Archive of Our Own ^beta

Soap found himself alone in his room, stripping himself of his tactical gear and discarding it onto the floor without much thought. The mission was simple, get the target, get out, but it went off the rails. No surprise there, and even though it all worked out in the end he was beat. 

Ghost had wandered off to his room the moment they got back, probably also exhausted even if he’d never admit it. Soap wouldn’t hide the fact he was disappointed that Ghost had gone to his room instead of Soap’s, he wouldn’t have minded some alone time with him before they inevitably drifted off to sleep. 

Soap strips off all his layers and steps into his small bathroom, turning the knob in the shower. In only a few minutes the water was hot, and he stepped inside the shower, letting the water run down his back and through his hair. Dirt and grim from being in the dirt most of the day taints the water a deep brown, and he scrubs the blood and the gunpowder from his hair. 

After cleaning thoroughly enough for the time being he twists the knob again, the water coming to a stop and he grabs a probably used towel, scrubbing his skin dry before wrapping it around his waist. The sound of a quiet knock cuts through the room, and his brows furrow. 

It wasn’t unlike Price to stop by their private rooms  after missions, but it was later than normal for him to do it. Soap tightens his grip on the towel before opening the door slightly. 

“Ghost?” he questions and the taller man looks down both halls before making a gesture that signaled he wanted to come in. Soap let him, because of course he did. He moves away from the door and Ghost’s large frame slides into his room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“What’s up?” He’s met with silence, and despite Ghost being a normally silent person, sticking to the back of the room during briefings or silently observing the table if they went out for drinks, this silence was unnerving. 

“Hey, is everything okay?” he asks, reaching out for Ghost’s hands. Ghost doesn’t do much after missions, but he’s at least wearing fresh clothing, and his normal mask is replaced with his simpler skull balaclava, so more of his face was visible. 

His gaze is glued to the floor, and Soap gently takes Ghost’s hands in his. He wordlessly pulls the black gloves from his hands, and Soap tosses them next to his own haphazardly discarded gear. He rubs small circles into Ghost’s hands, cradling them and massaging the scarred skin, dragging his thumbs softly over the small, jagged lines. 

Ghost doesn’t say anything, and neither does Soap, both content in the silence between them as he massages the tension out of his muscles. 

When Soap looks back up at him, he finds Ghost’s eyes staring back. His eyes are soft, his normal coldness stripped away by Soap’s delicate hands. He looks like he wants to say something, his eyes trying to convey the words he can never say. 

Soap smiles at him.

“I love you too, Simon.”

—-

Soap patted the rookies on the back, cheering them on for a job well done today. He and Ghost had been saddled with some new recruits for a simple mission. Unlike normal, all went well and some of the newbies even exceeded Soap’s expectations. 

Ghost, ever the silent type, didn’t say anything more than ‘good job’, but that’s better than getting nothing. Soap and watched the way the rookie’s eyes had lit up after receiving a compliment from The Ghost. 

Every rookie had been cautious around the man, which is warranted with his reputation, but he was glad Ghost managed to tell them all they did good. Getting support from your superior officer goes a long way in this line of work. 

Ghost was making his way back towards base, Soap jogging to catch up with him.

“You see anyone promising?” Soap asks and Ghost glances at him for a moment. 

“A few, some need to work on their nerves though,” he responds drily and Soap grins, patting his shoulder before jogging ahead to open the door. Ghost steps inside and Soap will forever find it funny how he instinctively ducks his head. 

One time they’d been at a bar and Ghost had smacked his face into a doorway that was shorter than him. He’s ducked into every doorway since and Soap found it unbelievably amusing.

Soap talks as they walk down the hallways side by side, perfectly comfortable with filling the silence between them, he knows Ghost is listening to every word he says because he’ll occasionally give input.

“Johnny,” says Ghost after Soap takes a moment to stop talking, and Soap pauses at the use of his name in such a public space. 

“I’ve got a mission, long one. Solo. Two months,” he says, and Soap falters.

“Solo? You haven’t done one of those in months.”

“Not my choice,” he murmurs, annoyance seeping into his words no matter how much he attempts to hide it. Ghost excelled at solo missions, working alone was really his strong suit. Despite this he’d willingly chosen to avoid solo missions after Las Almas, after they grew closer. 

Price knew it, and even avoided offering them to him when he could get someone else. He’d inevitably get sent on one eventually, it was his strong suit afterall. Soap could see the way Ghost’s eyes darkened after telling him, and yet it felt like there was something else he hadn’t said yet.

“…When do you leave?” He asks despite knowing the answer, and Ghost's eyes harden at the question.

“Two hours.” Soap knew and yet it still stung, he hadn’t expected it to be so soon. He wouldn’t doubt that Ghost has known before today, he doesn’t doubt that Ghost kept it from him either. 

“That’s certainly soon,” he says and Ghost nods solemnly, they fall silent as they pass a group of soldiers in the hall. Soap nods to himself.

“It’s plenty enough time for us though,” he says, and Ghost looks at him, confusion shining through those cold eyes.

“How’s about we go back to your room and slack off for two hours, hm? Price wouldn’t care much, and we don’t have anywhere else to be.” Ghost gives him an otherwise normal look. To everyone else he’d just look slightly less serious than normal, to Soap though, he knew the man’s curiosity was at its peak.

They make their way back to Ghost’s room, slipping into the space without a hassle. Soap had already ditched most of his gear on the flight home, so he takes off whatever’s left and lays it on the small table in Ghost’s room. He then collapses on his bed, patting the space next to him, an invitation. Ghost doesn’t move, clearly hesitant about laying there with him during hours that weren’t past 12 am. 

A Lieutenant sleeping with his Sergeant wouldn’t bode well for anyone, it could get them in a lot of trouble, Price too since he knows that they’re closer than just friends and they both had reputations to uphold, Ghost more so than him. 

“It’ll be fine, the door is locked isn’t it?” he tries to reassure, and Ghost takes a look at the door handle, even reaches out to grab it, checking for sure that it wasn’t going to open.

“No offense to you or anything Ghost, but I doubt you’d get many visitors beside me, Price or Gaz.” Ghost huffs at that and then walks over, taking off his own gear and laying it neatly onto the desk. 

“Simon,” says Ghost gruffly and Soap hums, victorious in his efforts to make Ghost comfortable enough for his first name to be used.

“Okay Simon,” he says in response, and Ghost walks over, laying down stiffly before letting his body relax into the thin, military grade mattress. 

“Not going to lose the mask?” 

“You get what you get Sergeant.”

“So cruel L.t.” Ghost hums, and his eyes fall shut, but he doesn’t sleep, instead they lay there in a comfortable silence, their limbs pressed together and Soap presses his fingers over the creases in Ghost’s shirt. 

“I’ll have to pack soon.”

“I can help you.”

“You don’t have to, Johnny.” 

“I want to, Simon.” Ghost sighs in defeat, knowing how stubborn the Scottish man is and Soap sits up, popping his neck.

