Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s been almost four weeks since Ghost got shot, leave is due to begin in a few days, and Soap is losing his mind.

He runs the tip of his index finger along the side of the blade for the hundredth time in a row, feeling the smoothness of the razor sharp edge that spans the length of the steel.

The blade is a matte black, but where it’s sharpened, the bright silver of the steel shines through. It glints in the early morning sun, rays of yellow gold catching and playing on the margin.

A soft breeze blows unobstructed through the open air, and Soap can feel the coldness of it pass through every stitch of his t-shirt and sweats. He’s certainly not dressed warm enough for the weather, but that wasn’t a priority when he crawled out of bed with a nightmare hours ago.

They've been far and few between lately, the bad dreams, but in some ways that’s harder. If you’re used to it, braced for it, it’s almost rhythmic. The horrifying pictures, the sounds, the feelings—they come and go just a little easier if you’ve grown used to letting everything roll off you.

Sticky is a good word to describe how it is now. Clingy, leaving the residue of adhesive behind on every surface, hard to wash off. Soap can’t admit it to himself quite yet, but he got hit hard last night, and it’s like his skin has been covered in thick syrup ever since. He’s covered right from his head down to his toes, and sitting in the cold hasn’t abated his horrific desire to be washed clean.

He feels like he’s been breathing in steam instead of the crisp morning air around him, every breath feeling heavy as it wrangles its way through him. It’s a herculean effort just to fight for the oxygen that he can, instantly neutralizing any energy he’s building through this downtime.

Soap rests the point of the knife against his thumb and with the fingers of his opposite hand, starts slowly twirling it in place, studying the weapon intently. Trying to focus on something else, anything else—trying to remind his body that it’s safe, that it doesn’t need to do quite so much.

Soap squints appraisingly at a small nick on the very base of the blade.

Ghost gave this knife to him just before the North Africa op. They got ready for the op together, it sort of slowly become this ritual—a gesture of good luck and a goodbye, rolled up into something that acknowledges neither. Soap will check Ghost’s gear, and Ghost will check Soap’s, and it eliminates a silent pre-trip anxiety that Soap’s never had a word for.

And that day, that day, he’d helped Soap pull on his plate carrier. They were in a rush, intel was hot, and they had to move quickly—and Ghost still took the time to slide out Soap’s standard-issue knife.

There wasn’t more than a brief visual examination before the knife was tossed to the desk.

Soap had been mildly confused at the time, and hesitant too.

But Ghost had just shrugged, removed the knife from his own vest, placed it in Soap’s holster, and said—”It’s sharper.”

And it took a few long seconds for Soap to get it. To understand that Ghost was offhandedly giving him his knife, and that he wanted Soap to carry it with him. To have it. For whatever they’d be facing.

Soap can remember his own reaction, an instant, vehement denial as he’d attempted to pull the new knife right back out of his carrier so he could trade it back for the one neither of them would miss. “I don’t want to lose another one of your knives.”

“Lose a thousand of my knives, Johnny.” Ghost’d said dryly. “Especially if it means you come back in one piece. That’s the only thing I give a shit about.”

Soap drenched Ghost’s knife red over that op. He’d sunk it into two enemies when his gun jammed in Amin’s compound. This knife probably saved his life more than once—but, that’s sort of Ghost’s play in general. Protecting Soap whether he’s there or not.

Then the moment he heard Ghost pulled through surgery and was being sent to recovery, he spent two hours meticulously cleaning dried blood out of every crevice of the handle, before painstakingly reviving the edge of the blade from its countless nicks and burrs.

It’s not perfect anymore but it’s still functional. And isn’t that the slogan for everything that’s been happening these last months.

“Been looking everywhere for you.” A soft, low voice calls out.

Soap’s head jerks up, and speak of the devil, Ghost is walking right toward him. Hands loosely in the pocket of his sweats, shoulders partially curled in because he isn’t really dressed for the cool weather either.

“Sorry.” Soap looks back down at the blade, feeling his stomach attempt to split itself in two as it curls low in his abdomen. He feels nervous. Nervous? Something.

“Don’t be.” Ghost says easily, dropping into the grass beside Soap and letting out a sigh. They’re a ways from base, sitting out in a training field that’s half hidden by a few utility buildings—you’d have to be intentionally looking to see anyone sitting here, and maybe that’s why Soap came.

Soap watches Ghost wrap his left arm around his middle, like he’s holding himself together—a subconscious action that Soap’s been noticing him do relatively often since getting shot. “Interesting place to spend your morning.”

“It was quiet.” Soap hums.

“Reckon most of base is quiet this time of day.”

“Aye.” Soap twirls the knife some more, knowing he should probably stop drilling the tip of the blade into his thumb before the skin inevitably breaks. But there’s something comforting about his hands being busy. It’s like there’s a subtle fear in the back of his mind that if he stills, if he stops treading water, he’ll sink right back down to the bottom of his nightmares.

“Bad night?” Ghost murmurs.

There’s no point in lying, especially when it’s about something he doesn’t need to hide. But there’s also something to be said for bottling things up, keeping those thoughts nice and neatly packed away inside his own mind where he can pretend they don’t even exist.

“Yeah.” Soap responds quietly.

A few withering seconds pass, each heavy with their own tantilizing version of silence.

Ghost shifts next to him, readjusting his body so he can lay back in the grass, his one arm staying curled around his middle while the other moves up and behind his head to pillow it.

Soap looks over at him for a beat, his long, drawn out form—relaxed angles and the hair on his arms standing on end from the cold. The way he’s decided not only to show up, but to stay.

He takes inspiration and reclines as well. His back hits the cool earth below and he shivers for it, despite the fact that he’s no more frigid now than he has been all morning. He drops the knife to lay on his stomach and moves his hands to the ground, grasping at the slightly damp grass between his fingers. Absently, he rips out handfuls and lets them sprinkle to the ground below, eyes fixed on the heavens above.

The air smells like rain is coming even though the sky is relatively clear. Almost feels like a spring day despite the fact that it’s late fall—so many contradictions.

“Is the cold helping?”

Soap hums softly. Another sprinkle of grass between his fingers. “Not particularly.”

“Anything that will help?”

“You help.”

He can sense Ghost turn his head, feel his gaze bore into his temple. “And yet, you came out here instead of comin’ to my room.”

“Wasnae gonna interrupt your sleep. You need it.”

“And so do you, Johnny.” Ghost’s voice is soft, tentative.

Soap absently stares up at a single cloud blowing steadily across the pale blue sky and pulls out his dozenth handful of grass.

“What’s that poor grass ever done to you, then?”

“Not a thing.” He responds tiredly. It’s catching up—the three AM wake up and the two or more hours he’s spent sitting out here in the cold.

A warm pinky curls around Soap’s, taking Soap somewhat by surprise. He winds his own more intentionally around Ghost’s, a promise that they won’t speak out loud. Not right now, anyway. “You know you’re always welcome with me, right?” Ghost says hesitantly, like he can barely bring himself to say the words out loud. “At night, whenever, even if I’m asleep. You’re—you can come. To me.”

It's a clunky and endearing way to hear it, but Soap thinks that it makes more of an impact than a perfect, cookie-cutter sentence. Because he’s gone to Ghost’s room in the dead of night more than once. Silently crawled into a warm bed and waited for Ghost to acknowledge him as a non-threat, then pushed right into arms that were already pulling him in—more than once. Several times, actually. There’s an established pattern, just the same as when Ghost comes to his quarters in the late hours, pressing his back into the door he’s just locked, looking rattled beyond recognition as Soap offers soft spoken words to act as a guide toward the bed.

They do it regularly, so it’s almost humorous that Ghost is offering him redundant assurances. But Soap likes it—it makes him feel considered and seen, and probably a whole bunch more things he can’t quite name.

“I know.” Soap whispers, feeling his chest become a blur of several different emotions. He wonders how to explain the way that his dream of Ghost dying (while his hands were still fucking inside him) put a big dark fear into his head. A nerve wracking worry that maybe he was wrong—that maybe Soap really did lose him, that he’s been hallucinating his survival, that he’s alone in this world. Going to Ghost’s room while he was feeling like that, and finding it empty? Not an option.

