Chapter Text
Soap sighs, scrubs his palm over his face for good measure too. Maybe if he rubs hard enough he can force the spark of eyestrain away with sheer will power. The calluses on his palm catch on his stubble and it reminds him of how long it's been since he's had access to warm, running water and a proper mirror to shave in. His leg won’t stop jumping up and down.
It's dark in the rec room, quiet too, well past lights out with everyone else stowed away in their bunks like good little soldiers. He stares absently at the reflection of light that plays off the TV, coming in stripes from the blinds over the window. Nights like this make him miss basic training, make him itch to be out on the field again even though they just got back. If he were assigned fire watch (or hell, given the opportunity to volunteer for it) he'd have an excuse for this…whatever it is that's plaguing him. This unsettled rest of his joints, the slight buzzing under his skin as he picks at a hang nail, the constant awareness of being awake without the clarity for any sensation to provide good intel.
He should really be in bed right now. He's not doing anyone any good sitting hunched over on the rec room couch in the middle of the night. If not sleeping, he should at least be cleaning himself up a bit. Trim his beard, floss his teeth, pick the dirt and dried blood out from under his nails.
And yet, he remains still.
Unmoving. Barely blinking. Is he even still breathing?
There's a shadow in the doorway, hardly noticeable in the dim light and hovering for only a second before sliding into the space. It sticks to the walls and glides towards the small kitchenette. Soap doesn't acknowledge it, doesn't do more than tilt his ear in the direction it moves. It's almost silent, Soap straining to pull the tiniest thread of sounds through whatever haze it is that's troubling him. It's unbecoming of a soldier to act this way, to be so close to leaning his head back and letting an unknown wander about his own base. Despite this, he can't pull together enough shame to do much else.
He thinks he might hear familiar sounds of metal against metal, for a moment tensing at the image of a knife being pulled from a sheath. Sweat beads on the small of his back, hypervigilance mixing poorly with his physically relaxed state. It shouldn't be this unnerving, he should be comforted by a rush of adrenaline that helps him hold his sniper steady. He's used to sitting this still for much longer periods of time under much more adverse conditions. Had done so not 36 hours ago before boarding a chopper and being brought back here.
There's a clicking sound, then a tearing one and all at once he can feel his shoulders dropping, his heartbeat slow to follow. It's confusing, why is he suddenly so sure that there isn't a risk nearby? That the shape moving in his peripherals won't hurt him? A sound forces its way past his throat, over his tongue, and out his lips with too little resistance too late. He doesn't know what kind of noise it is, is hardly aware he's made it at all but for a stillness over his shoulder.
To his surprise, the figure makes a sound back. It's a low, comfortable hum that acts as a balm to his pinched nervous system, acts as all the permission his body needs to let his eyes slip shut and finally close out the desperate need to be aware of his surroundings.
He'd be more concerned if he weren't so bloody grateful for the reprieve. He leans forward further until he can brace his elbows on his knees and curl down into his hands. Time trundles slowly as something happens around him, but he doesn't try as hard anymore to pay attention to it, simply lets it pass by his awareness like the whistle of a bullet overhead, missing by feet enough to not tear his eardrum apart.
Maybe in another world, one where he wasn't called Soap, he'd have a more gentle thing to compare it to. Maybe in another life John McTavish could've been a poet. It's a quaint thought, even if an ill-fitting and impossible one, so he lets it clutch on to him and drag him down the river for a while.
“–––”
He blinks, stuttering flutters of his eyelids that bring the world to focus very slowly.
“Johnny,” the sound comes again and if possible, Soap unravels further.
He's safe.
His eyes travel up, up, up, in the dark until he finds a splotch of light in an expanse of shadow, tracing the hard lines of a familiar shape. A menacing one. One that he'd trust with a knife to his bared throat, unwise maybe, but true nonetheless. Maybe he should start praying again, if this is what quiet moments of reverence will continue to bring him.
“Tea,” the shadow gruffs, and something is pressed against his wrist.
It takes a monumental amount of effort to wrap his fingers around it, letting the warmth of it soak into his skin. It must be a mug, he concludes, one with tea in it based on the strong herbal smell that almost soothes him into closing his eyes again.
The far end of the couch sags as something heavy settles into it. Soap darts his gaze and finds that shape, the mask, again. This time it is highlighted along the profile, bands of light once more from the window finding and carving the edges of it with the artificial warmth of outdoor lighting. It's one of the prettiest things he's ever seen, something in him recognizes. He almost wishes that the whole poet daydream could be true, aches with the lack of words at his disposal for the first time in a long time.