“Shall we get started?”

They have him packed in 15 minutes, and he disappears into his bathroom to shower, so Soap sits on his bed, fiddling with one of Ghost’s knives while he waits. The water shuts off and a few minutes later the door opens.

He’s back in what he wears out in the field, but Soap is surprised by the lack of facial covering, and Ghost stares at him with only a fresh layer of grease paint around his eyes.

Even after their everything, Soap’s only seen his face a few times, the amount small enough to count on one hand. Soap’s convinced it will never get old seeing his face. 

“Have a staring problem Johnny?” he asks, walking across the room like he’s not the most beautiful human Soap’s ever seen, the audacity of this man knows no bounds. 

“When you look like that I can’t help it.” Ghost huffs and turns his back to Soap, slipping his vest on and gathering his weapons, tucking them into his belt and his vest. Soap stands, walking up behind him and he slips his arms around Ghost’s waist, the other tensing up at the contact.

“Relax Simon, it’s going to be fine.”

“What if it’s not?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You know what I mean.” Soap does know what he means. What if one of them doesn't come back one day? What if that stray bullet that missed them the day before hits them the day after? In this line of work, living until you're even in your 20’s isn’t guaranteed, and they both know that. 

“Simon I don’t-” A knock rings through the room and they separate immediately, Soap doesn’t even see Ghost put his mask back on at record speed.

“Ghost! Your rides going to be here soon!” Ghost doesn’t respond, grabbing his bag from the ground and heading towards the door. Soap grabs the strap on his duffel bag.

“I’ll see you in two months Simon.” Ghost stands there, before turning to him, his gaze full of unease and anxiety.

“I…” Ghost’s eyes shut as his words die in his throat, and Soap smiles at him.

“I love you too, Simon.” 

—

Soap wakes to the sound of beeping, and he knows that sound better than any at this point. He winds up in the medical bay more than his own room at this rate. 

The lights are blinding when he first cracks his gaze open, and he winces, letting his eyes adjust before opening them again. His chest hurts like a bitch, and he lifts his shirt up just a bit to see the bandages peeking out from under them. 

He remembers the mission. He doesn’t even recall what they were up to in Mexico again, something about a Cartel. The only thing he really remembers in vivid detail is the knife sliding between his ribs and poking at his lung. That’s probably why he’s sitting with an oxygen cord on his face.

The other thing he remembers is the blood loss, and Ghost’s face when he caught sight of him stumbling towards extraction with a bloodied hand to his chest. The panic and fear behind those cold eyes, the shrillness of his voice as he yelled for medical assistance. 

Fuck, Ghost was not going to take this well. He’d been trying to avoid getting hurt around the other, he just messed up big time. 

The privacy curtain he’s behind is pushed to the side and Price walks in, a folder in hand and when he looks up he huffs.

“Wow, you’re not dead.”

“Good to see you too Captain,” he retorts and Price only hums in response.

“Do us all a favor McTavish, stop getting hurt, you’re really giving all these nurses a headache having to deal with you so many times a month.”

“Yeah, yeah get to the point on why you’re here,” he says and Price taps the folder in his hand. 

“Just came to say the mission was a success, Ghost managed to eliminate the target before they got across the boarder.” Soap sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. At least the mission wasn’t royally fucked.

“Where’s Ghost anyways? He’s usually here when I wake up.” Price looks up from his papers, and sighs. 

“Pretty sure he’s still in the gym, let me be the first to tell you; he’s not in a very good mood. I attempted to talk to him about it and got stonewalled immediately,” confesses Price, a tone of tiredness seeping into his words. 

“You think the nurses would mind if I took a trip down to the gym right now?” he asks, wearing a grin and it’s Price’s turn to rub his face. 

“They already loathe you.”

“It’ll be fineee.” 

It very much wasn’t fine, his chest ached as he walked down the halls, gripping his side like it would help lessen the throbbing pain. He really should’ve waited until his next dose of pain meds, but that wasn’t going to be for another hour and he didn’t feel like having to hunt down Ghost.

The gym doors come into view and he pushes them open, immediately greeted by the sound of fists meeting the leather of a punching bag. Soap walks further in, peering around some other equipment to gaze at the only other person in the gym.

Ghost was stripped down of his gear, just in a black shirt with his sleeves rolled up and a pair of sweatpants. His mask was replaced by a simple black balaclava, no skull in sight. He was repeatedly attacking the punching bag in front of him.

A left hook, a right jab, a ruthless uppercut that Soap hopes he’s never a victim of during sparring. To anyone else Ghost would just be practicing, which he doesn’t need to do, but Ghost was distracting himself. He didn’t even notice Soap when the door creaked open and he stepped in, he was usually so aware of his surroundings. The fact he even had his back to the door was surprising. 

Soap leans off the door, and walks further in, keeping his distance to not scare the very large man a few feet away. 

“Hey Ghost,” he tests and Ghost’s shoulders jolt almost unnoticeably, but he turns a moment later.

“What the fuck are you doing out of medical?” he asks, clearly annoyed before going back to punching the bag with so much force Soap swears it was about to fall to the ground.

“Yeah, I came to make sure you’re okay,” he mutters, sitting down on a weight bench and rubbing his side, the sound of his fist pounding into the leather being the only sound between them. 

“Ghost come on, stop for a minute? Please?” Ghost doesn’t budge and Soap raises an eyebrow at him. Sure Ghost can be difficult, but this was a bit different. 

“Ghost, come on.” Still nothing. Soap stands up, brows furrowed and he makes his way over, placing a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, but the taller pulls away, moving away from him. Soap ignores the pang in his chest at that. 

“Ghost-” He cuts off by Ghost turning to stare at him. His eyes are cold, no hint of the normal warmth when they look at each other and the words die in his throat.

“Leave would you?” he mutters, the words sting like they were laced with poison, hurting more than the stab wound ever did. Despite the pain, he knows what Ghost is doing, trying to push him away. They’re back to square one. 

Trying to get Ghost to let him in was harder than any mission, and Ghost’s attempts at pushing him away ripped through him like a bullet, but he stayed because he could see the way Ghost was hurting, how he pushed him away because he was so scared of getting attached and then losing someone else. 

Most people considered Ghost fearless in the field, not even afraid of his own death, but anyone who knew Simon knew he had a few fears. Snakes was one of them, he loathes them for reasons Soap still doesn’t know yet. Small spaces too, once they had to hide in a closet while on a mission and Ghost had never shaken so much. The other is attachment, getting close to someone who has no guarantee they’ll be alive the next day. 

It took him months to work around Ghost’s labyrinth of walls, and now he’s been dumped back at the entrance. He just hopes he’ll be able to get back through right away, because Soap can see the blood from the way Ghost’s knuckles have split from punching the bag far too hard and far too much. 

“Simon,” he tries and Ghost’s eye twitches, but they keep their eyes locked. 