He’s not sure how he was planning to achieve his assurances, but it wasn’t going to be with his own eyes. That’s for damn sure.

“I was too scared that you wouldn’t be there.”

“What—?” Ghost starts, confusion evident in his voice.

“Dreamt that bullet took you out, wasn’t quite so sure whether my head made it up or not.”

“Sorry.” Ghost apologizes like he’s personally responsible for imaginings of Soap’s wretched mind—taking the blame for a tragedy that’s not his own.

“Thanks for coming to find me.” Soap whispers, tightening his pinky around Ghost’s. “So I didn’t have to wonder any more.”

“I’ll always find you.” Ghost hums. “Though, next time, hide somewhere a little warmer, eh Johnny?”

“I’ll do that.” Soap snorts, shaking his head.

Soap isn’t all that fond of leading training—not like he used to be. He used to think it was rather an impactful thing, getting to teach the skills he worked so hard to master, instructing young soldiers just beginning to find their edge. He liked the idea of being a mentor, being useful in a way that didn’t also involve life or death situations. Something about it inspired him, it fed daylight deep inside of him—right where the windows were splattered with dried blood and spent ammo casings crunched under his feet.

These days, he’s sobered a little. All he sees are faces that are going down the same path that’s worn him out. He silently wonders which of them will die, and which of them will get lost to this new way of life—there’s no continuing on like normal after you take a life, even if every seasoned soldier wants to pretend you can.

He always tries to train them for that, too—the way nobody ever thought to teach him. What it’s like to kill somebody, what it’s like to see somebody die. Those conversations always flow with respect and solemnity, it’s never a brag, never an excitement. It’s matter of fact, he tries to train for mental fortitude as much as physical fortitude, give them the shot at keeping it together that he never did.

Soap’s never really told anyone about it. He puts big fat check marks beside each section of the training forms, signs his name at the bottom to confirm that the recruits have been physically trained to the proper capacity and the daily/weekly/monthly quotas have been met.

It’s hard to say if it’ll help.

He thinks maybe it’s the only way he can bring himself to the training grounds. Because if he’s preparing a slew of young recruits to be shot at, the least he can do is tell them about how the adrenaline will take care of things in the moment, but it doesn’t last forever, and you need to check for an exit wound, and—

The air is just as cool as it was an hour ago. He steps outside of the main building after getting changed into some warmer clothes and heads toward the training field, already knowing he’s late. It’s an indiscretion that most training officers would view as a bid for insubordination. How can the subordinates respect the rules, if the superior in charge doesn’t?

But instead of that, he finds the recruits already warming up.

He sighs in soft relief, tone dulled as he talks them through the exercises and drills they’re going to cover today. And then they’re going, hitting the ground running—mutual respect paying off. He doesn’t need to yell at them to get the job done, even if he does good-naturedly tease them with shouted insults.

He hasn’t had the heart for any more ‘life lessons’ since they got back from North Africa. He’s tried to stomach the idea of using the situation as a hypothetical and running them through the steps of what to do when your teammate gets hit while you’re heading for evac, but it just feels too soon. It’s already consuming his life—all he can think about is all the things he should have done better, and how many ways it could have easily taken a turn for the worst.

Soap’s been stuck with a lot of heavy thoughts. Primarily, they revolve around Ghost dying. Before this whole thing happened, it was easier to pretend it just wasn’t going to happen. They always seem to find a way to get home, but if the last op has taught him one thing, it’s that in all likelihood, he won’t have Ghost long.

One way or another, their time is limited. Their job isn’t getting any safer, their enemies will not weaken.

And that keeps bringing him to this stupid fucking leave.

Ghost and him have yet to talk about it. It’s not a subject that’s surfaced, it’s not something either of them seem to be eager to get into, and Soap can’t figure out why. How hard is it, after a near death experience, to speak of something that could bring them the peace they’ve been waiting for?

It feels like a pull back when all they’ve been doing is slowly, gradually leaning into each other’s spaces. It scares him not to be on the same page.

He knows on his end, it’s the worry that keeps him from speaking up. The insecure part of himself says that because Ghost hasn’t talked about leave, it means Ghost does not want to spend it together—funny enough, Soap can easily ignore the rational side of his head that reminds him that he is just as guilty for not saying what he wants.

Soap watches the recruits turn on a dime and run their way back across the field, towards him.

The idea of Ghost wanting a break that doesn’t include him is so unlikely, and yet it’s also so condemning. Suppose one of them’ll have to be the bigger person and bring it up though—the pub outing is tomorrow night and it’ll be fuckin’ awkward if that’s where they find out what the other person is planning to do. It’s a question that Soap can almost guarantee will be a part of the evening, Price will ask it, or Gaz will ask it, and hell if Soap’s going to be stammering out some half-hearted explanation about why he hasn’t even considered going anywhere yet.

Maybe tonight. Maybe tonight.

Surprisingly, it’s Ghost that takes the proverbial shot.

During evening meal time, after he and Soap have made it to the table, and while Gaz and Price are waiting to grab their own trays—Ghost says, “do you have plans after we eat?”

“No.” Soap answers, cocking his head to the side, intrigued. “Why?”

“Do you want to walk with me?”

Soap huffs out a breath. “Well, that all depends on where you’re going.”

“Nowhere in particular. I just haven’t moved around much today, and I’m feelin’ restless.” Ghost responds after a moment, the look in his eyes matching what seems to be his miserable state of being. He knows for a fact that Ghost does absolutely hate sitting still in most cases, especially (and almost exclusively) when he’s alone.

“Sure.” Soap nods, just as Gaz and Price drop their trays and sit down next to them.

“Sure what?” Gaz asks good naturedly, immediately going for the chicken tenders that the mess hall has so kindly blessed them with this evening.

“Sure I’m gonna tell you that you’re a bad shot—sorry, don’t shoot the messenger, Gaz.” Soap raises his hands in mock surrender, shaking his head. “Not that you’d hit me if you tried.”

“Everyone knows I’m the best shot.” Gaz argues back. “Better ‘an you anyway.”

“Big words comin’ from a man I outshot last time you threw down the gauntlet.” Soap fires back.

“You want a rematch, then, Tav?” Gaz fully turns in his seat to face Soap, raising an eyebrow.

Soap chuckles softly. “Just so you can lose again? Only if you insist.”

“Alright, you two, use all that energy to eat your meal, would you?” Price interrupts, shaking his head in something that looks like disinterest, but Soap catches the twinkle in his eyes as easily as the glint of an enemy scope on an open mountainside.

“We placing bets on the winner?” Ghost asks after a beat.

“There’ll never be a winner between those two.” Price comments.

Ghost snorts at that, and maybe Soap smiles, and Gaz sort of makes a noise of protest.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gaz questions.

“Means you should eat your dinner before that chicken decides to come back to life and run off your plate, Kyle.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Gaz shakes his head, but he’s smirking behind the exasperated expression.

Soap is a little withdrawn as he follows Ghost across the main yard and toward the training grounds. Unlike the well-lit perimeter of the buildings, the grounds aren’t really shrouded in much light.

They walk past the grass where Ghost had found him this morning, and a little further yet, heading into the sparse treeline.

The freshly drying autumn leaves crunch under their feet as they walk between the trees. They use this wooded area largely for ropes training and the like, but in the dark like this, it doesn’t seem much use. It makes it all the more curious why Ghost has led them here.

Ghost doesn’t seem to have a particular destination in mind, wandering between the trees with a lack of purpose that Soap doesn’t often see from him.

“Here.” Ghost murmurs suddenly, the first word either of them have uttered aloud since they left the mess hall.

Soap watches him head toward a tree—a large, thick-trunked oak. He sits down at the base of it and shimmies back until his shoulders make contact with the cracked bark. It’s unclear what the ‘here’ means, if it’s a place Ghost was searching for, if Soap is just missing something, or—

Ghost spreads his legs a little, forming a loose ‘V’, and pats the ground between his thighs. “C’mon.”

