him go, smile firmly in place.

Ghost briefly looks around to check that there’s nothing else he wants to purchase from here, and then turns toward the counter that looks to house the till.

He doesn’t see anyone there but goes to wait by it anyway, looking around tentatively. He waits for almost a full minute and looks over toward the hoodies, looking for the dark head of hair over the racks, but he doesn’t see Soap. Some of the shelving goes floor to ceiling, though, so that’s not indicative of anything—he could be behind a shelf, or crouching down to get at a lower item.

Finally, a young woman races out from what looks to be a backroom, looking frazzled and vaguely apologetic. “Ah I’m sorry! Hope you werenae waiting long—I just had a shipment come in an’ my manager called out today, so it’s a bit of a one man ship situation.”

“It’s not a problem.” Ghost shakes his head and sets the items on the counter, looking over his shoulder.

“Ooh, what’s a Brit doin’ in Scotland?” She says with a grin, manually keying in the items and flicking her eyes between Ghost and the merchandise.

“Here with my—” Ghost waves behind him, and freezes. His what? What does he call Soap? A thousand terms flit through his head in the span of a second, but unsurprisingly, none of them fit. Soap is his best mate and he’s the man he trusts above all else to watch his six on the field, but he’s also the one he goes to when his head gets bad. He’s the one he aches to reach out for in the middle of the night when his shoulders are so tense he’s given himself a headache, when he’s had a bad day, when he’s so stressed out he can barely keep his head above water. Soap is his salvation, he’s the light at the end of almost every tunnel, he’s…

Putting any single term on that feels futile.

Except it doesn’t matter—it shouldn’t matter because this is a woman in a shop that he’ll never see again. This moment doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, this interaction is so innocuous. He could just say ‘friend’ and it would have no effect on his own life, or this woman’s, or Soap’s. And it’d be fine, more than fine because this is nothing more than the barest of niceties, this is a polite conversation between strangers and nobody’s demanding a life story.

But his brain just stumbles on everything, on this entire thought process. He feels like he trips and falls face first into quicksand, his mouth full of grainy sludge that he doesn’t know how to spit out.

Ghost stammers for a moment—”I—I’m here with my Johnny.”

The woman smiles even more brightly at that. “Aw, he from here?”

“Yeah, he is.” Ghost responds dutifully, shifting anxiously on his feet as he feels his face heat up. “I’m—the shirt is for him, he doesn’t know I’m gettin’ it, can you—is there a way to double bag it? So he doesn’t see it?”

The woman leans in conspiratorially, a glint in her eye that reminds him a little of when Soap said darlin’. “Do ye one better. We’ve got free gift wrappin’,”

Ghost nods dutifully. “If it’s not a bother.”

“Nae I’m a sucker for romance.” She says, taking the crumpled t-shirt and delicately folding it up before turning around to the table behind her, which has an assortment of wrapping paper and bows—she picks the one with the Scotland flags pattern, naturally, as if Ghost could ever escape the damn things.

Ghost then has a bit of an… out of body experience. Because suddenly, he processes the fact that she said romance, and that starts churning the gears of a long familiar inner turmoil.

Ghost’s head rears back like he’s been slapped, and he clutches his bank card in his hand so tight that he can feel the hard plastic bow inside his fist, the sharp edges digging into his fingers and palm.

Romance feels like it belongs to the terms that don’t fit, because it’s Soap, and what they have is very much different to the picture in his head when he hears that word.

Aila made the suggestion to Soap’s mum less than twenty-four hours ago, this idea that Ghost and Soap are a couple—but somehow, hearing the implication in a positive way is what makes Ghost feel like he’s going to lose control of his breathing. It makes his lungs feel like they’re wrapped in a vice that cinches tighter and tighter with every passing second.

The till lady turns around with a perfectly packaged present, complete with a blue bow that would rival the tone of Soap’s eyes, looking pleased as punch that she can do this for him. It’s like Ghost has made her day, just by the very idea that he wanted to surprise Soap with a shirt that he might not even like—like Ghost’s care for him is so obvious, it’s turned infectious.

Ghost nods approvingly and tries to appear grateful, except that his entire mind is consumed with thoughts of Soap and how they’re perceived, and can everyone see?

In regards to Soap, the furthest thing in Ghost’s mind is shame, or embarrassment, it’s not that at all. It’s just that this was always supposed to be theirs. This is theirs.

Calling it romance feels like an injustice to everything Soap has ever done for him—it’s an injustice to everything they are. Because it’s not what it is. It’s another word that just doesn’t encompass nearly enough. Romance is shallow in Ghost’s experience—he’s never… well, he’s never dated anyone, not really, but he has seen relationships. He’s been in the front row seat, seen shit under the microscope. His own mum and dad, now Soap’s mum and dad, and they’re different brands of the same toxic thing that he in no way, shape or form, could bear to associate with what he has with Soap.

Ghost automatically goes through the motions of paying, watching her put the things in a brown paper bag with paper handles, sliding it over to him immediately.

“Enjoy Elgin.” She says happily—and Ghost wonders what she would say if she knew how deplorable the visit to the MacTavishes was. If she knew that Ghost was shot, if she knew that Soap had a knee brace. She doesn’t know anything, so maybe, she doesn’t know what he and Soap are either.

“Thanks.” Ghost says, taking the bag into his hand and wondering how this went so wrong. He feels ill, very deep down, further than his stomach. He’s overcome with a sense of impropriety, like what he’s doing is very wrong.

It feels very right, but Ghost just has this hidden urge to think of it as wrong. It presses into him like a finger into a bruise, reminding him he’s in pain somewhere—almost abstractly. He’s in pain.

He finds Soap by some hoodies, staring unimpressed at the various flashy blue and white flag designs.

“Bit tacky.” Soap says without looking up, as if he’s simply been able to sense that Ghost has joined him through nothing more than instinct.

Ghost feels guilty for a crime that he’s not even sure he’s committed, like he could turn around and see the policemen approaching, cuffs in hand. He tries to think of how gently he holds Soap at night and desperately wishes for that to be his salvation—his proof that he’s innocent.

“I’d agree.” Ghost says, deflated. He doesn’t mean for it to come out so quiet, so tentative.

“What happened?” Soap’s expression falls and he turns to Ghost without missing a beat.

Ghost shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Soap nods slowly, keenly appraising as he continues to stare at Ghost. “Nothing…?”

Ghost knows he can’t fool anyone in this moment, least of all Soap, so he’s not sure why he’s trying. But he can’t help but do it. Try. Like his efforts are directly responsible for tomorrow’s sunrise—he has to try and reign himself in. “Nothing happened.”