“It’s not going to work.” It’s not going to work, he won’t let Ghost push him away, not ever. 

“Go back to medical, Sergeant.” 

“No can do L.t.” Soap steps closer, Ghost doesn’t move.

“What’s wrong?” Ghost breaks eye contact to look around the room, to see if anyone was around. Ghost turns on his heel and walks towards the locker room, and Soap follows, understanding he would want a more private place for this. They enter and Soap locks the door behind him.

“Soap, please just go back to medical, I’ll visit you in a few hours.” Like hell he was going back to medical to let Ghost stew in his own head for hours. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says and Ghost turns to him, the coldness in his gaze still there, but there’s something almost desperate in a way, like he’s pleading with him to leave, but Soap won’t.

“I’m not leaving you alone Simon, sit down would you?” Ghost eyes one of the benches, but doesn’t make a move towards it, so he does instead. Sitting down with a grunt and then tapping the space next to him. He won’t force it, but he will wait for as long as he needs to.

Eventually, after what feels like forever, Ghost sits down next to him, his body tense and his head is bowed down. 

“Thought I was gonna lose you,” he says after a few minutes of silence and Soap doesn’t know what to say to that. 

“I don’t want to lose you Johnny.” Soap puts his arm around Ghost’s back, his hand settling on his hip and Ghost tenses under the touch, he always does. Soap waits patiently for the day he doesn’t.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says, and the room falls quiet as they bask in each other’s presence for a while before Soap catches sight of his knuckles again. He stands and walks over to his locker, putting in the combination and shifting through his things before finding the small first aid kit he makes sure to carry around. 

He sits down again, and wordlessly holds his hand out, and Ghost places his hand in Soap’s a moment later. He observes the split skin on his knuckle, frowning at the bruises across his knuckles and the blood coating his skin. 

He cradles his hand, gently wiping away the blood and disinfecting the small wound. Ghost never flinches once. He wraps bandages around his knuckles all the way down to his wrist. When he’s finished he rubs his thumb over the bandages. 

He repeats the process on his left hand and Ghost pulls away both his hands. Soap watches him stare at the bandages with a lidded gaze, and his shoulders have relaxed, their thighs touching. 

“What do you see in me?” The question catches Soap off guard, and he falters for a moment giving Ghost a chance to keep going. 

“You’re so much of everything I’m not, you could have anyone,” he pauses and looks over at Soap, “so why me?” 

Soap stares, caught off guard by the suddenness of the question. A lot of answers pass through his mind. There’s a lot of things he could say, he could say because he loves his determination and courage, or he could say he’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. That he’s soft, and sweet when they’re alone together. He could mention the little things like how when he’s focused he’ll start tapping the table or the tip of his tongue will stick out and it’s so fucking cute. 

Or he could talk about how he loves the way his eyes express every emotion he doesn’t show on his face, or how he lays across him when they share a bed like a dog. The way his eyes light up when he sees a cat or a dog because he loves them even if he’ll never admit it. He loves the way he leads his teams, with unwavering leadership and strength. 

There’s a lot of things he could say, he could go on for hours about all the reasons, but Ghost is here now, and he’s looking to Soap for an answer. 

“I don’t want anyone else Simon, because I fell in love with you. ” Ghost’s eyes change, widening slightly, and his eyebrows are furrowed, like he’s having trouble comprehending what he said. Soap smiles at him and raises his hands, letting them rest next to the neck of his shirt, the tips of his fingers finding the spot where his balaclava ended. 

He waits for Ghost to tell him to stop, grab his wrists, do anything that signals he doesn’t want this, but he never does. Soap lifts the cloth, peeling it away from his skin, ignoring the sweat that’s trapped under it. He pulls it off until it’s Simon looking at him, not Ghost. 

His face has a slight sheen from sweat, and dirt still coats his skin from their mission, but he couldn’t care less, he hasn’t showered either. He discards the mask, and puts his hands on Ghost’s nape. Ghost stares at him, his mouth hangs open slightly, at a loss for words, and Soap chuckles quietly at his expression. He pulls Ghost in, but he places a hand on Soap’s chest. 

“Not here,” he whispers and Soap nods, his hands drop from his neck and move up to his jawline, cupping his face and Ghost melts into the touch, his eyes slipping shut. 

“I love you too Simon.”

—

Soap grumbles as he searches through the cupboards for something to eat in the empty house. Ghost would get here soon enough and they could finally relax after this shitshow of a day. 

They’d gotten separated on their way to the safe house, Ghost had them hot in his trail and decided he’d get them redirected, so Soap was given the orders of going ahead and clearing the safe house. 

The house itself was okay, the walls were

sturdy and the roof wasn’t caving in, so he’d say it was better than what they were normally stuck with. He’d have to thank Price for a place that wasn’t crumbling to dust in real time.

Soap slams the last cupboard shut, and he walks back into the living room, grabbing his radio.

“Ghost, what’s your status?” he asks into his radio, and unease begins to settle in when he’s met with static. 

“Ghost, how copy?” he asks again, only to be met with silence once again and his brows furrow. He knows Ghost was getting them off their asses, but he didn’t expect him to be this long. He shouldn’t be this long. 

“Gho-”

“I copy,” comes Ghost’s voice through the radio and Soap only feels himself grow more anxious at the tone of his voice. It’s almost shaky, and his breathing was heavy.

“Ghost, sitrep.” 

“Got them off our tail, heading to the safe house now. Out.” The sound of static cuts off before Soap can even ask what’s actually going on and Soap picks up his rifle and stands guard by the front door. He’d go after him, but who the hell knows where Ghost was at this point in time. He could have Price track his location, but then it’d leave the safe house vulnerable. 

“Goddammit,” he mutters, pacing through the room. 20 more minutes of silence pass and Soap grabs his radio.

“Price, I need you to track Ghost, he’s gone dark and should be here by now.” The radio crackles to life and Price’s voice echoes through the room.

“Copy, he’s moving towards your location now, slow pace, but nothing looks off. Keep an eye out.” 

“Copy that.” He releases his radio and continues his pacing. Ghost was a capable individual, everyone they’ve ever worked with knows that, and yet, he couldn’t help but worry. 

Ghost was still human despite what others thought, and humans aren’t perfect.

After another 30 minutes pass, a loud noise echoes through the home, and Soap looks out the window, seeing the familiar frame of Ghost outside the door was more than relieving. He scrambles off the couch and reaches the door, tugging it open without much thought and Ghost staggers forward, like he’d been leaning on the door to support his weight.

A large palm settles on Soap’s shoulder, an attempt at steadying himself. Soap doesn’t hesitate to put an arm around his back.

“Are you injured?” Ghost grunts, and gives him a look that reads ‘Are you serious?’

“Okay yeah, dumb question. Let’s get you onto the couch then, okay?” Ghost grunts again, and Soap takes note that he’s limping, and he has his hand on his side, but last time he checked someone’s side shouldn’t be wet. 