“Alright Johnny, as you were.”
It's another soothing rumble of baritone. It's yet again the permission he needs to lean back and pull his feet up. He pauses at an affronted huff, only to have one of his calves wrapped in a large palm and dragged through the space between them. Soap follows easily, twisting to lean his shoulder into the cushion of the couch back and watch as a deft hand unlaces his boot and unceremoniously tugs it off, only to then place it carefully on the ground. He stays mesmerized as the action is copied for his other foot before both are laid across the other body's lap. That palm hovers for a moment before settling over his ankles, squeezing once before falling still.
It's not the most comfortable position Soap's ever sat in, but it's still somehow comforting. He stares at the other man lazily and finally sips from the mug in his hand, appreciating the taste of a non-caffeinated tea that lives in the base cupboards. He couldn’t tell you what kind it is, not now at least.
Once more, time passes by in a more figurative way. Happening in the sense that it never stops, but happening outside of his care. They sit silently, the room a cradle of dim shadows and unchecked corners that should be worrying, should be putting him on edge, but instead it feels like a mercy to not have to glance between them anymore. The meat of his friend’s thigh under his sock clad feet is warm, a solidness hidden by a layer of fat as the muscles lay relaxed, and the thumb skimming over the sliver of skin exposed by his lifted pant hem is…nice. It’s all so…nice. His fingers relax in their hold and behind closed eyes he feels as the mug is pulled out of his grasp, a shifting of weight and a clink as it’s set on the coffee table.
He must make a sound, one of complaint or question, because that smooth voice answers him with a hush, “Feelin’ chatty are you?”
“Was warm,” he mumbles back, “Now m’ hands are cold.”
A huff of breath that could mean anything, amusement or satisfaction layered in there somewhere if Soap knows how to read his Lt by now, which he likes to think he can.
“Stop a guy from spilling tea on himself and he complains, can’t please a bloody princess.”
At that he peels one eye open, finding the mask already facing him. It’s too dark to see the man’s deep, almost black, eyes, but Soap can feel the weight of them on him anyway, “Oi, which one of us trampled through a tunnel of nasty river water with an open gunshot wound, huh?”
“Try again sergeant, I've done that too. Before you did, might add.”
Smarmy bastard. Soap contemplates kicking him, but the idea that he might pull away to retaliate is deemed too risky to be worth it. Instead, he huffs and tucks his face further into the cushion. Hidden away like this, he notices how his heart rate is slow, his muscles relaxed. That buzzing has dimmed to slight gooseflesh as he breathes deeply. It feels like he’s just breached the surface of choppy waters, able to think and see despite his closed eyes better than he had a few…minutes ago? However long he’s been sitting here with a specter.
In a shocking wave of awareness he’s hit by the weight of his urge to just rest. To settle himself comfortably and let Mr. Dream bless him with the curtain of sleep.
“M’ tired,” he grumbles, feeling fabric shift against his face as he refuses to lift his head.
There's a slight pause, the fingers around his ankle adjusting, “Wanna go to your room?”
Soap shakes his head, “No’ really.”
The grip on him squeezes as the lieutenant grunts, “Want me to wake you in a few?”
He’d rather like to never be woken up again actually. Oh how he’d love to just sink into the rec room’s slightly ratty couch and never rise again, comfortable and safe with his lieutenant’s warm, breathing, body close by. At this point, Soap thinks he’d rather like to be buried in this thing, a gravestone erected on the coffee table as his brothers and sisters mill past it on card night.
“Och, let me sleep Lt.”
“Copy that, Johnny,” he mutters as Soap shifts around until he’s more comfortable. He lifts his palm and for a second Soap is worried he’ll leave, but as soon as he settles the weight of it is back to his skin. “I’ll keep watch. Go to sleep, Soap."
He mumbles back an affirmative, but in all honesty he’s gone before ever registering it as a command. As he drifts off, he finds peace in the reassurance that his lieutenant will keep him safe.
***
There's gunshots blasting out around him, a firefight that is simultaneously right on top of him and also miles away. He's in a forest of some kind. Whether it's a dense jungle or a sparse collection of thin bodied trunks is a mystery, it's hard to tell with rain pelting around him in the dark and making his vision blurry, distorted around the edges. All he knows is he has to run, has to...follow someone maybe. Is he chasing or is he being chased? He can't remember, did he hit his head?