But then Soap takes a step forward, and another step, and then he’s practically chest to chest with Ghost.

“Not nothin’.” Soap whispers gently. “What happened?”

Ghost tilts his head, letting his eyes trace the edges of those gentle irises—up close like this, he can see the structures, the patterns, the rust-coloured fleck in Soap’s left eye, right next to his pupil.

Soap reaches a hand up to Ghost’s shoulder and squeezes lightly. Ghost looks over his shoulder to see if they’re being watched, but there’s shelves and racks in every single direction, boxing them in.

He casts his gaze back to Soap and tries to let himself relax.

“Ghost?” Soap asks again, a little softer this time.

Ghost breathes out a sigh into his face mask and his eyelids go heavy. “My head’s just runnin’ circles, it’s nothin’ to worry about.”

Soap nods in understanding, like Ghost’s just given him a fifty-paragraph essay about all the ways in which his brain is fucked up, like he can directly understand why Ghost is now more shell than whole.

“Okay, well how about we go back to our room?” Soap gives him a little smile, hand sliding up Ghost’s shoulder and around to the back of his head, giving his nape a quick squeeze. They’ve been out most of the day, it’s about time they get back anyway.

“Sure.” Ghost says softly.

“You already pay for the stuff for Price and Gaz?” Soap raises an eyebrow.

Ghost nods once, unable to stop his own, very timid smile from crossing onto his lips. He’s tired, drained, even—but Soap still manages to get this side of him to come out. This softer, gentler, more trusting side of himself, despite the way instinct would have him shut down completely.

Soap bites the side of his lower lip for a moment, a smile unsuccessfully suppressed.

“Did you want to look at anything else before we go?” Ghost asks, his chest heavy with the plethora of emotions he’s currently sustaining.

“No, come on, let’s find our way out of this maze, aye?” Soap nods toward the general direction of the door, starting the walk toward it just moments later. Ghost follows half a step behind, eyes on Soap the entire time because he trusts him to navigate the layout of the shop for the both of them.

The moment they’re outside, Ghost is breathing in an instant lungful of cold air. He closes his eyes, breathing it in, trying to sort through the plethora of thoughts that rattle inside his skull. The ones of his parents, the ones of Tommy, the ones of Soap, and the ones of himself. He can’t seem to get his mind off the topic of violence, of abuse, of screaming his mum’s name when his father threw her down the stairs, the whisper of it when he watched his mum sprawl out listlessly on the couch, dropping the spent needle to the floor.

Ghost shakes his head and waits for his brain to clear, but it’s impossible to fight against the incessant lines of thinking. He’s so desperate for this not to ruin things, he doesn’t want Soap to catch another glimpse of this and for it to turn their whole day into a negative. He wants to be better than that for him. He wants Soap to build a couple extra good memories of Elgin, not for him to borrow Ghost’s bad ones.

Soap stands at his side, their shoulders brushing. “Solid?”

Ghost huffs out a breath, it fogs up into a little cloud in front of him, instantly wisping away into the air. “Yeah.”

“Ready for the walk back, then?”

“As ready as I can be.”

“Okay,” a warm hand slides into his palm, fingers interlacing with his and squeezing lightly. “Mind this?”

Ghost snorts, feeling the sting of fond melancholy pang at his chest. “Not in the slightest.” He answers, unwilling to have Soap be hesitant about holding his fucking hand.

Soap drags him along toward the hotel.

Blessedly, there’s a different receptionist at the check-in, and he doesn’t bat an eye as they head toward the stairs. They go through the halls, they get to their room. They immediately get ready to turn in for the night, they take off their shirts and pull on sweats, and they crash into the bed.

Soap and Ghost end up on their sides, the lamps the only thing lighting the room, a soft, warm glow spreading over the walls, and the bedspread, and their skin.

“Johnny,” Ghost speaks softly, his eyes lazily mapping Soap’s features, not detecting any sign that anything is wrong. “Did you have a good day?”

“Yeah. It was good.” Soap gives him a tired smile—but tired like he’s just done in from all they got up to, and not because of anything deeper. “Was nice just to walk around and see everythin’ again. Been two years since I’ve been back… Did you like it?”

“Yeah.” Ghost can say with honesty—he liked seeing where Soap grew up. He liked that gleam in Soap’s eyes in the pub, and in the souvenir shop, and the places that Soap held close to his heart—he liked seeing it when Soap would look right at him.

“Would ye ever want to come back?” Soap says sleepily, reaching a hand forward and curling it around the chain of Ghost’s dog tags.

“Would you want me to?” Ghost says curiously, feeling Soap’s warm fingers brush against his bare chest.

Soap smiles a little. “We didn’t cross hikin’ a loch off our list.”

“That’s true… I guess we better plan a second trip.” Ghost agrees. “Next time we get leave, when neither of us are injured, we can come back.”

“See Callan.” Soap adds thoughtfully, his shoulders moving in a micro-shrug.

“See Callan.” Ghost agrees. “Go for our hike.”

A beat passes, and then Soap looks up to meet his eyes. “Summer is my favourite time to come.”

“Why’s that?”

Soap hums out a sigh, thumbing Ghost’s tags themselves. “I dunno… The weather isnae so shit, it’s warmer; the hillsides are green, an’ the thistles are bloomin’. Feels more alive.”

“Summer it is.” Ghost swallows thickly, his hand moving to rest against Soap’s hip. “If you could live anywhere in the entire world, would it be here?”

Soap’s lips quirk up in a smile, his eyes narrowing fondly. He drops the tags and rests his hand on the small sliver of mattress between their chests. His fingers drum against the bed briefly. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it.”

“No?”

“Well, it’s just… I guess I never thought about where I’d choose to live outside of base, when we rarely have leave to go home anyway… so it never crossed my mind.”

Ghost thinks that over and nods tentatively, watching the intrigued gleam build in Soap’s eyes.

“Where would you live?” Soap asks.

Ghost shrugs. Maybe, at one point, he’d have been alright with the thought of always clinging to the walls of base in perpetuity, as if it could ever be a home. But things have been changing recently and he’s starting to have a different, evolving idea of what the future could look like.

“I guess I haven’t given it much thought either.” He admits.

“Do you think it’s the smart thing to do?” Soap asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Give it thought, I mean?”

Ghost’s fingertips slide lightly against the back of Soap’s ribcage—featherlight with his nails scratching Soap’s skin.

“I don’t think I’m the one to give advice about shit like that,” Ghost says softly. He watches goosebumps form on Soap’s arms as a result of his barely-there touches.