He drops Ghost on the couch and Ghost groans. Soap looks at his hand and scowls at the blood coating his palm. 

“Okay, do not lie to me, where are you hurt?” He’s already digging through the stuff he managed to find in the house and what he had on him. Some bandages, probably out of date disinfectant and some gauze. Not a lot, but it’d have to work. 

The lack of words coming from Ghost’s mouth makes him look back up and Ghost’s head is leaned back, his chest rising and falling heavier than it should be.

“Oh hell no, wake the fuck up,” he hops up and stands over him, and he grabs Ghost’s face shaking him and Ghost snaps back up, his body jolting. 

“Fuckin’ get off me Johnny,” he practically slurs and Soap sighs.

“Ghost, what happened?”

“Got hit by a car.” Soap falls silent, surprise evident on his features before he shakes it away. This could be a lot more complicated then. Fuck, Ghost walked that fucking far after being hit by a literal car? No wonder it took him so long.

“You, Simon, are terrifying sometimes,” he mutters and Ghost huffs out what sounds like a gargled chuckle before his head lolls to the side. 

“No, stay awake,” he instructs.

“When did you start givin’ the orders?” asks Ghost, his tone clearly one of mockery, and Soap ignores him in favor of grabbing a rag from the kitchen and puts a chipped porcelain bowl under the faucet, hoping to whatever higher beings there might be that water comes.

He turns the handle, it creaks with every movement, but a few drops of water spill out before a steady stream begins to flow. It fills the bowl to 

 the brim, and Soap spills a bit on his way back to the couch.

“Okay, time to get your vest and shirt off.” He reaches over, and loosens the straps on his vest, pulling it over his head without much protesting, Ghost’s arms seem to be uninjured for the most part.

Only when he reaches to grab the hem of Ghost’s shirt does he get a reaction, one of Ghost’s hands grabbing his wrists so fast he actually jumps. Unsure, almost fearful eyes stare at him, clouded from pain. Soap’s brows furrow until he remembers what Ghost had hinted at one night when they attempted to go further.

It wasn’t much to go off of, just a few words, but Soap wasn’t stupid, he saw the way the man avoided touch like the plague, and how the mention of sex made him uncomfortable. He never openly expressed his discomfort, but Soap’s gotten good at reading him, so he never brought it up again. 

He doesn’t move his hand, instead he meets Ghost’s eyes, silently asking him if it was okay. 

Soap hears a shuddering breath escape from behind the mask, making the man’s chest stutter as it rises and falls. Then Ghost nods.

“Go ahead Johnny.” The words are stern.

“Are you sure?”

“I trust you.” The words hit harder than they’re probably supposed to. Of course Soap knew Ghost trusted him, it was obvious, but he’s never said it before, so Soap can’t help the way a smile tugs on his lips in response.

“Okay L.t.” He tugs Ghost’s shirt up, making sure to go slow to make sure he would have enough time to tell Soap no if he wanted to. With every inch of skin uncovered, he can see the bruises beginning to form on Ghost’s skin, favoring his left side more than his right. Clusters of deep purple blossom across his left arm and the side of his body, bleeding onto his back. There’s a laceration on his side as well, and Soap wonders how he got it, but doesn’t bother asking.

His priority now was to fix him up best they can, he’d have to let Price know Ghost was out of commission. He can’t do much about bruising, but he does begin to clean the wound on his side, apologizing when he watches Ghost’s hands twitch when he presses down the disinfectant. He packs the wound before wrapping it the best he can, afterall, he wasn’t a medic. Ghost has his head thrown over the back of the sofa and he has a death grip on the armrest. 

“Soap, how copy?” Soap grabs his radio and briefly stops applying pressure to Ghost’s side and the man relaxes into the aged cushion.

“Solid, we have an issue though. Ghost’s injured, out of commission.” 

“What happened?” 

“He said he was hit by a car, sir.” There’s a brief pause before Price speaks again, and Soap would have laughed if it wasn’t such a risky situation. 

“Medical will be on standby when you get back, keep him alive until then Sergeant.” 

The radio clicks off and Soap sighs, running a hand over his face. 

“How’s the damage on your face?” he asks and Ghost grunts.

“I’m fine, Sergeant.”

“You are not fine Lieutenant.” Ghost lifts his head up and glares down at him, no real heat behind his eyes. 

“Glare at me all you want sir , I wasn’t the one hit by a car.” 

“Smartass,” grumbles the masked man, but he doesn’t fight it as Soap presses his hands into his skin, feeling for internal damage. While doing so, his eyes rake over Ghost’s bare torso. He’s never seen the man’s entire torso before, it was a myriad of scars, new and old. 

He always showered in his room, and at other bases where he didn’t have his own room he showered after the communal showers were left empty. He was never seen without that mask or some type of clothing covering almost every inch of his skin. Gloves, masks, a hoodie, long sleeves, always long pants. He gets why now.

Scars of all proportions litter his skin, some are jagged, like whatever caused it tore through his skin with no remorse whatsoever. There’s an especially large one where his ribs are, and when Soap’s fingers graze over the spot Ghost shudders, his breath stuttering. Soap moves away from there seconds after.

Some of the other’s are clean, neat lines that are sickeningly familiar to what a doctor does when performing surgery, but there’s far too many of them to be from surgeries. He avoids touching them. More scars trail down his arms, and below his waist line, some peek around his back as well. 

Each pale line that Soap lays his eyes on makes his stomach churn with some unknown emotion. Anger that someone had the nerve to do this to him? Guilt that Simon had to deal with all this on his own? He doesn’t know.

A sadness settles over him at that thought, the thought of why he was so closed off, why he didn’t trust easily and was willing to do whatever to complete a mission. 

Soap doesn’t know what happened, probably never will, not in detail at least, but he knows he won’t ever let it happen again. He’s not going to let Simon go it alone anymore, he promised that the night Ghost let him in for the very first time, their lips touching in the privacy of Ghost’s room. 

“Soap?” Soap hadn’t realized he’d been staring until Ghost places a gloved hand on his arm. 

“Sorry Simon,” he mutters and Ghost keeps his gaze trained on him, Soap ignores it, and begins to pull his shirt back down. He stands up, his joints creaking from kneeling for so long. 

“I’m surprised your arm wasn’t hurt besides some bruising,” he says absentmindedly and Ghost shrugs.

“Guess I got lucky for once,” he murmurs, voice thick with pain and Soap sits down next to

him, leaning into the worn couch cushions. The silence is comfortable, both their breaths are the only noise in the old room. Ghost’s labored breaths mixed with Soap’s even breathing. 

“You should rest Simon.”

“Not supposed to sleep with a concussion Johnny.”

“Yours isn’t that bad, and you’re exhausted. I’ll wake you up every few hours if I need to, okay?” He can feel Ghost’s eyes on him, and he meets them, staring defiantly at the stubborn man next to him.

“What if something happens?”