Touching the back of his head finds no blood, no deep pulsing ache to suggest a concussion either. Whatever, he can't worry about it now, he has to run.
He stumbles forward. It's like the ground is writhing and twisting underneath him, his limbs struggling to obey his desperate commands as he fights to find purchase in the slippery mud. The bullets never stop whizzing past, loud cracking booms of firearms mixing in with distant thunder until it all swirls together in the same drain that is his brain. He grapples at his chest, trying to find his flashlight on his vest but only meeting smooth fabric. There's no buckles or clasps, no hard metal of his blade handle, no rectangular edges of his spare rounds. He glances down, confused, and his breath catches harshly around a gag.
He's hovering miles over a bustling street. There are distant cars and pedestrians, lights blurring as his head spins at the mere scale of everything so small and far away. He's choking, he's just been pistol whipped and he's dangling above his imminent death and he's choking. He's choking because he's going to die here and there's nothing he can do about it. He's going to fall, he's going to fall, he's going to FALLFALLFALLFALL
Soap gasps in a deep breath, darting forward and wrapping a clammy palm around his throat. He can breathe, fuck, he can breathe.
“Easy Johnny, y’safe.”
Oh, Ghost’s here. Soap blinks harshly, eyes adjusting to darkness enough to focus. He doesn’t remember Ghost being here but that’s his voice, that’s his hard shell mask looking at him in the quiet. Quiet, it's quiet. There's no rain, no bullets, no rushing of wind.
“No threats, sergeant, I've got you. Rest."
Ghost is here, he's got him. He won't let him fall.
No threats. He can rest. Right. He's...not hovering above a chasm. He's safe. Okay, yeah, he can rest.
***
The next time Soap wakes up, it’s to the flick of a light switch and a startled sound. He struggles to move and finds himself wrapped in something. He panics for a moment and curses under his breath. The fingers of sleep trail away from him in painfully slow waves as he tries to rationalize his surroundings and escape whatever is binding him.
“Sergeant McTavish," someone barks loudly, "what the bloody hell are you doin’ in here so early?”
Price, that’s Price’s voice.
He grumbles, blinking harshly and finally tugging himself free enough to sit up and glance around “Captain?”
The room is very bright compared to where he had his face shoved away in shadow, and he was lying curled up on his side, crammed onto the couch of…the rec room? That explains why he’s hearing Price at least. The world outside the windows is still dark, but steadily growing lighter as the sun rises.
“Did you sleep in here son? You know you have a Queen sanctioned cot and boarding for that don’t you?” The captain’s voice is stern as usual, but a hint of humor underlies it that means Soap isn’t immediately jumping to his feet to apologize and receive the reprimand.
“All due respect sir, didnae fuckin’ mean to.”
“Right, that’s why you’ve got a blanket and pillow?”
He looks around, catching his bearings. Alongside the mentioned standard issue blanket (always too thin, always too scratchy) and a balled up bundle of fabric acting as his pillow he spots a mug sitting on the table in front of him, a dark ring under it. The TV is off, and there’s a kettle on the stove. Thinking back at yesterday, they’d landed on base in the early afternoon, debriefing and medical checks eating away until the late evening. He’d showered, or done a close resemblance of it at least, and found himself coming here instead of his room. He’d…lost track of himself for a while. He must've fallen asleep at some point.
“No I-I didn’t get those out?”
“Must’ve been a fairy then Soap. Either way, go get cleaned up and ready for the day. Do not miss PT or I’ll have to write you up for breaking lights out last night.” It’s as clear and polite of a dismissal as he’s going to get, especially this early in the morning.
“Aye sir."
Soap quickly places the mug in the sink of the kitchenette and shoves his feet back into his boots which were placed perfectly neat next to the couch. As he gathers the blanket he realizes his ‘pillow’ is a folded up mass of black fabric. It's folded cleanly, crisp edges and all, somehow still looking inspection quality with Soap's drool darkening a patch of it. The blanket is halfheartedly bundled up, looking like shit compared to the orderliness of the makeshift pillow, and placed back in the box under the coffee table. He’s dragging his feet back to his room when he undoes the material to inspect it.
It's a hoodie, large, it's dark color slightly faded. He flips it over to the back and sees a name printed onto it, flaking around the edges with age.
Lt. Riley.
Not a fairy then. Just a ghost. He hadn't been dreaming of the man’s voice, then.
When he gets to his room he tucks the hoodie safely away in his wardrobe, before switching out to proper clothes and going about his morning. He’ll decide what to do with it later, for now, he could really go for a coffee.