“And why’s that?” Soap asks, blinking heavily, eyes clearly attuned to Ghost despite the way he’s physically unwinding.

Ghost looks between Soap’s eyes, then to his hair, the flush on his cheeks that he always gets when he’s exhausted. “Because I used to think I was gonna get killed before I could make it that far.”

Soap’s eyes shudder closed in a way that makes Ghost immediately feel like he’s said the wrong thing. It feels like Soap draws away—physically, he stays right where he is, but emotionally or mentally, Ghost can feel the gap between them grow.

A beat passes, then two.

Ghost can feel himself tense up in preparation for a set of blows he knows won’t come—but he feels it happen anyway. He watches Soap, the way he’s settled onto the bed, the way he breathes, and Ghost tries to assure himself. He tries to remember Soap’s words from earlier—Soap promised that it wouldn’t fall apart. Soap promised him.

“Used to?” Soap asks, voice keenly desperate, like the words are his lifeline. But then—Soap, he… he reaches out, his hand pressing over the gunshot wound on Ghost’s side. His fingers splay out, his palm resting over the scar.

Ghost suddenly can’t think of a single time that Soap has touched the scar. Not since he literally had his fingers inside of Ghost.

It all makes sense, suddenly. He knows why his words made Soap draw back, and he understands where that sudden gaping chasm between them is coming from.

He wants to close it, to say, ‘but I don’t necessarily think that anymore’ and ‘I’m not planning to kick it on a battlefield these days,’ but without evidence they just feel like empty words. Ghost doesn’t know how to make Soap understand that he’s got reasons to live, now—reasons he didn’t have before. He wants to make it out of every mission, he wants to come back to base, to find their peace back, right where they left it.

Instead of words, though—Ghost lays his hand over Soap’s, pressing Soap’s palm solidly into the scar. He thinks, ‘yeah, I got shot, but feel the way I healed.’

And for some reason, Soap sags at the gesture, like it comforts him. He shuffles forward like this silent admission has built a bridge between them, something strong and dynamically engineered to keep them both safe. They’re free to meet in the middle, a raging flood-water river below them—they’re united and safe, the danger flowing past without touching them.

His bowed forehead meets the space just below Ghost’s collarbone in the softest way imaginable, their skin melting together as languid puffs of air fan out over Ghost’s chest.

Ghost relaxes and Soap holds him together. He feels, more than hears or sees, Soap fall asleep.

He aches to have a better understanding sometimes—he wants to know the reason Soap chose him. What made Soap feel like there was something to be had in the space between them, how Soap knew that it would be okay to lean into each other.

He wonders, if Soap wouldn’t have done the hard parts to get them here, if it would have happened. If Soap wouldn’t have given him that First Time: that first massage, that first sleep in the same bed, curled against each other—if Soap didn’t entertain that Second Time, and then been so patient as Ghost eventually found his way to the Third—? Would they have gotten here?

The pieces that fell together seem too intricate, too complex. The chances that everything worked out the way it did, the chances that Soap and him arrived to a point where they said ‘Leave? Let’s do that together, too’ feels astronomical. Because it hasn’t been hard or difficult or something unattainable, at no point has Ghost felt like he’s really had to put in hard work to have this. And he doesn’t have to fight to keep it either. He would, if it came down to it, he absolutely would fight for this. He’d give up every single other thing in his life just to keep this, and it wouldn’t take more than a split-second decision to get there.

It’s just staggering to think about. It makes him believe that life might just be more than a series of shitty coincidences. Soap isn’t just some chance that came to be—Ghost meant what he said earlier, that Soap wasn’t an accident. He doesn’t think he can imagine a single universe or alternate plane of existence where Soap doesn’t end up as the sun that Ghost rotates around.

Ghost wakes in the dark again, sunrise hours away going by time on his watch.

It’s a rare occasion where he and Soap have separated in the night. Ghost is on his back, and Soap is to his left, curled on his side and facing the outside of the bed.

It’s pitch dark in the room, and Ghost is filled with an unfiltered anxiety that latches onto his chest and his stomach, twisting everything up into knots. He strains to hear what might have woken him, almost hoping that there’s a threat to take care of so he can drain the building pulse of adrenaline that’s hammering through his veins. But there’s not. They’re in Elgin and there’s nobody to fight.

He listens to the silence. The too quiet, too loud silence.

Maybe he’d had a nightmare. Maybe that’s why he’s… Fuck.

He doesn’t remember dreaming of anything bad, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It would explain why he feels like he’s in danger, why he’s…

Ghost sits up on the edge of the bed, as quiet and silent as he can. He sits there for a few minutes, staring at his hands in the dark, waiting for his soul to be stamped back into his body instead of spilling out into his shaking fingers.

He sits until he can’t take it. Then he pulls his phone off the charger and shoves it into the pocket of his sweats. He finds his jacket tossed over his duffle and tugs it on, then tries digging into his bag for a pair of socks, grimacing slightly when he hears Soap stir on the bed.

“Simon—?” A soft voice wanders to him in the dark, a comfort as much as it’s a stark reminder to protect.

“Go back to sleep, Johnny.” He says quietly into the air, his heart pounding in his ears.

Soap hums sleepily, leaning over to flick on the bedside lamp, casting fire-warm light over the room. “What’s wrong?”

Ghost shakes his head, watching Soap’s squinting eyes fall on him—worried already. Worried instantly, this early in the morning, right away. Ghost swallows down bile-flavoured guilt and tries to sigh, but there’s currently not enough air in the room, let alone his lungs, to make a complete exhale.

“Nothing. I’m gonna go out.”

“Out?” Soap repeats quietly, pushing his hands down at his sides to push himself up a little straighter. He looks at Ghost imploringly, furrowed eyebrows betraying his confusion.

“For a run.” Ghost assures him—unable to take the silence. It’s not comfortable silence—it’s Soap, worried and trying not to overstep, and Ghost, trying to keep his issues localized in order to protect Soap from feeling the pain from them. It makes for an extremely terse air, it’s hardly breathable.

“I could go for a run with ye.” Soap says—the words coming out like an offer, like he’s trying to help. And fuck—it’s not news to Ghost that Soap is willing to forgo his own comfort if it means helping Ghost, but it still shatters Ghost to see it.

“Let’s not unnecessarily set back the healing progress on your knee.” Ghost gets to his feet and walks over to the bed, reaching out to Soap and giving his shoulder a light squeeze. “Bring you back breakfast, ‘right?”

Soap sighs soft and light. “You sure this is what ye need?”