“I can handle myself Ghost, no need to worry.” He tells him not to worry despite knowing Ghost will never not worry. A sad truth, one that Soap has grown used to. He hopes one day maybe he won’t have to worry so much, but that day is nowhere near right now. 

“Sleep for me? Please?” Ghost’s eyes flicker to his discarded tactical vest, and Soap thinks he’s going to ask for a weapon, but instead he lets his eyes fall shut. 

“Don’t die Johnny.” 

“I think that’s my line Simon.” Ghost huffs, shifting slightly with a pained grunt before he leans into Soap’s side, and Soap can feel the coldness from the man through his shirt. He’s always ran cold unlike Soap who was like a heater, it’s especially useful when the rooms back at base get chilly during the colder seasons.

“Johnny, I…” Ghost’s voice trails off, and he’s picking at the hem of his shirt, but it’s alright, Soap already knows what he means. He always does.

“Love you too, Simon.” 

—

If there was one thing Ghost hated, it was mandatory leave. He hated being out of the field, forced to go back to a place he doesn’t belong anymore. He was a weapon of war, he didn’t belong in a flat doing mundane tasks. That was for the people whose hands weren’t drenched in blood.

Price was insistent, apparently getting hit by a car was enough to warrant forced leave, he wasn’t even allowed to stay on base. He’s known Price for a long time, he knows this was Price’s way of saying take a fucking break.

He didn’t need a break, he needed to be out there, doing what he was good at. He wasn’t useful to anyone or anything when he was alone in his small apartment. It’s only been two days since his leave started and he was already bored out of his mind in his small apartment. 

It was a single bedroom flat with a fairly decent sized kitchen and a living room. It wasn’t full of much, he had the bare minimum needed to live in the space. 

Unlike most homes where pictures lined the walls and there was signs that someone had actually lived there, his was empty. No personal items existed in the space. His home didn’t radiate the warmth a home should, it didn’t look inviting. It looked cold, and like it was for sale, like no one had lived in it despite it being his flat for easily 5 years now.

When he left the place was left spotless, but when he was here the place tended to get a little messy. Piles of clothing or a small stack of dishes accumulating in the sink. The faint smell of cigarettes and cigarette buds littering the floor. Those were the telltale signs that someone was actually present in the flat. 

He takes a drag of his cigarette, staring pointedly at the brace around his knee and the wrap on his wrist. Apparently he had been hurt more than he assumed when that car rammed into him. He assumes adrenaline is what kept him going until they got back to base.

He had a fractured kneecap, forced to wear a brace because of it. The damned thing limited his movement to an annoying amount and he felt even more vulnerable than normal. That along with a few cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, and some serious bruising. 

Ghost felt vulnerable, like he was weakened, and he was. He couldn’t bend his knee fully to even walk correctly, forced to limp around his small flat. His right wrist was compromised, and it was his dominant hand. 

Ghost hated it, he hated all of it. He was pulled from duty leaving Soap on his own since they were almost always teamed up together for missions. Anxiety claws at his insides, and he winces when he tugs on his stitches while trying to stand. 

He hasn’t eaten much since returning, his appetite was weak to begin with, and with Soap not here to pester him about going to the food hall constantly, he didn’t care much about eating. He’d rather be doing the exercises for his knee, so he could get back as soon as possible. 

Despite this, he finds himself limping miserably into his barren kitchen, using the countertops as a crutch to get the weight off his leg. He’d be stuck here for a month and a half, and he was already doing the bare minimum. He’ll have to get back at Price when he gets the chance. 

He’s grabbing a bottle of water from his fridge when the sound of a knock cuts through the silence. A chill runs down his spine and he flicks out a knife before he even thinks about it, his body running on pure instinct. The only person that knows where he lives is Price, it’s not even listed in his file, so who is at his goddamn door at 11 pm on a Tuesday night.

Ghost staggers over to the door, somehow remaining silent, and he doesn’t stand in front of it. If someone were to shoot through the door his chance at being shot from the side of it was significantly lower. Ghost waits, wondering if maybe someone got the wrong apartment number and will scurry off any minute now. 

He isn’t so lucky when another knock comes, this one louder than the last. He tightens his grip on the blade, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He leans over, and he peers through the peephole. Ghost stares, the blade in his grip nearly falling from his grasp before he slowly unlocks the door, and he steps to the side that opens. 

“What the hell,” he deadpans and Soap gives him a grin, but he can see the man’s eyes raking over his form.

“You look like shit L.t.”

“Why are you here McTavish?” he grumbles out, rubbing his face and he realizes he doesn’t have his mask on a moment too late, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. 

“Took some time off, thought I’d come and help out. Looks like you need it, no offense.”

“None taken,” he responds dryly before moving away from the door, and Soap pushes it open. Ghost turns away from him, limping back towards the kitchen to close the fridge and get his water. He hasn’t realized he left it open. 

He feels Soap’s gaze on him, and he vaguely wonders what he’s actually doing here. Price probably sent him knowing Soap would be the one person he wouldn’t kick out. 

“How’s the leg?” asks Soap, and he’s lingering in the doorway to the kitchen, his eyes staring holes into his chest. He doesn’t want Soap here, he doesn’t want him to see any of this. The place is a mess, he’s a mess, Soap shouldn’t spend his time off here. 

Despite that, some small part of him is happy to see Soap, had missed his stupid hair cut and his stupid grin. Missed his thick accent and the warmth he radiated like a bloody heater. Him being here also meant he was safer than he’d be on the field. 

“Did Price send you?” he asks, ignoring Soap’s former question and Soap lets him ignore it in favor of moving further into the kitchen and Ghost watches him lean against the counter, his arms crossed.

“No, he didn’t actually. He approved my leave to visit you because he knows how you get on leave, but that’s it.” Ghost hums, looking in the fridge for things that aren’t even there, trying to avoid Soap’s piercing gaze. 

“Have you been eating?”

“Enough,” he murmurs because he hasn’t not been eating, he’s just had the bare minimum to be able to do his recovery exercises. 

“I’ve eaten less in the field, I’m fine Sergeant.” 

“That’s not what I asked Simon.”

“I’m fine Soap.” Soap gives him a look, but doesn’t push any further, and Ghost feels his shoulders relax when Soap exits the kitchen. 

“Fuck me,” he murmurs, wincing when he puts too much weight on his leg. He limps back out of the kitchen and stops dead in his tracks at the sight of the two pieces of luggage by his door.

“Sorry, I haven’t gotten a room somewhere yet,” explains Soap from his spot near the window that overlooks the street. Ghost turns to him with a furrowed brow. A room? 

“How long are you staying?” 

“Just two weeks, I don’t think I’d be able to stay in a hotel room for the whole month and a half, too many risks come with that.” And yeah, Soap’s spot on about that. Staying in one place too long is a big risk, they all have plenty of enemies. 