Raising his eyebrows, Soap stares for a full second, then two, then three—and then he starts moving. He’s in no rush as he walks over to Ghost, stepping into the space between Ghost’s boots and no further. “You want me to sit?”

“Yeah.” Ghost says with a nod, holding his arms out to the side in anticipation.

Soap inhales deeply and walks to the point that Ghost had gestured to initially, before turning around and crouching down. His hands lower, palms going flat against the ground so he can brace himself enough that he can stretch his legs forward, bracketed by Ghost’s own.

Ghost’s arms come around his front to pull him in and urge him to lean back.

Soap lets his head fall back against Ghost’s shoulder, his temple rocking into Ghost’s chin as he settles out. He brushes the bits of decaying leaves off his hands, and lowers them to his lap, lacing his fingers together.

“I’m not layin’ on your poor spleen am I?” Soap teases.

“Wouldn’t complain if you were.” Ghost huffs out.

“Oh, I know.” Soap tilts his head a little, just enough to look up at Ghost’s eyes. “That’s why I asked point blank, and I better get an answer or I’ll be on my way.”

“You’re not hurting me.” Ghost answers firmly. “Promise.”

Soap hums in relief, turning back to look at the dark shadows of the trees ahead of them. “Good.”

They sit in silence for a good few moments, each second passing so slowly that Soap has to wonder if time is moving at all. Ghost has that effect though, of making the whole world stop when it’s just them.

Soap feels Ghost’s knuckles rub absent lines up and down his sternum, a thoughtless gesture that has Soap wondering what’s on his mind.

“What made you want to come out here?”

“Change of scenery.” Ghost murmurs. “And it’s out of the way.”

In this context, Soap understands that to mean that nobody will stumble upon them here, in the dark. The lights from base are visible through the treeline, but the chance that anyone will even glance in this direction is so low that it might as well be zero. Let alone come out here and find them like this.

“I see.”

“I wanted to talk to you—I’ve been wanting to talk. The last few days, I just…”

Soap’s hands tighten together and he feels Ghost stiffen behind him.

Ghost clears his throat. He sounds anxious. “You haven’t said anything about leave.”

“You haven’t said anythin’ about leave.” Soap is quick to counter, not defensively, just...

Ghost nods, his chin grazing the side of Soap’s head with the movement. “We haven’t said anything about leave.”

Soap closes his eyes. Feels the cool evening breeze brush against his cheeks, feels the movement of lungs against his back, the heartbeat against his shoulder, the heat that’s seeping into his spine from Ghost’s own warmth. “No, we haven’t.”

“We talked, before, about taking a break together, and there’s a part of me that’s saying that this is the chance for that break, and then another part gets worried that you might have other plans because it’s more than just a weekend where we fuck off from base, it’s a month long, and I’m just… I don’t want to hold you back, if that’s what you want. You could go to Scotland, see your family, your fuckin’ loch’s, your friends. And I’ve been trying to find the words to tell you that it’s okay, you know, if you want to go alone.”

“Here I was, worried that you weren’t sayin’ anything because you didn’t want to spend leave with me.” Soap snorts softly. “We’re a pair, aye Simon?”

“In what world do I not want to spend my leave with you?” Ghost asks, sounding nearly indignant.

“You thought the same of me.”

Ghost’s arms cinch around him a little more steadily. “Easier to expect the worst, I suppose.”

Soap makes a soft sound, something of an agreement. “So do you want to spend leave with me, Simon?”

“Of course I do, you muppet.”

Smiling into the dark, Soap settles further back against Ghost, going a little heavy now that the anxiety isn’t holding him so tensely anymore. “Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere. Long as you’re there.” Ghost answers, voice honest and true. “We can go to Scotland, or somewhere warm, or somewhere with a beach.”

“You don’t want to go to Manchester?” Soap asks after a beat. It stands to reason that Ghost has as much desire to want to go home than anyone else—though, he never speaks of it.

Ghost shakes his head. “Nothing for me in Manchester.”

“You listed places you think I might want to go, but what about you?”

“All I want is to go where you want to go.”

“...You’d really go to Scotland?”

“I’ll follow you anywhere, Johnny.”

Soap can’t help but settle on that thought. The fact that this man, who has his own life and who is his own person—how he’ll so easily merge into Soap’s lane like they’re driving the same car. That he’ll come with him, that they’re as good as a package deal. Can’t get one without the other.

“I could show you where I grew up.” Soap whispers, turning his head to the side and wringing his fingers in a way that probably screams his nervousness—but being nervous is the reason they took as long as they did to get to this conversation in the first place.

It’s a heavy proposition. Soap hasn’t been back in Scotland in two years. It’s complicated. It’s hard to say what it’ll look like from the outside, from Ghost’s perspective. But what’s the worst that could happen?

“Okay.” Ghost murmurs softly, reaching up to trace the shell of Soap’s ear.

“We could do that hike that we said.” Soap shrugs, half his brain purely focused on the movements of Ghost’s fingertips on his skin. “If you’re sure it won’t have your guts fallin’ back out, I mean.”

“My guts didn’t fall out, Johnny.” Ghost huffs out a breath. “Barely even lost blood.”

Soap thinks if he was a little more steady in the head, he would tease back, maybe say—’Aye, because I held it all in for ye, big bastard.’

But just like those moments he thinks about getting into it with the recruits, the idea of really acknowledging it aloud makes Soap shrink back.

“Let’s see how we feel when we get to Scotland.” Soap whispers into the breeze.

Ghost hums. “We going by train?”

“Aye, probably makes the most sense.”

“I’ll book the tickets.”

“No, I’ll book the tickets.” Soap argues. “You don’t even know where we’re going.”

“Okay, Johnny.” Ghost obeys sarcastically, snorting. “If you think that’s best.”

Soap exhales softly, feeling the way Ghost surrounds him. And how he gets to have that sense of all encompassing warmth at his beck and call for weeks. “We’re really gonna do it, then, huh?”

“Definitely.”

“You don’t think you’ll get sick of me? If we’re spending all that time together?”

“Not even a possibility.”

“You’re soft, Riley.” Soap shakes his head gently.

Ghost tilts his neck, his cheek resting against Soap’s head. “Only for you.”

The pub is busy.

Busier than Soap expected it to be on a Wednesday evening, anyway. But it’s not like there’s a whole lot to do around here—a military town stuck in the reaches of the countryside. There’s three and a half pubs, one food shop, a post office, a smattering of other random government buildings, some off-base housing, and that’s about it.

Price, Ghost, and him are settled into a corner booth—they’re sitting on sticky vinyl benches and their current drinks sit upon a laminate table top. Gaz is at the bar supposedly getting the fourth round of beers. Though every time Soap glances over at him, he’s still tied up in conversation with a beautiful woman about their age, and as far as he knows, he’s not even on the bartender's radar.

It sort of takes him by surprise that Price is the one who asks, when it comes down to it. Only because Soap thinks he sort of imagined Gaz being the one to shrug, and say, “Well, lads, let’s hear it.”

Price’s voice is sort of soft, like he’s trying to preemptively gentle what he thinks is a blow. ”What’s the plan for leave, then, Ghost?”

It has Ghost shifting in his seat, his eyes going to his glass and his gloved thumb putting marks through the ring of pooled condensation. “Going to Scotland, if you can believe it.”

Soap watches Price’s face sag in obvious relief. It’s so easy to see, so bright and coloured, and Soap is heaving out an internal sigh of relief. “I was sort of hoping you would.” Price nods once.

Ghost on the other hand—his reaction is a little more restrained. If Soap wasn’t parked on the same booth bench as him, tucked tightly between a brick wall and Ghost’s broad shoulders, he doesn’t even think he’d be able to notice the way he goes stiff.

But Ghost’s shoulders are tight, his hands curling in tight fists under the table. He can almost hear the electric crackle of his nervous system as he fights to stay visually calm.

“...What?” Ghost asks, perplexed. Soap is sort of in the same boat, confusion-wise, but he’s also aware how deep Price’s concern runs for Ghost.