Ghost thinks what he actually needs is to take his knife out of his boot by the door and stab himself in the spleen with it so that Soap will reach inside and hold him together again, but instead, he nods and pulls his hand back. “I’m wound up, I just… need to get it out of my system.” He doesn’t even know if it’s a lie or a desperate plea, he thinks in some world it’s the stretched out version of the truth—but he still thinks that for Soap, he should be trying harder to explain.

“Okay,” Soap slouches against the headboard. “Ye have your phone?”

“Yeah.” Ghost confirms, voice husky, already taking steps backward, forcing himself to leave.

“Be careful. Call me if you need anythin’, ‘right?” Soap says, gaze trailing after Ghost.

“Yeah.” Ghost agrees with an easy conviction, that heavy silence returning as he pulls on his socks and slips his feet into his boots by the door. He doesn’t bother tying them before he leaves. He doesn’t hear the click of the lamp go back off as he pulls open the door, and silently hopes that Soap doesn’t stay up to wait for him.

Ghost walks down the stairs and doesn’t glance up to see who’s sitting at the reception tonight. He keenly steps out into the dark of early morning—or late at night, depending how you view 0330.

The wave of nausea hits him like a freight train as Soap’s voice in his head gives him a solid repetition of ‘you sure this is what you need?’

The foregone conclusion, given the overwhelming evidence, is that what he needs is Soap. What he will always need, will always be Soap.

It’s objectively insane that he left a perfectly good, warm bed just to step outside into fucking Elgin of all places. But that’s what he did, and he feels oddly ashamed, but he’s also just… his head’s a fucking mess. The traffic signals are going haywire and there are multi-thought pile ups on every road in and out of his brain.

In the very back of his mind—past a room locked behind a hidden shelf, through a trapdoor in the floor, and into a cobweb infested crawlspace—he’s still thinking about his family. And he’s thinking about the little neural links that formed back then, the ones he still has, the ones that still light up even though that was back then and this is now. Even though he’s in Elgin, and they’re all gone.

When he’s at work, he’s good at compartmentalizing. It’s like second nature, really. It’s so easy just to live in the present moment and react, to feel the next thing coming and to shift his body or his mind or his weapon to accommodate. He’s quick on his feet, he has fuckin’ good instincts.

But being on leave, with the promise of multiple weeks of time blocked off for the pure and simple act of resting has apparently turned his head into a blender. Or maybe it’s that seeing Soap’s family has triggered all the thoughts of his own? But they’re not alike, the Rileys and the MacTavishes, it shouldn’t make sense for there to be some sort of connection hidden in the thick of it all.

He gushes out an annoyed sigh, breath fogging out in front of him in a way that makes him deflate.

He laces his boots up and starts walking, his legs carrying him to a destination that his head can’t fathom. The streets are empty and quiet, unlike the ones he used to walk nightly in the heart of Manchester. That was all the way back in basic when he still actually bothered to own a flat, mostly for Tommy’s benefit than anything else.

Tommy would crash there, and when Ghost came back for leave they would both pretend nothing was wrong, and Ghost would—

Ghost swiftly cuts himself off from that line of thinking, not keen on letting his mind run with those memories.

He watches a couple of moths flutter mindlessly around a nearby streetlamp. The northerly wind rustles the dried leaves still clinging to a large oak on the right of the path, its trunk groaning with the cold.

His arm throbs just below his elbow, it’s the one his father broke when he was fourteen.

With a grunt, he wraps an arm around his side, where he got shot. He closes his eyes and feels Soap’s blood inside his veins, the thing that kept him alive and almost took Soap from him. He doesn’t know how long it takes for blood to replace itself—if Soap’s blood is actually still part of him or if it’s been cycled out, if the remnants will ever truly and completely leave his body, but he swears he can feel it mixed in his own. It’s still keeping him alive. It’s a comfort.

Ghost walks for a long time. And then he tries to rise with the sun. He tries to make his soul fill back out so he can be the person that Soap’ll want to spend leave with. If he wants this to be good for Soap, he can’t keep carrying around echoes of his family, he can’t keep dragging the mood down like he did yesterday at the souvenir shop and this morning when he left.

When he’s stepping back up to the hotel four hours later, his head clearer, his lungs not quite so tight, he thinks things have improved.

Soap is awake and staring blearily at the TV. He’s still sitting up, right where Ghost left him, and a pang of guilt shoots right through his body, like somebody’s fired a large calibre round up his femoral artery and into his important organs.

The comforter is bundled up under Soap’s chin as if he was seeking comfort and warmth.

Ghost kicks off his boots and gets onto the empty side of the bed, feeling gnawing discomfort when Soap doesn’t make any attempt to make eye contact with him. He stays watching the TV, the tired blink of his eyes giving away the fact that he’s been awake the entire time Ghost has been gone.

He tries to remember his goal of keeping face so that Soap has a good time, and figures now is as good a time as any to get to it.

“I got you a sandwich. Egg and cheese.” Ghost offers lightly, offering a brown paper bag toward him with one hand, before extending the other to him as well. “And a coffee. Remembered what I ordered this time.” He adds, timid in a way he shouldn’t be. “Mocha latte.”

Soap’s eyes slide over him comically slowly, eyeing Ghost’s masked face, then blinking down to the cup, the bag, and back up to Ghost. He stays still for a heavy few moments, then snakes a hand out from the blanket cocoon to grab at the cup.

“Thanks.” Soap breathes out, cup and all retreating back to himself, before he looks at the TV again.

Ghost is extremely worried he’s done irreparable damage, he hadn’t realized that leaving would cause any damage, but apparently he was wrong. Is Soap upset? Just worried? “I’m sorry I was gone so long, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s not you.” Soap interrupts, voice quiet like he might be overheard. “Mam called, so I’m just…” Soap blinks again, sinking a little lower in bed and heaving out a sigh. “Anyway, did ye have a good run?”

“You—” Ghost starts, immediately cutting himself off when his brain malfunctions, trying to figure out whether to focus on the ‘mam called’ part, or to stay safe and focus on talking about the secondary part. “It ended up bein’ more of a walk.”

“Are ye feelin’ a bit better?” Soap asks lightly, flipping the tab open on the plastic lid of his to-go cup and taking a tentative sip of coffee.

“Don’t really know.” Ghost admits honestly, pulling his legs up onto the bed and settling in a little more firmly. He finally looks at the TV and sees a nature documentary showing what he’s pretty sure are sea otters. The narrator's voice tells them about how otters hold hands to keep themselves together while swimming, eating, or resting in groups.

“So, your mum.” Ghost opens the paper wrapping around one of the sandwiches and reaches over to gently pull the duvet away from Soap’s chin, holding the food toward him in offering.