Ghost thinks about the hotels in his area, all of them are questionable at best. He’s stayed in every single one of them because sometimes his apartment doesn’t feel safe, so he’ll wind up somewhere else for a few nights. 

There’s a few better one’s but they’re farther away than considered convenient for Soap if he is planning to be with Ghost during most of his leave. Not to mention he can’t rid the visions of Soap being in an unfamiliar place, alone, with the potential of unknown dangers. The next thing he knows words are falling from his lips before he even thinks of it.

“Why not just stay here?” Soap stares at him with a startled expression, clearly not expecting him to have offered him to stay. 

“You want me too?” Ghost bites the inside of his cheek, but he shrugs.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he says like it’s not causing him to want to punch a wall from all the feelings swimming around in his chest. Soap smiles at him with that smile that he’s so undeserving of. Soap makes him feel things he should’ve never been able to feel again.

Somehow this short, loud, Scottish man managed to bring out sides of himself that should have died when he left Simon buried in that desert. They dug their way out of that grave and isn’t that ironic? 

“Guess I’ll get to save some money, thanks Ghost.” His words hold sincerity, and he walks over to get his luggage. 

“The bedroom is in the back, the bathroom is on the left.” Soap says something, but he’s rubbing his eyes, the back of sleep the past few nights finally getting to him and he doesn’t have stims to keep him awake anymore. 

What did he get himself into?

…

Hell apparently, that’s what he got himself into. Endless suffering, unfathomable anguish. There’s not enough adjectives to describe the feelings of dread and anxiety swimming through his head. Soap had offered to pay for breakfast at a cafe down the street, not a far walk by any means, but Ghost was never one for social situations. 

The walk wasn’t bad, he could go as far as saying he enjoyed the fresh air and the chance to actually stretch his legs. The cafe was different however, it was early, a work day, so it was busy. People crowded the small space, pushing up against other people like it wasn’t rude to invade someone’s space like that. 

Soap didn’t seem too bothered and even apologized when someone would bump into him, quick to reassure the other person it was alright even if they never said anything back. Ghost’s hands itch towards the two knives he has tucked into his sleeves. He needs to get out before he accidentally stabs someone.

“Soap- just get me whatever, I’m going outside,” he says, turning on his heel and heading towards the door. He’s desperate for the feeling of the mask against his skin, having left it back home because it really does attract too much attention in a place like this. Instead a normal face mask rests on his skin, not covering nearly enough skin. His skin was crawling with every brush of another person. 

Despite the jacket and gloves he was wearing he could feel every touch like it was skin to skin and he hates it, so he pushes his way outside, walking to the left to one of the outdoor seats and he falls into the seat as ungracefully as possible. 

His leg aches, and he pushes down on the muscles that aren’t covered by his brace, massaging the skin and he lets out a sigh. Now it’s a waiting game, and eventually Soap comes out, holding two cups and two small bags.

“They were out of a lot already, so I just got what was left,” he explains, sitting down at the table and handing Ghost a cup. He takes it and knows it’s coffee immediately. He’s not much of a coffee drinker, but he doesn’t mind. 

“Thanks Johnny,” he says, picking up the bag and pulling a buttered croissant out. He may not like coffee much, but you can’t go wrong with a plain croissant. Pulling down his mask he begins to eat while Johnny talks, and he listens to every word, occasionally giving his input. 

He likes when Johnny talks. He knows that Ghost isn’t much of a conversationalist, even when it’s just them so he takes up the job. Everything that falls from his lips is something Ghost cherishes, he listens for when he mentions things he likes or dislikes. He listens when he talks about sports and how he used to play. 

Ghost has learned more about the man from his blabber than anything else, he remembers key information like how he favors his mom, he went to catholic school and grew up that way but isn’t actually religious anymore, what type of rifle he prefers over others, the flavor of taffy he likes, how he hates the smell of Price’s cigars, but doesn’t mind the smell of cigarettes. Ghost doesn’t at all understand that last one. 

“What do you do around here anyway Ghost?” Ghost shrugs, he really doesn’t do a lot when he’s on leave. 

“I stay home.”

“So interesting,” remarks Soap, rolling up his trash into a small ball and rolling it across the table. Ghost watches it move across the table’s grating with tired eyes.

“I‘ll take walks, there’s a library down the street I visit. I don’t go on leave enough for me to do much here,” he replies, taking the liberty to roll up his own trash into a ball and push it onto Soap’s side of the table. Soap grins and picks up the trash and begins to roll them both. 

“How about we go grocery shopping?” Ghost’s brows furrow at the suggestion. He hadn’t expected it, especially from someone like Soap.

“Shopping, really?”

“Sure, why not? Good exercise for your leg, and it gets your stubborn ass out of there.” Ghost rolls his eyes, leaning back in his seat with a huff. 

“Being at home is better than out here.” 

“Not when you don’t take care of yourself enough to actually still maintain a somewhat healthy lifestyle.”

“You and Price are annoyingly similar.” Soap noticeably perks up at his words, it nearly makes him chuckle. 

“Price?” 

“Hm, yeah. When we first started working together.”

“Wait oh my god, I forgot he knew you before me or Gaz did.”

“He used to try so hard to get me to talk to him, I used to talk less than I do now.”

“That’s possible ?” 

“Oh haha,” he mocks and Soap lets out a fond laugh at his sarcasm. 

“So, did he ever get The Ghost to warm up to him?”

“He calls me Simon doesn’t he?”

“I can’t imagine how that worked.”

“It was a mess, he was very adamant I speak to him. He was a higher rank than me, so when I ignored him it really got under his skin.” Ghost leans back in his chair. He remembers those moments fondly when looking back on them now. He would forever be grateful to the man.

“Price wasn’t scared of me, I found it intriguing.”

“Is that why you took a shine to me then, hm? Because I wasn’t scared of The Ghost ?” 

“I found it odd again, especially your willingness to ignore my rank at times. Most people cowered away when I’d so much as look at them. None engaged me in conversation besides professional topics.You were different, you were bold, I like bold.” Soap cocks his head at that, a smirk on his lips and Ghost tears his eyes away from his smug expression.

“Price was the first person I trusted in a very long time,” he adds, his voice slipping into a more somber tone. He remembers the nights he and Price spent together since they were often partners. 

Price knew of his past, he knew almost every detail. His nightmares had been more common back then, the wounds Roba left behind fresher, and Price kept them a secret. He helped remove Simon Riley from the records, leaving only his name and his callsign, everything else buried under layers and layers of red tape and black marker.

Price was someone he’d trust even in a situation like what happened with Graves.

“Glad you had someone before me,” says Soap earnestly, and Ghost hums, rubbing his fingers along the rim of his cup.

“What will we get at the store?” he asks because he doesn’t wish to speak anymore on the topic, and he knows Soap can take a hint, he was surprisingly good at knowing when to back off, it was nice. He bitterly thinks many of his past therapists should take note of when to not pry. 