Soap, in his infinite wisdom (or stupidity) leans into Ghost slightly, a gesture to say—hey, you good? And, naturally, there is no corresponding response.

Price shrugs. “Just hoped that you wouldn’t be alone, and that you wouldn’t decide to wait out leave at base again.”

There’s a part of Soap that wonders if he should even be here for this, it almost feels like a private conversation that shouldn’t involve him.

Ghost nods once, then dips his head.

“I mean, I’m assuming you boys are spending leave together then, right?” Price spares a glance at Soap.

“Aye.” Soap nods casually, waiting to see what’ll come next.

Price nods, draining the last dregs of beer from his glass, before setting it down and spinning it slowly in place. “I’m glad. Means I don’t have to worry about either of you.” Price says.

“I’m going to see how those drinks are coming along.” Ghost says quietly, his voice low and even, eyes completely calm. He slips out of the booth without a sound, Soap’s whole side going cold as he watches Ghost walk away.

Soap doesn’t fully know whether to stay or to follow, so he awkwardly stays paralyzed in place.

“He didn’t use to be like that, you know.” Price says after a beat.

Slowly, Soap glances away from Ghost’s retreating form and toward Price, briefly eyeing the three empty beer glasses in front of him, before moving his gaze up to his face. “How do you mean?”

“He didn’t take things I said to heart, quite so much. At least not in a way that he ever let me see. He’s just… less closed off. A little more himself, I think.”

Soap nods slowly, eyes finding Ghost again. He’s at the bar, next to Gaz. Gaz looks a little sheepish for being caught chatting a girl up instead of getting drinks, Soap would laugh if his head wasn’t weighed down by Price’s words.

Content that Gaz has eyes on him, he turns fully to Price.

“Think you’ve been good for him, in that way.” Price adds, tracing the pub logo on his glass with his thumb. “It’s nice to see.”

Soap ducks his head for a moment, feeling so suddenly conscious of his place in the world. How he fits in with the team, how he fits with Ghost, how his body conforms to the small pub booth bench.

“Me.” Soap says after a beat. He can feel how serious his expression is, the weight in his own voice. He’s so fucking serious about this, and he thinks there’s a big part of him that wants Price to know that he’s serious. It feels unexplainably important.

“Without a doubt, it’s you.”

“Have it all figured out, do ye?” Soap asks curiously—it’s not malicious, not even teasing, he genuinely wants to know what Price thinks.

“Not even a little bit. I have no idea how you two work. But I don’t need to, I just… call me sentimental, but it does bring me some sense of joy to see that he’s getting what he deserves, after all these years.” Price smiles in amusement and Soap thinks he’ll remember this forever—this moment. The stale pub air, the cold glass in his hand, sitting with Price and talking about something that matters. His eyes water ever so slightly because it’s too much—because he spent decades working to get his parents’ approval, and Price gives him his so freely.

Soap nods slowly, his heart racing. Maybe he knows how Ghost felt, and maybe walking away was the right call. Because this is—this is so much. It’s too big to hold in his hands. He feels like he’s going to drop it all, that it’ll fall to the ground and shatter into a million pieces.

He chances a glance over at Ghost, who happens to be looking right at him, a concerned expression on his face. Like he’s ready to charge right over to him and beat Price up just on the principle that Soap’s eyes are kind of wet, and that his expression is as borderline wrecked as it is.

“It’s easy with him.” Soap shifts his eyes back over to Price. “To give him what he deserves. I honestly… don’t understand how anybody hasn’t done it sooner.”

Price stares at him for a few heavy, unadulterated moments. And to Soap’s mortification, it’s Price’s eyes that water next, a tear spilling out of one before he can even react.

“Motherfuckin’—” he mutters, shaking his head and roughly palms away the two escaped tears. “Fuckin’ hell, MacTavish. I haven’t shed a tear since ‘06.” He chuckles wetly. He’s not sad, there’s no sense of misery to commemorate the desolation of a decade and a half long streak—he looks fucking dead chuffed.

“I’m sorry.” Soap offers, huffing out a light laugh, but he’s not doing much better—feeling his throat tighten with all the emotion he’s currently feeling.

His brain throws an old memory at him. It’s vivid in the way it hits him, the feeling of his father roughly shaking him by the shoulders, eyes wide, tone sharp as he’d uttered—”What is wrong with you?” Such a desperate plea coming from a father that ran out of patience, a whirlwind of frustration and disappointment clouding his stormy eyes. Soap can remember he wasn’t listening well. He kept getting off his chair during a meal because playing with his new toy excavator on the floor was much more entertaining, but the words turned into a recurring sentiment for his inner voice. Over the years, he’s asked himself the same question over and over and over, until the words started not to sound like words anymore.

What is wrong with you?

One day, in the middle of his SAS training, he’d spent three hours filling in ten pages of his journal—those five words, over and over again. The word ‘wrong’ underlined with each repetition.

But now it’s Price, happy, because Soap was unequivocally himself, and he did something right. And Price is proud of him—he hasn’t said the exact words, but Soap knows. He can see it on his face and in the way that he’s been speaking to him. He knows what it is because he’s spent his whole life chasing this exact feeling. He’s wanted it from his mam, wanted it from his dad, and now he’s getting it from Price like it’s a gift, not something he had to break his back to earn.

“Don’t be—” Price pauses, shaking his head. “Nah, don’t be sorry for any of that.”

“What’s goin’ on here?” Ghost is suddenly standing in front of the table, arms crossed. It’s like he’s expecting that Soap and Price got into a fight and he’s ready to stand in as the referee—not that things have taken a turn for the sentimental.

“S’fine.” Soap smiles up at him, eyes going soft at the way Ghost stares down at him—all hard edges and passive protection. “Nothin’ you need to worry about.”

Ghost looks helplessly between Soap and Price, so confused. It’s like he can’t decide whether they’re lying or not.

“Gaz is going to bring the drinks in a minute.” He says slowly, unmoving.

“Good. I could use it about now.” Price heaves out a breath and leans back in his side of the booth, staring up at the exposed beams that run the length of the ceiling and folding his arms in front of his chest.

Ghost looks on in complete bewilderment and then looks back to Soap, who only shrugs.

Soap beckons him with a pat of the bench seat next to him, and Ghost follows the request without a second thought, his knee knocking into Soap’s.

It’s such a familiar movement, a familiar sense of falling into one another. Soap never lets himself grow used to it because he can’t stomach the thought of taking it for granted, he desperately appreciates every single moment of coming together that they have.

“I hope you two have a good time in Scotland.” Price says softly, the alcohol infused gaze tipping between them. And yeah, that’s probably got a lot to do with the sentimentality, too—the heft of empty glasses they’ve got between the four of them. “Hell knows you both deserve it.”

Soap determines Ghost to be a flight risk, still, so he curls a hand around the middle of Ghost’s thigh, fingers gently digging into his leg, keeping him in place. “We’ll bring you something back.” Soap jokes dryly.

“Long as it isn’t haggis, mind you.” Price raises an eyebrow.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Price.” Ghost says carefully, eyes narrowing.

Price chuckles at that. “And I’m not beggin’.”

Gaz crashes into the booth seconds later, two of the four pints sloshing over onto the table as he sets them down. “This one’s on me, then, lads.” He says with a smile.

“Took ye long enough.” Soap teases lightheartedly.

“Yeah, well.” Gaz shrugs. “She was a vision, I didn’t think you’d hold it against me.”

“Better late than never.” Price affirms, curling his hand around a fresh glass and pulling it across the tabletop towards himself, a streak of spilled beer forming a line connecting the two points. It’s a mess but Soap can’t find it in himself to care, he just takes a glass for himself and takes a long drink.

He’s surprised to feel Ghost peel Soap’s hand off his leg and turn it face up, holding his wrist with two fingers pressed firmly into his pulse point. Soap leans his shoulder into him a little and exhales contently. He eyes Gaz and Price, and then Ghost—he takes in the atmosphere of the pub, he listens to the almost overwhelming chatter around them, he breathes in the overly recycled air, the hoppy scent of the beer as he brings the glass to his lips. And he savours it—this moment here, and now.