Soap sits up a little higher and takes it with a sigh, automatically setting the coffee on the side table so he can use both hands to eat.

“Wasnae anythin’ that hasn’t been said to me already.” Soap murmurs, narrowing his gaze at the screen ahead of them. “How’s a fuckin’ otter get more affection from their family than me?”

Ghost glances back at the TV and sees two otters floating on their backs, and holding hands in the water. He doesn’t really think as he leans over and softly presses his lips to Soap’s temple. Soap’s skin is so pliant and warm against his lips that Ghost’s stomach swoops, all of this morning’s restless energy filtering into a calm buzz. He forces himself to pull back slightly, just enough that he can slide an arm around Soap’s shoulder and haul him into his side, his fingertips resting against his bicep. “I’ll work on it.”

Soap tips his head back onto Ghost’s shoulder and rewards Ghost with a bright smile, his eyes gleaming with mirth and soft enjoyment, before directing his attention back to the screen, notably more relaxed.

“You’re plenty good to me.” Soap huffs in amusement. “I was talkin’ about certain other family members.”

“You didn’t specify.” Ghost deadpans.

A soft chuckle tumbles out of Soap’s chest and he shakes his head knowingly. “Thought it would have been clear.”

“Eat your breakfast, MacTavish, or you’ll be too weak to travel, I’ll have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you onto the train.”

Ghost doesn’t usually grin when he gets an elbow to the ribs, but this one is gentle and comes with a muttered curse, so he’s not sure how he’s supposed to keep a straight face.

The next little while is calmer.

Ghost watches the slow blink of Soap’s eyes as they stand on the train station platform. He looks tired, and rightfully so, given recent events—but Ghost wishes that he could take away some of the exhaustion and bring it to himself. It doesn’t matter that his own body is tight with weariness just the same, he’s used to it, he can bear it—he’d hold onto the whole world if it meant protecting Soap from getting crushed.

The squeal of brakes cuts through the air, the shrieking sound echoing around the more or less empty station as the train approaches the platform.

Ghost wants to say something, to turn to Soap and offer reassurance, to tell him it won’t be much longer until they can relax, but Soap is already hoisting his bag over his shoulder and limping toward the nearest car.

Soap’s nearly to the doors when he pauses to look back, casting a searching glance over his shoulder like he could definitively feel the emptiness where Ghost would normally have stationed himself. There’s a lack of him, and Soap noticed it, felt it, without even needing to turn around first.

Those blue eyes are wary and a little tight around the edges as he scans, but they do loosen when he zeros in on Ghost. And Ghost—he shuts his mouth behind the mask, long strides immediately carrying him to Soap’s six before Soap can consider asking why Ghost is lagging behind..

As soon as they can get through the doors, he crowds Soap into the back of the train car and uses a gentle hand to guide him toward the window seat. Ghost feels a deep pit in his stomach that looks a lot like guilt, and he’s pretty sure it crept in around the time that he realized Soap had to take a call from his mum while he was wandering bloody Elgin. He could have been—he should have been—filling the support role that he’s getting better and better at fitting into.

He thinks he could have gotten Soap to ignore the call altogether, and if not, he thinks he could have still brought Soap comfort. He should have been there. He’s ashamed he wasn’t.

And so he hopes Soap will sleep this entire train ride away—he wants him to rest. To recover.

Ghost will be in place now, and he won’t fail. He’ll make sure nothing bad happens this time.

Soap is tucked between the wall and Ghost’s body, protected in the best way this situation allows. Like this, Ghost is the first line of defense. If anybody wants to bother Soap, they’ll need to go through Ghost. He knows that doesn’t erase the Margaret-shaped clouds hanging over their morning, but he can’t stand to do nothing.

If Soap is surprised by the choice, he doesn’t really react, he just slides into the seat and looks expectantly for Ghost to join him.

The train eventually starts moving and Ghost busies himself with getting comfortable in his seat, but it’s something of a futile effort.

Soap doesn’t seem to have much better luck. He sits there silently, going between staring out the window and then at the table in front of him, before gazing down to where he’s picking at his thumbnails on his lap. He’s uneasy, a little jittery—Ghost wonders if it’s because of Soap’s mum, or if the nerves are due to the trip ahead.

“You know,” Ghost says eventually. “This would probably be a good time to get some rest, given that there’s nothing else to do for the next while.”

Soap looks over at him, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, a somewhat concerned expression on his face, brows furrowed intently.

“Or not.” Ghost raises an eyebrow. “If you think any harder, Johnny, your head’s gonna explode.”

Soap’s face relaxes all at once, a soft, knowing gleam settling around his eyes.

“Do you want to get anything off your chest?” Ghost offers after a moment, tilting his head inquisitively, like if he just looks a little closer he can see inside Soap’s mind.

Soap seems to hesitate, but then all of a sudden he speaks. “I built an explosive charge once.”

Ghost sharply exhales through his nose in lieu of a chuckle. “I would hope so, given your status as our demolitions specialist.”

Soap gives him a dismissive half-roll of his eyes, then looks out the window. “I was under an extreme timeframe and my CO at the time didn’t think I could finish it in time, but I did. Eleven perfectly cooked bricks of combination explosives, precise charges interconnected with an automatic detonation device that I timed down to the hundreth of a second so they’d all go off at once. It was fuckin’ beautiful.” Soap chuckles, very soft and to himself. “It fucking leveled four square kilometres.”

Ghost looks at him through the description, eyeing the fond sparkle in Soap’s eyes. It’s almost like he can see the reflection of the bomb itself against his glassy irises.

“Some of the best explosives work I’ve ever been responsible for, I think.”

“Yeah?” Ghost prompts lightly, feeling his heart do a few somersaults in his chest because Soap is so good at that shit—he’s good with the maths, the explosives, the demos. He’s extremely smart, more than anyone ever gives him credit for, and he finds it captivating to watch him in action—seeing him proud of his own work, the confidence he has in himself, in this area of his world.

“It…” Soap begins, trailing off softly. He’s quiet for a long time, a few solid minutes. And Ghost is almost positive that the conversation has fizzled out and lost traction, but then he speaks again. “I wish you could have seen it.”

The shift in conversation gives Ghost whiplash, but he tries his best to follow along, nodding just a split second later. “Me too.” Ghost agrees softly, readily. He watches Soap with intent, trying to see if he can gauge where he’ll go next. “But why is an explosive making you look like that?”

Soap sighs softly. “Right as I got back to base, my mam called. It was just… her bein’ her. And somehow when I think about that day, that phone call is the only part I seem to remember.” Soap shifts his legs around a little and exhales heavily.