“Hm, just some basics. Something actually edible and filling sounds like a good start, and no, oatmeal and granola bars are not being bought.” Ghost watches him talk about what to get, talking about his favorite snacks, how they could pick up some alcohol to avoid having to make the trip to a bar.

“What do you like to eat Simon?”

“Whatever you want me to eat Johnny.” 

“You might want to take that back before I have you drinking coffee for the rest of the time we’re here.”

“I take it back then.”

“That’s what I thought.” Soap stands up, stretching his limbs and Ghost follows suit, grumbling curse words under his breath and Soap laughs at him playfully before they begin their trek to the store. 

…

The store isn’t nearly as busy as the cafe, which Soap is grateful for, he could see how uncomfortable Ghost was at the cafe. He hopes the man feels better here where there’s only a few people in the aisles. 

Ghost was hovering over him, standing much closer than he normally would at base, and Soap welcomes it. He likes the side of Ghost that’s more than what he shows himself to be around his fellow soldiers. 

Soap picks up anything he thinks could make their time here a little more colorful. It was December, so decorations were littered around the store and if Soap snuck a few small decorations into the buggy then so be it. He was gonna make Ghost’s very sad flat look a bit more festive even if it killed him. And knowing Ghost it might actually kill him.

He’s grabbing a bag of chips when Ghost leans on him and he feels himself tense up under the weight of him because Ghost is a unit of a man. Soap looks up questioningly at the man leaning on him and he sees Ghost’s eyes closed. This man is quite literally resting on him, in a public space. His heart stutters at the sight. 

Ghost is a very pretty individual, a perfect mix of handsome and pretty, it was honestly odd. He hadn’t known what to expect under the mask, and what he saw had somehow fit well and yet was so drastically different at the same time. 

The way his blonde eyelashes fell perfectly on each other, how his dark eyes contrasted his lashes in the perfect way. The few scars that littered his face, one cutting through his lip and another that runs from the bottom of his left cheek down the side of his throat about three inches. His hair fell onto his forehead, hiding a scar at his hairline. It all looked so beautiful to Soap.

He’s brought back when Ghost leans on him a little too much and he nearly stumbles, making Ghost backup, now back to hovering. He vaguely wonders why he suddenly did that, he’s never usually the one to initiate conflict.

“You okay?” Ghost’s eyes find him, and he doesn’t answer verbally, but his eyes say enough so they keep going, and Ghost keeps hovering. It’s kinda comforting. He knows paranoia like the back of his hand, they all do, but having Ghost looming over him like a protective dog was nice. 

Occasionally, the man’s large hands brushed against his skin and he’d momentarily lean into Ghost’s touch, watching how Ghost’s eyes would widen slightly or how his head would tilt to the side like a curious cat. 

They’ve never been able to do these things before, too paranoid of being spotted, so when Ghost comes up behind him, and puts his chin atop Soap’s head while he’s standing there, Soap wishes for anything to have a mirror because he wants to see Ghost’s face so badly. 

“Comfortable?” he asks and Ghost hums. If Soap stands there at the counter just a tad longer than he should, no one needs to know. By the time they’re done their buggy is full and Ghost has a hand on Soap’s shoulder, and furrowed brows. 

“Do you want to go sit down by the exit while I check out?” Ghost shakes his head, and Soap doesn’t ask again, moving up to the register. The lady is nice, mid 40’s maybe, and she’s being friendly, so Soap keeps the conversation going. She asks if they’re visiting because she’s never seen them before and he says yes just to avoid any questions about it. 

He’s paying when he sees her attention shift from him to Ghost, who’s leaning on the buggy like his life depends on it. He’ll have to get a cab to get home, not wanting Ghost to be on his leg any longer. 

“You have beautiful eyes, young man,” she says earnestly, and Soap looks over at Ghost. He nearly laughs at the shocked expression he’s wearing, eyes blown wide with uncertainty and he blinks a few times, his cheeks are probably bright red under his face mask. 

He’s going to answer from him before Ghost’s expression goes soft, soft like when they’re alone together and Soap says something that hits Ghost just right. He’s never seen him do it anywhere else. 

“Thank you,” he says and she smiles at him. Soap can’t take his eyes off Ghost while he finishes paying, even as he says goodbye his eyes are glued to that fond expression he’s still wearing. 

Despite the fondness, there’s something sad about the look, something more somber. They wait outside the store on a bench, sitting close enough that their thighs are touching. Ghost doesn’t say anything, so Soap starts instead. 

“She was nice, hm?” 

“Yes, she reminded me of someone.” If that didn’t get Soap’s curiosity going he didn’t know what would, and Ghost stares forward, his eyes glazed over like he’s stuck in his head, but still present. 

“Who?” he asks quietly, placing a hand on Ghost’s thigh and his eyes close for a moment. 

“My mother.” 

…

Soap lays in Ghost’s bed, the other is next to him, stiff as a board. Nothing unusual, but he did seem more tense than normal. Soap watches the rise and fall of Ghost’s chest with lidded eyes, the strings of sleep beginning to lull him into unconsciousness. He shifts, trying his best not to wake the very light sleeper next to him. He ends up on his back, staring up at Ghost’s gray ceiling. 

Soap thinks back to the past few days. Ghost’s mannerisms are slightly different outside of base, it’s really interesting. They’re small things, like how Ghost hovers around him when they were in the store, he seems a bit more open too, talking about Price, mentioning his mother. Soap smiles at the thought of Ghost trusting him even more, and he vaguely wonders if it’s just being away from base that’s doing this. 

They’re both so paranoid of their superiors and other soldiers to do anything that could at all be seen as suspicious. They don’t have to worry about prying eyes here, so Ghost touches him more, and it’s sweet, Soap’s going to miss it when they head back to base after Ghost’s leave, he wonders if maybe he could convince the man to stay in his room some nights. No one barges in, and with the door locked they should be fine. 

Soap looks over when Ghost’s breath hitches slightly and he turns to him. His once peaceful expression has changed into a pinched brow and a slight frown. Soap’s no stranger to nightmares, he has his own, and he’s seen Ghost jolt awake during missions after one. He looked like he was in pain though, his hands twitching, but his body doesn’t move, still a rod of tension and Soap’s brows furrow.

“Ghost?” He shakes him slightly, only eliciting a grunt from the man. Soap props  himself up on his elbows and Ghost mumbles something Soap doesn’t catch. In fact, Ghost has started mumbling more, and Soap leans in against his better judgment to listen. 

He barely catches anything, all his words too slurred, but he does catch one sentence.

“Don’t touch me.” 

It’s one single sentence, but his chest feels like it’s caved in, and he sits up fully. Nightmares we’re risky, especially with someone like Ghost. A nightmare like this shouldn't be disturbed, he’s only twitching slightly and mumbling, he’s not thrashing or anything. 

Therefore he should just let it run its course, and yet, he wants to shake him awake and tell him he’s okay. That no one’s going to touch him, that he’s safe with Soap back home. Soap reaches out slightly, tugging on his sleeve in a gentle manner, not actually enough to wake him up. 