Gaz is the first to depart—he’s the most eager to go and while making the rounds of goodbyes the next morning at breakfast, he tackles Soap right off the mess hall bench and onto the floor, giving him a hug tight enough to knock the wind out of Soap’s lungs.

Ghost laughs softly, and Price just shakes his head in amusement, both nursing their own version of the outrageous hangover they all have.

“I’ll miss ya, Tav.” Gaz says into his hair during the hug. “Have a good trip.”

“You too, ye numpty.” Soap mutters, returning the tight embrace.

They’re not usually like this, Gaz and him. They’re both tactile in their own way, but never really together, and or as bone-deep as this is. But it’s nice, Soap finds. Having someone in his life who’ll tackle him into a hug in one moment, and respectfully talk shit to him in the next. It feels like he’s got the brother he never had, but always wished for.

Gaz rolls off of him with a laugh and gets to his feet, reaching down a hand to help Soap up—which he promptly starts doing, before mercilessly dropping him back to the ground.

As his already throbbing head makes contact with the cool floor, Soap groans softly, wondering if it’ll just be easier to stay here. He watches Gaz start his goodbyes to Price, smiling at their Captain like he didn’t just body slam Soap into the linoleum floor and leave him there. Dick.

But then Ghost is suddenly standing next to his hip, jutting a hand down toward him.

“My saviour.” Soap mutters good-naturedly, clasping his hand around Ghost’s wrist because he knows Ghost always has him. Ghost reciprocates the grasp and heaves him up in one fluid movement.

“Can’t leave a man down.” Ghost shrugs with one shoulder, sitting back in his seat and picking his fork back up. Leaving Soap to feel the ill effects of the gravity change on his weak, roiling stomach—way, way too much fucking alcohol.

“And Ghost—” Gaz says theatrically, as all of his goodbyes need to be, apparently. Is he still drunk? Honestly he could be—they didn’t leave the pub until like three, and it took all four of their collective brain cells to walk the three klicks back to base. A six AM breakfast doesn’t leave much time to sober up. “The best lieutenant maybe ever. Thanks for not dying, mate. Thanks for the rounds you bought last night. See you in a month. Have fun living and breathing bullets or whatever it is that you do when you’re not on active duty, eh?”

Ghost raises an eyebrow. “Keep it safe, Garrick.”

“I—” Gaz places a hand over his heart, sort of stumbling in place. Oh he is so inebriated still. It’s a good thing he’s taking the train, and not attempting to get behind any kind of wheel. “Am so safe. The safest. But thank you.”

Soap chuckles into his coffee. Second cup of the day already. Ghost brought him the first cup in bed, absolute angel.

Price is shaking his head. “Gaz, I want hourly updates the rest of the day so I know you got on the right train. Or on a train at all.”

“Yes, sir.” Gaz grins lazily. “See you all in a while.”

“Bye, Gaz.” Soap calls out, watching him go, pausing for one last wave right before he slips past the mess hall doors.

Price doesn’t leave long after. He says—”Well, boys. Take it easy. Don’t forget I’ve got my sat phone if you need to reach me. Check in once a week if you can, give an old man some peace of mind.”

“Rog.” Soap nods easily.

“I’ll have my sat, too.” Ghost adds.

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.” Price snorts.

“Be safe out there.” Ghost instructs, voice low, calm, and collected—but Soap can sense the slight twinge of concern there, too. He wonders if it’s as obvious to Price.

“Worst thing that can happen to me out there is I stick myself with a hook.” Price looks like he’s looking forward to being somewhere that the bad shit can’t reach him.

“Still.” Ghost nods once, fully serious.

Price looks at him with understanding, something softening in his own features. He pulls a pen out of his chest pocket and grabs one of the thin brown napkins from the dispenser in the middle of the table.

“These are the coordinates to the cabin, if worse comes to worse, if something happens.” Price says after he finishes writing, sliding the napkin over toward Ghost. “It’s off the grid, safe place to regroup.”

“Yes, sir.” Ghost answers dutifully.

Price gives them each a short hug and a light slap on the back, and it’s bittersweet. Because it means that they get their leave, but it also reminds Soap that they won’t see the rest of the team for a month. They’re so ingrained in each other's lives that it feels a bit disorienting to think about being apart, and it’s not something that he thought to prepare himself for.

He’s probably a bit drunk still, too. He tells himself that’s why his heart feels like it jumps into his throat as he watches Price walk away.

And then it’s just the two of them. Soap booked their tickets yesterday, and the soonest they could get out of here was this afternoon, so they don’t need to be in any sort of rush. Except they do still need to pack, and it would probably be a good idea to talk logistics, and… yeah.

Soap picks at his breakfast, rolling the sausage back and forth on his plate, sorting through the soggy eggs in an attempt to find any that look half decent.

“You feelin’ okay?” Ghost asks softly—his voice gentle on ears that are screaming for reprieve. His head is pounding, his body aches, he’s nauseous and exhausted. Definitely shouldn’t have let Gaz talk him into those last couple of drinks.

“Not really.” Soap chuckles. And he pretends that’s all it is. A hangover. There definitely aren’t any silky tendrils of darkness curling into his chest and around his middle. He’s definitely not feeling stressed or anxious, or worried. It’s not that he’s discovering he’s more dependent on the team dynamic than he thought. It’s not that the reality of being back in Scotland is sinking in. It’s fine, he’s fine.

Ghost nods slowly, eyes heavy with concern.

“I’ll be solid, Simon.” He says. And only a small part of himself believes it this time.

“Is it gonna be cold in Scotland?” Ghost asks absentmindedly.

Soap sits on Ghost’s bed, blearily watching Ghost sort through his closet, an empty go-bag sitting at the foot of the bed.

As far as questions go, it’s a little redundant, because there’s absolutely no way that Ghost hasn’t checked the weather forecast a dozen times already. He’s always checking the weather, always looking in on the barometric pressure, always looking to catch precipitation reports and wind warnings. He has like five different apps on his phone, two of which he honest to god pays money for, in order to cross reference various weather patterns.

“You don’t know?” Soap asks pensively.

Ghost shrugs. “You didn’t tell me where in Scotland we’re going.”

“Elgin.” Soap says after a beat. “I think.”

Ghost freezes with his hands wrist deep in his drawer of hoodies. He turns toward Soap, an inquisitive look in his eyes. “You think.”

Soap inhales slowly, exhales even slower. He feels sort of… defeated? But he’s not sure why. There shouldn’t be a reason why. “I think, yeah.”

“Well we’re either goin’ or we’re not, aren’t we?”

“Elgin is where I grew up, it’s a small town…”

“And?”

“And what?”

Ghost walks closer to the bed sitting down in front of Soap, bouncing slightly as the mattress rebounds against his weight. “There’s something, when you talk about all that, about going home, that doesn’t sit right with me.”

Soap narrows his eyes, simultaneously frustrated and relieved that Ghost has such an easy time getting a read on him. “I grew up there.”

“And?” Ghost prompts gently.

Soap knows Ghost has more patience than most people, but it still amazes him to see such true examples of it.

“I don’t know.” Soap mumbles honestly, exhausted even at the thought of unpacking the emotions he holds in his heart for the damned place.

“Tell me what it isn’t.” Ghost offers, cocking his head to the side as his eyes flick consistently between Soap’s features.

“What do you mean?”

Ghost shrugs with one shoulder. “If you can’t tell me what Elgin is, tell me what it’s not.”

“Safe.” Soap says, allowing the instinctive, knee-jerk reaction to slip out. He just says it. Only processing the word and its very heavy meaning moments after it’s floating in the air between them.

Ghost’s expression does something very… Soap isn’t sure. He can almost always tell what Ghost’s thinking just from his eyes, but right now, about this, he just—

Soap’s hands lift, gently, toward Ghost’s shoulders, curling around the meat of them before travelling closer to his neck. “Can I?” He asks, fingers hooking on the edge of the mask.