“I’m sorry.” Ghost murmurs, fighting a wave of anger that tries to pass through him. It won’t do him any good to get worked up, he doesn’t want to bring frustration into the space he’s sharing with Soap.

“It’s in the past, I s’pose.” Soap breathes. “Fuck am I tired.”

Ghost reaches out his hand and curls it around the side of Soap’s jaw, bringing his head to rest against his shoulder—keeping the touch there in case Soap has any ideas about moving. “Sleep, Johnny. I’ll wake you when we get to our stop.”

Soap sleeps almost the entire train ride and Ghost stays a steady rock for him to lean against; his arms are crossed over his chest, and he glares at anyone who stares at them for more than two seconds flat.

Ghost finds it more restful than sleep itself—having Soap relaxing so easily nearby. Soap’s breaths are so deep that it's impossible not to catch the inhale and exhale of his chest with every single lungful of oxygen. All his muscles are relaxed, his head so incredibly heavy on Ghost’s shoulder, hands loose where they’re tucked in the front pocket of the hoodie he stole from Ghost’s bag this morning.

He doesn’t snore—he’s never heard Soap snore, but every once in a while his vocal chords rasp with one of those inhales.

The train movements lull him a little and if he wasn’t so determined to keep watch, he could see the way sleep could potentially take him, too. But then halfway the trip, some unassuming, gangly teen walks by and Tommy’s face instantly flashes in his mind. The kid doesn’t even look like his brother, but somehow it’s all he can see.

He feels the same stifling lack of oxygen that he had when he was buried alive, he can feel bugs crawling over his skin. It’s all coming to a head in a southbound train to Edinburgh.

Soap sleeps through it all, Ghost makes sure he does. And by the time the train is pulling up to their stop and he’s gently shaking Soap’s shoulder, he’s successfully shoved it all back behind the door he’s positive he locked this morning. He’s maybe a little numbed out, a little distant, but he’s as much of himself as he could find—he’s the lighthearted man that he wants Soap to have by his side.

The train comes to a halt with a soft jerk, and Ghost is out of his seat to grab both their duffles, one strap over each shoulder. Soap blearily follows after him, curling a finger in one of Ghost’s belt loops as they step out onto the crowded platform, commuters and other travellers every way he looks.

Ghost can hardly breathe through it all, but he still has room to feel incredibly fond at the way Soap has chosen to tether them together.

After they cross the platform, Ghost turns to him, curling a hand around Soap’s hip and gently pulling him closer. “Do you want to stop for a coffee?” He says, ducking his head so that Soap will hear his words over the swarm around them.

“Who am I to tell ye where we go next?” Soap smiles, leaning into him a little like he’s not quite steady on his feet. Maybe he’s not. But Ghost has him, still has him by that hand on his hip—his whole body ready to catch Soap if he so much as thinks about falling.

“It’s busy here.” Ghost says, not pulling his gaze away from Soap. He can feel his eyes soften around the edges as he looks at him. “You probably know the way out and to a good coffee place better ‘an I do.”

“S’pose a boy from Manchester wouldn’t know his way around Edinburgh.” Soap gives him a playful nod of understanding, reaching out to take his own duffle onto his shoulder. Ghost’s about to protest, but then there’s a hand sliding into his own—the sheer warmth of Soap’s touch instantly melting into his own.

Soap smiles lightly. “Don’t wanna lose ye.” He says, giving Ghost a soft tug as he leads them toward the exit of the station.

Soap leads them out of the station and a little down the street, where they stumble into a small cafe nestled between shops.

It’s quiet inside—quieter than Ghost fully expects. Soap orders his coffee while Ghost looks around at the other patrons, his ears full of espresso machines, coffee grinders, and milk being steamed. There’s a man talking loudly on the phone somewhere behind him, and a group of uni age girls talking over textbooks at a table to his right.

The atmosphere is a little much for him, but Soap is still holding his hand so he’s not about to complain.

It’s not until Soap grabs his coffee and continues to wait by the counter, that Ghost realizes there’s a second drink incoming. A moment later, Soap slides a hot cup into his hand without preamble, shooting off a quick grin.

The airport is… an airport. Getting through security and to their gate is a nightmare purely because they’re standing around in line so long. Ghost can tell Soap’s leg is really bothering him, and honestly he’s still not back to fighting shape himself so he’s sort of straining to stay upright, too.

Somehow, in all of it, Soap doesn’t find out where they’re headed until they get to the gate. Ghost expected him to find out during security or before, but nope—somehow nobody actually mentioned the final destination out loud.

“France?” Soap asks curiously as the computer board displays the plane’s intended destination, glancing over to Ghost in confusion. “We’re going to France?”

Ghost huffs out a breath and detours them to the little pub across from their gate, sitting at the bar. They still have two hours to kill before they board. He clears his throat softly, easing into the chair, relieved that he can finally sit again. “Don’t want to go to France?”

“Didnae say tha’.” Soap says instantly, the conversation tentatively pausing as they both order a drink. Soap gets a pint, Ghost gets a double of bourbon. “I’ll go anywhere with you.”

“Then what?” Ghost says haltingly, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

“Just curious what made you choose France of all places.” Soap raises an eyebrow, intrigue so clear on his face.

“Y’know… I won’t hold it against you if you want to go somewhere else. S’pose this is your last real chance to back out.” Ghost says, half-joking, half not.

“‘Course I’m comin’ with you.” Soap snorts, shaking his head. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around all this.”

Ghost turns fully in his barstool to face Soap. Despite the nerves that begin their descent upon his body, his lips flicker with an irrepressible smile.

“It’s a connecting flight.” Ghost explains after a beat, letting his jaw rest against a fist, elbow planted on the bar top. His head dips a little, eyes peering past his eyelashes to scan Soap’s face for relief. He wonders, if Soap finds out where they’re actually heading, if he’ll be disappointed.

But Soap just looks amused. Like he’s along for the ride wherever it’ll take him, and Ghost finds he’s the one with an undeniable sense of relief.

There’s a slow, thoughtful nod. “And where do we connect to?”

Ghost pulls down the face mask he’s been wearing all day, letting it hang off one ear while he takes a long sip of his bourbon. The glass taps the bartop as he sets it down, his mind full of high-pitched frequencies as he explores his current options.

The longer he keeps it a surprise, the further he can push off the possibility that he’s made a wrong choice. But maybe—well, he did say it. He said that this is Soap’s last chance to back out, and that’s true. If he waits until France, or until their next connection to tell Soap where they’re going, Soap will have a long flight home, and Ghost’ll feel awful about it, right down to his bones.