“ Stop please.” And he does, he ceases all movement, because if he’s really that deep in his nightmare could what he’s doing be affecting him? He stops touching him all together. 

This isn’t a warzone, this isn’t a safe house or base, this is Ghost’s apartment, neither of them are in danger, and yet, Soap feels anxiety biting at him. He feels so utterly useless, he wants to wake him up, he really does, but it could risk sending Ghost into a blind panic. 

He’s already injured, and even then Ghost had access to several combat moves that could hurt himself and Soap, so he doesn’t. Soap can’t risk him hurting himself, this would just have to ride out. He climbs over the bottom of the bed and he stands up, eyeing Ghost's face. 

He doesn’t want to see his face twisted in pain, so he turns around and he sits down on the floor, his back to the mattress. This just needs to ride its course, Ghost wasn’t in any real danger, Ghost was fine. 

Soap’s sat through Ghost torturing someone, killed people with his bare hands, watched people die in hoards, but somehow this is making him feel ill. He rubs his eyes, and Ghost keeps mumbling. He keeps saying things that make Soap’s chest ache painfully.

Mumbling for someone to stop, telling someone to get away, that he can’t do this again, that he wants out. Soap’s skin crawls and his mind drifts, he’s seen the scars, he knows first hand the man has trust issues and how bad they are, his past is basically nonexistent. 

It doesn’t take much to put together someone hurt him, badly at that. Mental and physical scars can tell more than words ever can, each one having a tale of their own painted forever on Ghost’s skin. Ghost's voice raises in volume ever so slightly, and he calls out. 

He calls out for Soap, Price, his mother, for anyone to come.

Soap can’t handle it, he stands up, running his hands over his face and he finds himself itching to do something to help, go respond to those calls, those pleas, for help. Instead, he walks over, and he sits on the edge of the bed, right next to Ghost’s torso, and he lightly grabs his hand. 

“I’m here,” he whispers and he keeps his hand firmly planted in Ghost’s palm, squeezing as hard as he can without waking that man. 

He feels tears well in his eyes when Ghost’s fingers wrap around his, and he keeps whispering that he’s here, that he’s not alone, and he keeps doing so even when his mumbling stops, the twitching in his hands ceases, and his face has relaxed, breaths even once more. 

Soap doesn’t stop though, he keeps rubbing circles into Ghost’s hand, and he chokes on a sob before he can even think it through. Soap pulls his other hand up to his mouth, pressing it to his lips in some futile attempt at staying quiet. 

The weight of so much comes down all at once, he he can’t help the tears that drip down his cheeks. He hasn’t cried like this in years, not with such a painful feeling buried deep in his chest, not for someone else’s pain.

He’s cried for fallen comrades, mourned for the death of people close to him, but never has he cried just because he can’t handle the thought of someone having gone through so much pain alone. 

Soap can feel the bed shift, he can hear it creak as Ghost sits up, and he can feel Ghost’s hands on him, clearly hesitating with the contact, but he does it anyway.

“Soap? What’s wrong? What happened?” Soap looks up at him, tears welling in his eyes as he stares at the scars across his face, the ones peeking out from the top of his shirt, the ones that litter his arms and hands, and his chest aches, his stomach churning, his eyes burning. 

He reaches out and places a hand on one of his cheeks, Ghost’s brows furrowing in confusion. 

“You talk in your sleep Simon.” Realization dawns on Ghost’s uncovered face, and Soap watches in real time as something akin to horror fills his eyes. 

“Please, Simon, what happened?” he says, and Ghost’s mouth opens, before shutting, as if at a loss for words. Like he has really been left speechless, so unsure of what to say.

“Who hurt you? Who did this to you?” he asks, pleads , because he wants to know, he wants to know why he was in so much pain, why he has these dreams, who broke the man he loves. 

“Johnny… please, I can’t,” he responds, his voice cracking painfully and Soap wipes his face with his free hand. Ghost looks away in shame, and Soap lifts his face, dragging Ghost’s gaze back to him. 

“I’m sorry, Johnny,” he whispers, his eyes falling shut, and Ghost doesn’t say anything more, but hesitant arms wrap around Soap, pulling him into a loose hug that Soap returns, gripping Ghost’s shirt like if he lets Ghost will be hurt like that again, or he’ll slip away and Soap will never be able to find him.

“I don’t know what to do Simon, you- you mean so much to mean, and I know you’ve gone through terrible things. I’m not stupid, I can see the signs. I can’t handle the thought of you getting hurt so bad. You’ve gone through so much and I-” he cuts himself off when a wave of grief hits him and he feels fucking sick. 

“I love you so much, and I don’t even know what you’ve gone through. I can’t help you, I don’t know how,” he whispers and he watches Ghost’s face, watches as something breaks within the man in front of him. 

“I’m sorry Simon.” Ghost suddenly moves much closer, their knees knocking and he grabs Soap’s face, and there isn’t an ounce of hesitation in his movements, his face has lost it’s heartbroken expression, now one of determination. 

“You staying, you being here, you loving me. That’s enough.” His voice is full of conviction, like he dares Soap to say otherwise.

“It’s more than anyone has ever done for me.” 

Soap takes a moment to understand those words, and then, he crumbles. 

His chest heaves and he lets out a gut wrenching sob, relishing in the warmth of Ghost’s hands, and he reaches up, grabbing Ghost’s wrists loosely within his own. 

“I love you Johnny.” The whole world feels like it stops, and it’s like a burst of air has rushed into his lungs, he almost thinks he’s dreaming, but something about the way Simon is staring at him says otherwise, and Ghost pulls him in, their lips touching.

The kiss is different from anything they did in the past. It’s built from the raw, unbridled emotions they’re both overwhelmed with right now, and Soap melts into it. 

His hands move from Simon’s wrists to his nape, pulling him impossibly closer, wanting nothing more than to hold Simon close and never let go, never let him be alone again. 

When they pull apart it’s because Soap wants to look Simon in his eyes, and he sniffles, a small smile tugging on his lips. 

“You love me?” he asks as playfully as he can with tears still drying on his face, and Simon nods.

“You know I always have.”

“I’m glad I got to hear you say it,” he whispers and he leans in, burying his face in the crook of Simon’s neck, his arms wrapping around him, and Ghost does the same.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel you weren’t enough for me Johnny,” says Simon and Soap huffs. 

“You never did, I just… I hate not being able to understand you fully, not knowing what you went through hurts, but I understand if you never want to tell me. It’s what you went through, I don’t need to know more than that.” 

“I’ll tell you one day, I just can’t right now.” 

“I know, and I’m so proud of you.” He knows how much Ghost has struggled with the words I love you. He could see the way he wanted to say it so many times, but was unable too. 

He’s never felt so proud of him. 

He leans out and plants a kiss on Simon's forehead. 

“I love you too Simon.”