Ghost nods once. Just a single time, expression unchanging. And Soap wastes no time gingerly sliding the material up and off his head, and oh—

He’s not sure what to call it, but he knows what it isn’t—it’s not happy, not excited, not pleased. If a warpath was a person, he’d be looking at it.

“Why doesn't it feel safe?” Ghost asks carefully.

Soap ducks his head and shakes it a little. “I grew up there.” Is all he can say. He already said that. Now he’s saying it again—but it doesn’t even make more sense now than it did before.

“Okay.” Ghost straightens the way he’s sitting, hands reaching toward Soap. He’s a man on a mission, the fingertips of his index and middle finger grazing his jaw, tipping Soap’s head slightly upward. They’re truly face to face like this. Ghost’s hands curl gently around the sides of his neck, keeping them both steady. “Let’s just…” Ghost shakes his head, determined. “Let’s just cut the shit, and I—fuck, I don’t mean that in an insensitive way. I just mean, if we cut away all the bulk and complicated shit, whatever is there for you, and we just look at the fuckin’ heart of Elgin. What is it?”

“It wasn’t all bad, you know?” Soap blurts out, almost a plea. Like he’s got to convince Ghost of this much. “I… there were good parts.”

Ghost nods slowly. So patient. For a long moment, he just stares at Soap.

“I had a normal life, always had a roof over my head, I never wanted for anythin’... nobody there ever put a gun to my head. It was fine.”

Soap’s breath sort of catches and he just lets his throat hold it, he lets the carbon dioxide poison him from the inside out, feels his entire chest start to burn.

“What were the good parts?”

Soap just shakes his head, he can’t breathe. If he goes back to Scotland, he’ll be running straight into the arms of all the demons he thought he fucking left there. He can feel the fiery hot embrace of them now, flames licking his ribs all the way up to his fucking neck, where they like to bury their agonizing faces. And he’s not sure why this didn’t really hit him during the conversation in the woods, why he didn’t feel the stifling ache of stress—he’s not sure why it’s only starting to break the surface now.

He wonders if it’s due, in part, to the fact that Ghost is digging into it a little. That Ghost looks like he’s ready to burn the whole town down just on the slight inclination that Soap doesn’t feel security in going home.

“Johnny.” Ghost whispers, and he’s pulling Soap forward in a way that makes him feel like he’s floating.

It ends up being an awkward position for a hug, but Soap finds immense relief in it nonetheless. Ghost is cool and it soothes the burns that ache over his body. “Johnny, we do not have to fuckin’ go, I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“It’s not this bad, it’s not bad—” Soap counters, eyes glazing as he stares at the wall on the opposite side of the room. “I don’t know why I’m…”

He closes his eyes, Ghost’s hand gripping the back of his neck so securely that he can’t help but flag a little. He takes a deep breath—Ghost’s shampoo, his body wash, the smell of him underneath it all.

Soap realizes he’s said it twice—it’s where I’m from. He can’t even bring himself to say, that’s home.

But when he thinks about Ghost, it’s easy for him to connect the word. He sees Ghost’s face, mask or not, and there’s a five-year-old inside his head drawing a little stick figure house, with a door half the size of the building itself, a little chimney, and a spiral of smoke. There’s a neon-yellow quarter of a sun in the top corner of the page, maybe a stubby little tree.

If he looks at Ghost, he sees the sense of safety that he never had as a kid.

“Just give me names.” Ghost says under his breath.

And out of the blue, Soap laughs. He laughs because it’s such a fuckin’ cliche thing to say, and he laughs because it kind of hurts—that he finally has somebody who gets him. Who encompasses him with his own, entire body. Who’s flameproof and large enough to be lookin’ down on Satan himself. Not that the place he grew up is hell, it really isn’t—it’s just… complicated. He needs to stop making comparisons to the Devil’s Gates, even inwardly, or he’ll keep giving Ghost this warped perception of what’s there for them.

But then the laugh cuts out. The burst of amusement crumbles back into his chest, sinking into the ruins of the rest of his good energy. He's just tired.

“I’ll... We can go somewhere else, we can go somewhere that’ll make you happy.” Ghost offers. “We don’t have to go to Elgin. Alright?”

Except, that’s sort of the thing. The thing that Soap can’t quite move past.

It would be easy enough to head anywhere else. They could do one of Ghost’s other suggestions, just find somewhere warm, escape to a place that actually feels like a holiday. He could have the sand under his feet and finally get that cold beer in his hands, he could let his mind rest and he could make a dent in his recovery.

But there’s a feeling that comes in right after. It’s secondary to the part of himself that says ‘it would be easy’—and it reminds him of what he felt when he was sharpening that knife after Ghost’s surgery.

It wasn’t that he had to do it, but that he needed to. There was something in him that couldn’t rest until he went through the process of cleaning the weapon, restoring it and making it ready for use. And he’s not sure how, if at all, that applies to him. But he just knows he has this urge to pick the harder thing, no easy outs, because it's the only path forward.

He pulls back tentatively, gauging Ghost’s expression. It’s less warpath, and more devastated on Soap’s behalf now. He looks at Home and thinks that if they go together, maybe he can face the place he grew up.

On the tail end of a sigh, Soap whispers, “I think I do, actually.”

“Why?”

“Just think maybe I have to.” Soap wishes he had more. For himself just as much as for Ghost. “Gut feelin’ or whatever.”

Ghost seems to think about that for a good long moment. And then he dips his head to press their foreheads together.

“Okay. Then we go.” Ghost breathes softly. “How long?”

“I dunno. A few days?”

“I’m with you, Johnny. I have your back in it.”

“I know.” Soap agrees softly. If there’s one thing in his life that he knows with absolute certainty, it’s that. “You think we can handle it?”

“As long as you tell me what weather to pack for.”

“It certainly won’t be warm.”

Trains suck.

More specifically, trains aren’t necessarily built to accommodate two tall, broad, muscular men.

Soap tries hard to be annoyed, or to hate it—but being squished between the window and Ghost is far from one of the worst places he’s found himself in. It’s actually sort of nice, this sideways deep pressure therapy.

Ghost doesn’t look too peeved himself, though he shifts his legs often enough to signal the discomfort of his lower half. They’ll be due for a nice walk between train changes, maybe Soap’ll use the opportunity to get a nice coffee and tea.

“Where’s your flat?” Ghost asks next to him, looking at his phone.

And really, it shouldn’t hit Soap, just now, that they have nowhere to stay. The last time he came down here he sucked it up and stayed a weekend with his parents. He's just… never in Elgin, so why waste the rent money? But for once, he sort of wishes he did have a place, because there's no way that Soap is letting Ghost step foot in the MacTavish home.

“I—we…” Soap frowns, shaking his head. “I don’t have one.”

Ghost glances at him casually. Soap thinks, really, Ghost should be looking more concerned.

“I’ll book us a room somewhere, then.” He says after a beat, looking absolutely unaffected.

“Oh.” Soap responds as the sudden wash of relief hits him. A solution, an easy solution that Soap also had not thought of—he's not sure how he would have successfully travelled solo, with his head as it is. “That’s a good idea.”

“How do you feel about the Travelodge?” Ghost asks, skimming through Google Maps on his phone.

Soap scoffs. “How do you feel when your gun jams during a high profile killshot?”

“Understood, Sergeant.” Ghost concedes easily.

By the time they get there—3 trains and several hours later—Soap is pure done in. He is so tired, that his tiredness is tired. Ghost isn’t much better, moving like he's a bit disoriented and wincing like he’s got a solid headache.

It seems it’s all they can do to make the two minute walk from the station and to the hotel. Soap deals with reception, figuring he’s got a better chance at understanding a thing the old local woman is saying in her thick brogue. And Ghost is honestly… fading fast. So he urges them toward the stairs and ignores the odd look the receptionist gives him as they begin ambling up toward the room.

Ghost locks the door behind them as Soap steps into the room, dropping his duffle to the floor and flicking on all the light, immediately peering into both the bathroom and the closet like this is a tactical clearout. He continues on, observing the main part of the room. Dark patterned carpets, light grey walls, and warm lamp lighting that highlights the positively mouthwatering bed. He is so tired.