Ghost stares at Soap.

“So, I…” Ghost pauses after a bit. He has to remind himself to focus on the fact that when he acts from instincts, he seems to make the right call for Soap. And this decision? He hardly had to think of it—the idea slid into his mind and it never left. He didn’t have one moment of second-guessing until now. He’s not going to fuck this up, Soap isn’t going to be upset. “We’re going to Mexico.”

Soap’s shoulders straighten like he’s just gone on high alert, one hand on his pint, the other resting on the bar, fingers loose. He stays still for several seconds, eyes flashing all over Ghost’s face as he processes, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise.

“I’m sorry, what?” Soap finally says.

Ghost did have the idea of finding a beach in the Mediterranean with their name on it, it's… it certainly would have been closer, less travel time.

But they have an extended leave and Mexico is where they fought together and almost died together for the first time. Maybe it's dark, a gruesome callback. Maybe it's a mistake and maybe it'll bring up old memories that they tried to bury. But maybe it’ll be good, too.

Hard not to run your life on every new what if.

Ghost clears his throat, his windpipe feeling wildly oppressed as he searches for words. “I called up Alejandro. Asked him if he knew a spot with a good beach and warm weather.”

Soap blinks a few times, nodding dumbly. “Are we… goin’ to see him?”

“No, him and Rudy are tied up for the next couple of months on a top chain op. But he recommended a place to me, and that’s where we’re going.”

“So we’re—” Soap swallows, face suddenly very serious, “we’re—?”

Ghost nods slowly. “He said it's more secluded compared to some of the big tourist traps, it's safe, secure. It's… I got us a place to stay, right on the beach, you can wake up every mornin’ and it’s… there.”

Soap’s eyes get visibly wet and that’s not the response that Ghost was prepared for. He frowns.

“It’s not too late to… we don’t have to go.” Ghost assures him, all sense of levity evaporating out of his body. “If it’s too far away, or if Las Almas ruined Mexico for you, or if it’s not what you want—it’s okay. Just say the words and I’ll rip up the tickets. And it’s—”

Ghost is nearly knocked over with the force at which Soap abandons his beer, his chair, and flings himself forward across the small distance between them, only barely managing to brace himself and take Soap’s weight into his arms. It’s definitely a little sketchy, the way his chair briefly tips onto two legs before settling back on even ground.

A few people look their way, but Ghost doesn’t even give a shit. He just holds on tight and hooks his head over Soap’s shoulder. He—this has to be a positive response, it has to mean that Ghost made the right decision... Except there’s this little part of him that still tries to second guess himself. It’s just something he can’t quite shake.

“Simon, steamin’ hell.” Soap mumbles. “I am so fuckin’ lucky to have ye.”

Ghost stares at the tiled floor right behind Soap, eyes so wide and open for so long that they start burning. He’s completely still. Hasn’t moved, hasn’t breathed.

In the middle of an airport pub, people passing them, they’re practically invisible, just two more bodies in this damn building.

‘Lucky to have you.’

It’s the first time that Ghost really dares to consider that Soap’s been sort of waiting for him, too.

Ghost’s eyes finally flutter and he exhales shakily, pulling Soap even more tightly against him. It’s too terrifying to acknowledge it. Soap thinks that he’s lucky to have Ghost—and maybe at the end of it all, Ghost isn’t dangerous after all.

Maybe the self doubt took up more real estate than he thought.

“We finally get to have that beach trip, aye?” Soap’s voice is soft, still in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Ghost breathes. “Nothin’ to stop us.”

Soap smiles against his neck. He can feel it, pressing into his pulse, affecting the blood that reaches his brain. Then Soap pulls away very suddenly, sheepish in the way he takes his seat—”Sorry. Sorry, I just—fuck I got excited. This is so exciting.” He explains in a rush, shaking his head.

“Don’t be sorry.” Ghost tries to hide his exposed, nervous grin into his next sip of bourbon—whole lot of good that does. When Ghost looks back at him, Soap is just staring at him like he’s hung heaven and earth, and it makes his heart race. “You’re… sure? That you want to go?”

“Yes.” Soap huffs out a breath that sounds more like a laugh. “Yeah—of course I do. You know I do, Simon.”

Their assigned seats are right in the middle of the plane and they slump into them, exhausted. For all the sitting around and doing nothing they’ve done so far today, they’re both so tired.

Ghost feels like life has ripped him apart and handed all the pieces back to him loose and damaged, none of the edges seem to fit back together and his brain is so foggy he doesn’t even know where to start. But it’s okay, because all they have to do now is sit in their seats and then the rest is up to the pilot.

Being in planes is nothing new, but it’s not too often that they’re faced with the luxury of civilian passenger aircrafts. Ghost can’t remember a time he was offered a whiskey mid-flight. But for all that he can appreciate that there’s more cushioning under his body than a jump seat, or the fact that an impeccably dressed flight attendant comes up to offer them a complimentary bag of nuts—Ghost can’t help but feel like a sardine in a tin can. It’s almost deplorable how many bodies they’ve managed to cram into the plane’s fuselage. He thinks even the tightest packed military aircraft feels a bit roomier than this.

Soap must get the sense he’s uncomfortable, because he offers to let Ghost sit in the aisle seat, if he wants. And maybe that would help, except that Soap’s bad leg is stretched out into the edge of the aisle in a way that looks to be providing some relief—so he just shifts in his seat for the dozenth time.

This flight to Paris is only a couple of hours, so it’s done and over with pretty quick. The layover between their flights doesn’t give them much time, and Ghost is a little worried about Soap’s knee through it all, but they rush across the airport and they make it to the next gate with minutes to spare.

“Really no going back now,” Ghost muses as they get taxied to the runway in the second, much larger plane.

“No?” Soap queries, flipping through his journal for a blank page.

“We’re in the air for the next twelve hours.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t want to go back.”

“Saves me an awkward conversation with the pilot.” Ghost deadpans, looking out the window. Soap immediately took up the middle seat so that Ghost wouldn’t have to sit next to the stranger in the aisle seat of their row—and Ghost is immensely grateful, but he also feels guilty because he wants to let Soap be able to stretch out. Not that Ghost’s seat would allow for that, hell, not even the aisle seat would. They’re on the wrong side of the plane, so Soap would only be positioned to extend his good leg into the aisle space.

Soap knocks their knees together in a way that makes Ghost smile, and he finds himself leaning over a little to watch as Soap starts sketching out a few simple lines. It takes only a short time before Ghost is watching the form of his AW40 take shape on the page.