“Just the one bed, aye? Bit presumptuous.” Soap teases lightly—feeling a sense of airiness alongside the exhaustion, because they’re finally doing this. A break. Leave. It’s actually starting and they genuinely made it here. He sort of forgot to imagine this part, where he and Ghost get night after night of falling asleep after spending full days together. They can sleep in, eat when they feel like it, drink coffee that doesn’t taste like tar. They can lazily walk around without a plan, see what they see, find somewhere to sit wherever they like. No responsibilities, no reminders of the duty that their heads are all tied up in—they just get to live, no strings attached.

“If you’d like separate accommodations, Johnny, you’re welcome to book your own room.” Ghost fires right back, soft and knowing.

It’s a big bed, though. A king if Soap had to guess, but he’s not all that familiar with bed sizes—he’s spent most of his existence living out of a standard-issue rack or standard-issue bedroll. He just hopes the massive mattress doesn’t mean they’ll spend the whole night drifting apart.

“I’m quite fine here, we’re probably barely gonna touch while we’re asleep as it is.” Soap jokes weakly.

“If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“You think that’s what I’d prefer?” Soap leans against the nearest wall, crossing his arms over his middle.

“I’m gonna shower,” Ghost says, ignoring Soap’s jab—but Soap doesn’t care because Ghost is suddenly peeling off his t-shirt and revealing The Wound, that Soap still, really needs to get used to... “I need to untense my back from the blasted train seat. You should sit, you need to get off your leg.”

“How about I get us some food while you shower?”

Ghost pauses partway through unbuckling his belt. “I can get the food after I'm done, you really should rest your knee.”

“You’re not much better there, lead magnet.” Soap gives him a nod, already checking his pockets to be sure he has his phone and wallet. “Let me do it. I know a spot not far from here.”

“Johnny,” Ghost says, like he desperately wants to argue.

Soap hums. “I’ll let you buy breakfast.”

“It’s included with the stay, and it's not about that—it's about it being late and your knee needing a break.” Ghost frowns. “I’m sure there’s a vendin’ machine around here somewh—”

Soap snorts at that. “Hush. I need more than vending machine food. So do you.”

“Just wait until I shower then and I’ll come with you.” Ghost says a little frazzled, like he’s trying to pull together, to get himself all in a row—but that’s not what Soap wants. It’s time to unwind.

Soap strides over to him, hands settling against his waist. “Hey,” he says calmly. “Let me do this, we haven't eaten since before lunch and I doubt that's helping your headache any. Just stop bein’ stubborn and try to relax, you need to focus on recovering from that bullet wound, alright?”

“You're not changin’ your mind, are you?” Ghost’s brows are furrowed, his body tight.

“I'm not.” Soap gives him an apologetic smile.

Ghost averts his gaze to the side, shaking his head and looking only mildly peeved. “Fine. Drop me coordinates. So I know where to start looking if you don't show up in the next twenty.”

“Your wish is my command, but make it forty minutes.”

“Johnny,” Ghost grunts incredulously, focus snapping to him. “Forty? To get food?”

“Simmer, Simon. I'm going to a pub that's likely flat out busy this time of night.” Soap explains.

“You make me worry.” Ghost says flatly, whiskey eyes peering through blonde lashes. “All the time. Every day.”

Soap sort of smiles at that, feeling his eyes twinkle. “I'll call when I'm on my way back, how's that?”

Ghost sighs softly, but nods. “Rog. Get out of here then, so you're back sooner.”

“Affirmative.” Soap calls over his shoulder, already walking away, turning for a split second and throwing Ghost a wink, just so he can hear the muttered bloody hell.

The one thing about offering to take up the baton in terms of sourcing food, is that he is in his hometown. Which—he knew that’s where they were, they ended up in the very train station that Soap has arrived to and departed from hundreds of times in the past. They walked a portion of road that Soap can remember in extreme detail, he could probably follow it along with his eyes closed. He knows exactly where he can get them food—what’s open, what’s not at this hour.

And suddenly, he’s also got this great big fear unlike anything he's run into in active combat, and that’s running into someone he knows. That can happen here as easy as breathing. Sure, there's plenty of people who grow up here and end up feeling claustrophobic, moving away as soon as they’re old enough or have enough savings. But there are a lot of fuckin’ people who stay.

Soap walks toward the nearest pub automatically, craving something that’ll stick to his bones and maybe eliminate the gnawing sense of being somewhere he shouldn’t be. It’s over several streets and more walking than he’d like to have done, but all the pubs are congregated on that side of town.

He thinks if it was just him, and Ghost wasn’t feeling like shit, he’d have just waited until the morning to eat. Maybe he’d even have gone through with Ghost’s poor idea of the vending machine. Except Ghost needs to eat something substantial, and Soap’s aware he probably should too—but it’s easier to bring himself through the action of this if he does it for Ghost.

With determination in his step, he walks along the old stone walls and solid oak door, and into the pub. He stares around for a split second, suddenly feeling like he’s eighteen again. The place hasn’t changed a bit. He half feels as though he should be meeting up with his mates—but most of said mates from back in the day are in the category of Elgin’s ‘Long Gone’ and it’s just him.

There are several unnamed beasts jumping up the back of his throat, and he swallows around them. His eyes are sharp as they peer around, the same way he'd scan for threats in a far more dangerous place than this.

Soap hesitantly makes his way to the darkest corner of the bar and hopes he goes unnoticed.

It takes a while before he gets his chance to be served, putting in for two orders of fish and chips to go, and a beer for while he waits. Did he already spend every moment of today regretting how much he drank yesterday? Yes. But he’s eager to take the edge off, try to calm down. He's just taking his first sip when—

“John MacTavish, as I live an’ breathe!” A voice calls from his right, barely audible over the hustle of the busy pub.

Soap instantly stiffens, trying to place it. A man’s voice—definitely someone he used to know. It’s familiar, it’s ringing a bell. Does he move? Does he acknowledge it? It would be so, so much easier if he just fuckin’ ignored it and pretended he just ‘had one of those faces’. He doesn’t even have the mohawk, and he’s still being recognized.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

And then it hits him—a little too late and a little too hard. “Callan?” Soap turns in his seat and raises both eyebrows when his eyes land on the approaching man.

Callan is, in many ways, exactly the same as Soap. They’re born on the same day of the same month of the same year. They’re the same height, same build, same hair colour. They played all the same sports through school, and it was only after they chose their careers, did they finally diverge. Because Soap went military, and Callan decided he had his sights on becoming a conservationist with a local river trust. As soon as Soap went to boot camp at the ripe age of sixteen, that was the end of that—he tried to stay in touch with a few people, but it was hard to keep up with things back home when his training and career took over his life.

Callan is still walking over and Soap scrambles to his feet. Almost immediately, he feels his knee tweak in an agonizing way and his body forces him back down, landing back in the chair with a harsh thud. His eyes shut for a bleak moment, and his hand reaches out to snatch his leg right at the pain centre, supporting it as waves of pain echo through long-tormented nerves.

“Alright?” Callan asks as he finalizes his approach, tentatively resting a hand on Soap’s shoulder.

“Aye, fine.” Soap nods, forcing himself to swallow down the bile that started rising due to the sheer amount of pain. He opens his eyes to a stormy blue gaze gently looking down at him in concern, a half-smile coming to Callan’s face as Soap gives him a nod. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s nothin’ to worry about.” Callan shakes his head, sitting down in the empty stool next to Soap. “This seat isn’t taken, is it?” He says, looking around, almost comically so, as if Soap is paired off with a mysterious stranger. If only Callan knew.

“No, not taken.” Soap takes a long drink of his ale and then forces himself to speak. “How are ye, Callan?”

“Oh, life’s been good to me, no complaints.” Callan smiles. He was always one of Soap’s kinder, gentler friends. “I was gonna ask what had you comin’ home, but I’m guessin’ that has something to do with it?” Callan nods toward the brace.

“Aye.” Soap nods. It’s not quite the truth, but in a roundabout way, it is. And it’s much easier just to agree than to spend the next however long explaining it. “It’s nothin’ major.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Callan takes a sip from the beer bottle in his own hand. “And I’m glad you’re okay, John. It really is fuckin’ good to see your face.”