He watches until his eyes are burning from the dry nature of the airplane air, and he’s forcing his eyelids shut. He decides it’s as good a time as any to try and get some sleep—Soap’ll keep an eye on things and there’s nothing better to do, so…

Ghost is used to being able to drop off and sleep for a few hours when he needs to. He just closes his eyes, and there he goes. But for some bizarre reason, he can’t seem to let go of consciousness. He’s not sure if it’s because it’s too loud with the cabin noise, or if he’s just got too much on his mind—but it quickly becomes frustrating.

He’s readjusting in his seat and trying to breathe in long and deep, and he just can’t seem to relax.

“You good?” Soap leans over to say eventually, his voice a comfort.

“Tired.” Ghost mumbles.

Soap nods in understanding. “Anything I can do?”

Ghost shakes his head.

His head aches. His body is weary, he just wants to relax.

He knows Soap wants to help, but what can they do in a passenger airline, forty thousand feet up? Soap can’t hold him, he can’t lean his head over to rest on Soap’s shoulder because his neck will be paying the price for days to come, he can’t lay out or arrange himself in any way that would do anything.

Ghost rights himself and leans forward, head in his hands, feeling frustrated.

He feels a hand at his waist, fingers skimming the hem of his jacket before making their way under it, finding the space between his t-shirt and his back. Soap’s warm fingers drag against his skin, fingernails ever so lightly scratching patterns against him.

Ghost shivers and settles into the position with a bit more finality, trying to give Soap more room to keep going.

Soap gets his hand further up Ghost’s shirt and starts drawing shapes across his shoulder blades, fingertips circling his spine, tracing his musculature. Ghost can feel tingles sweep up and down his spine, making him feel a little more light and relaxed, seeping into a headspace that doesn’t make him feel quite so strung up.

It shouldn’t be nearly enough to put him to sleep, but he belatedly realizes that he could probably doze. He almost drifts off just like that, with his head in his hands and his body swaying to slight turbulence of the plane and Soap’s gentle touch, but then Tommy’s face plasters to the back of his eyelids and he can’t even find it in himself to keep his eyes closed.

There’s about eight more hours of flying that follow, most of which Ghost stays in that purgatory of being awake and being half gone, delirious with lack of sleep. The landing is smooth, it’s dark when they get there—Ghost is feeling a little bit like someone stuck his head in a blender.

“Do we have much of a layover?” Soap asks gently. His hand left Ghost’s back several hours ago and Ghost has been working out how he might ask for Soap to touch him again, but there’s no point now that the plane is being taxied to the terminal.

Ghost shrugs. “An hour, maybe.”

As the plane deboards, Ghost follows closely behind Soap, feeling so tired he can hardly keep his train of thought running in one direction as he tries to contemplate next steps. They pass through customs and are faced with figuring out where their next gate is, which feels like a monumental task, but Soap seems to have it figured out pretty quick—quicker than Ghost can manage at least.

They visit the washrooms, get some dinner, two cups of much needed coffee, and then they arrive at their gate to await boarding the third plane. The gate is so full of people that there’s only one seat available, and Ghost’s shoulders sag as he turns to Soap, ready to let him have it.

But Soap is already off, finding a quiet corner out of the way. He pulls off his jacket and folds it to use as a pillow, setting it on the ground and sitting on it.

Ghost watches in confusion, raising an eyebrow when Soap motions for him to come join him.

“Know yer not too good for a floor.” Soap murmurs, a soft smile on his face.

He sighs softly and sits next to Soap, pulling up the hood on his jacket and folding his arms over his chest.

Ghost hopes that he can sleep—he wants to sleep so badly. He dips his head, letting it hang forward as he closes his eyes, and he exhales heavily.

He dozes a couple of times, but the path to sleep is interrupted constantly by the noise of screaming kids, and someone playing music off their phone at full volume, and also once by some guy snoring in his seat so loud that Ghost thinks it’s an engine he’s hearing at first. Soap presses his shoulder into Ghost’s in silent commiseration.

The second flight feels a little more manageable, the moon is still shining bright as they board. By Ghost’s calculations, at least it’ll be light outside by the time they land, and that thought helps keep him above water.

He doesn’t even try to sleep through this flight, and honestly, that’s probably better.

In the cover of the dimmed lights, Ghost eventually gathers the courage to slide his hand face up into Soap’s lap, and Soap starts tracing the creases on his palms and the long-healed scars. His finger trails around the newer scars circling Ghost’s wrist from the cuffs in medical. It’s such a serene sense of calm to be safe with him now.

“What’s the plan for when we touch down?” Soap whispers into his ear, his nose brushing against the short hair on the side of Ghost’s head.

Ghost closes his eyes and feels warm breaths fan across his jaw. “We’re taking a bus.” He says back, tone soft. “From the bus stop to the house, it’s about a ten minute walk—I’m sure we can get a ride or something if we need.”

“Reckon a walk would do us both good after bein’ cramped in planes.”

“Likely.” Ghost answers on an exhale.

Soap never turns his head back forward, gently resting the corner of his forehead against Ghost’s temple. He eventually falls asleep, and Ghost uses a slow hand to help Soap lean more fully against him.

The next couple of hours slip by in a haze, the sun starting its ascent in the last thirty minutes of the ride. The daylight makes things feel a little less disorienting, but this bubble of travel continues to be an uncomfortable liminal space.

The whole plane jolts intensely when the wheels touch down and Ghost’s hand immediately raises from where it’d been resting on Soap’s thigh and finds his head, his fingers curling around the side of Soap’s jaw and over his ear. He keeps him steady through the ragged rattle of the plane as he startles into full consciousness.

“Touchin’ down now, all’s well.” He murmurs as Soap stirs slightly.

There's a chorus of fearful gasps and piercing yelps from what feels like the entire cabin. Soap sort of tenses and then he relaxes, like he’s processed Ghost’s words and has already acted accordingly.

Plane turbulence and the shake of takeoff and landing are things that they're both overly familiar with, so it's not a surprise. Commercial airlines even give you the extra sense of perceived security with the slightly patronizing attendants that come over the speaker.

But being half asleep and hitting the ground as hard as they just did will scare anyone half to death, so he keeps Soap’s temple pressed against him, and feels the soft way Soap just seems to melt into him.

A round of applause resounds as the plane smooths out, running along the runway with ease.

“Fuck sakes.” Soap mutters, raising a hand to roughly rub at his face.

Ghost hums in commiseration. “Welcome to Mexico, Johnny.”

Soap’s eyes crinkle when he smiles.