Soap is hit with a soft pang just under his ribs. “I—it’s good to see ye, too.”

“Thought maybe you forgot about us over here.” It's a tease, but Soap feels guilt eating at him nonetheless.

“Forgot?” Soap shakes his head. “I could never forget the man who gave me my first mohawk.”

Callan grins so brightly that the whole damn pub shines with it, and something bound in tension in Soap’s chest begins its slow release. “Surprised you don’t still have one.”

“I did up until a month and a half ago.” Soap chuckles, shaking his head in amusement.

“Awa’ an’ bile yer heid, ye did not.”

“Swear it.” Soap nods once, something of a smile pulling at his lips.

“Why’d you get rid of it?”

“I—” Soap can feel the levity leave his face, draining away like somebody’s just pulled the plug. “I—it was just time. But I may grow it out again. Maybe soon.”

Callan nods slowly, eyes sympathetic but not pitying. He knew Soap before he was Soap, they were best friends all throughout their schooling, he can read him better than most people in this town. “Ye should. It always suited ye.” Callan tips his beer bottle toward him and offers another smile. “Cannae say I could tell anyone else that truthfully.”

Soap ducks his head for a moment. “You still with the river trust?”

“Aye, saving my side of the world with conservation and nature planning.” Callan smirks playfully. “Still love that shite.”

“I’m really happy for ye. You always were good with that.”

“I know. And you were always good at blowing shit up.”

“We made quite the pair back in those days.”

“I think my ears still ring sometimes from that time ye blew up the custodian’s closet.”

Soap snorts, the memory so old he nearly forgot about it. “Oh, I got in big shite for that one.”

“It’s genuinely still part of the safety speech they give in the beginnin’ of the year to all the students.”

“You’re jokin’.”

Callan’s tone switches to something that's high-pitched and reminds Soap vaguely of the headteacher that he and Callan had back in the day. “Possession or creation of any type of explosive ordinance on school property is grounds for immediate expulsion.”

Soap laughs softly at that, shaking his head and taking another drink. “Fuckin’ hell, I suppose that’s as good a legacy as I could have asked for.”

“My sister’s teachin’ there now, she said Gertrude just won’t fuckin’ retire. Last year the staff literally threw her a retirement party, and she still didn’t take the hint.”

“Oh steamin’ hell, why am I not even surprised.” Soap rolls his eyes. “She was already at retirement age when we were students.”

“I know.” Callan looks bemused. “I’ve half a mind to send her free tickets for a river cruise or somethin’, get her off my sister’s back for a while so that I don’t have to hear her moan about the woman every Sunday dinner.”

“That's diabolical.” Soap snorts. “Didn’t she have that obsession with Japan? Send her there.”

“Oh, yeah, shite, she had that giant netsuke collection.” Callan grins. “I totally forgot about it.”

A few beats of silence pass. Soap takes another drink.

“Hey,” Callan starts, sounding slightly more tentative. “You’re welcome to join us at the table,” he nods behind himself. “It’s just a few of our old mates, and a few of the people I work with. It’s casual.”

Soap thinks about Ghost in the room, feels a flicker of worry dance up his spine and an urge to get back to him. “Afraid I can’t tonight, sorry. I just ordered some food to take back to my hotel. But thanks for the offer.”

“Hotel?” Callan raises an eyebrow, “don’t you usually stay with your mam and dad?”

“Eh.” Soap shrugs. “They don’t know I’m here.”

“Really?” Callan looks on. “Any reason why?”

Soap’s fingers tangle in his brace for lack of a better thing to do, and he sighs. “I didn’t want to tell them, honestly. So I just… didn’t this time.”

“Good for you.” Callan nods, looking pleased. “About time you have a visit home that don’t leave you worse off than when you came.”

“That’s not how it is.”

“You forget we were best mates for a decade.” Callan says lightly, eyes gleaming with a sense of—c’mon, I know ye.

Soap feels a presence to his left and watches two takeaway dishes get set down on the bar top in front of him. “Reckon that’s my cue.”

“Two meals, then.” Callan raises an eyebrow. “Big appetite tonight, or does John have a friend?”

Soap gets to his feet, much more slowly this time. “My teammate, we work together in my current unit. We’re up at the Royal.”

“How long are you here for?”

“Just a few nights.”

“Any chance you have time to get together while you’re here? Just to catch up a bit more, hang out. No pressure if not, but—” Callan shrugs, face giving off his obvious hopefulness.

And Soap wants to say no, because honestly, he's scared. Because Elgin, when it comes down to it, has always scared him. But Callan doesn’t. Callan was one of those few things that was always safe here.

“Aye. I could definitely make time for that.” Soap feels himself smile (see, Ghost, not everything was bad—this was what he meant). “Here, give me your phone,” Soap reaches out a hand, and Callan immediately unlocks his phone, handing it over with a pleased smile on his face. “I’ll give you my number, as long as you promise no one else gets it. It’s technically classified.”

“Got it.” Callan nods dutifully.

Soap works on adding a contact. Types his number from heart—the same way he could with any number belonging to a 141 member.

“I can’t believe I ran into you today of all days.” Callan says, eyes twinkling. “I was wondering how long it’d be before we shared a birthday again.”

Soap eyes the colourful helium balloons tied to the empty chair back at Callan’s table and smiles. “Yeah. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Only ten years, but who’s counting?” Callan teases, getting to his feet as well and setting his beer on the bar top, hands opening for an embrace.

Soap steps into it, feels the warm arms wrap around him and hears, in a soft voice to the side of his head, “Happy birthday, John.”

“Happy birthday, Callan.” Soap says in return, letting himself be held for a quick moment before forcing himself to pull away. “Text me, alright? We’ll find a time.”

“I will.” Callan agrees heartily. “Fuck seein’ you was the best birthday gift this year.”

“Back at you, go celebrate until you can’t walk any longer, aye. The Elgin Way.”

Callan starts stepping backwards in the direction of his table and grins. “The Elgin Way is for the young fuckers who don’t have to get to work by seven.”

Soap shakes his head. “Always thick with the excuses.”

“Yer off yer heid, MacTavish.” Callan chuckles and waves him off, turning back to his table.

Meanwhile, Soap pays for the meals and his beer, as well as one of those fancy lagers Callan’s always been a big fan of, asking the bartender to bring it to the birthday boy when she has a chance, and then heads out.

He tries to walk relatively fast—he’d ideally like to get Ghost his food before it gets cold, but at the pace he immediately settles into with his shit knee, it’s not looking hopeful.

Soap holds the takeaway dishes in one hand and digs for his phone with the other, immediately flicking through his contacts so he can call Ghost as he’d promised.

“Tell me you're almost back.” Is what he's immediately greeted with.

“Hello to ye too.” Soap scoffs.

A soft hum emits from the other side of the line. “Think I fell asleep, didn’t know how long, wasn’t sure if you were gone long.”

“Honestly, I have no idea what time it is now, or what time it was when I left, but I’m on my way.” Soap answers, quickening his pace slightly (to the detriment of his fuckin’ sore leg). Fuck.

“Did you go far?”

“It was only a ten minute walk.”

“Johnny, you did not walk ten minutes each way on that leg.”

“I rested in between, don’t even worry about it, Simon.”

“Hmm, I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

“You’ll like the sound of what I got you to eat, I reckon.”

“That so.”

“Yes. Best fish and chips in town.”

“My lucky day.”

It's more or less silent as Soap continues the walk, but he makes no move to hang up and neither does Ghost. He looks around a little, wondering why it hardly feels real that he's here, why everything looks so much smaller than he remembers.

He grunts softly as he takes the stairs into the hotel, wincing for every step that he takes.

A soft—”You okay?” Comes across the line, and he has to smile somewhat at that.

“Aye.” He murmurs back.

He passes the woman at reception who once again eyes him warily, and trudges upstairs.

“Mind letting me in?” Soap asks as he gets upstairs. “Forgot to take a key with me.”

“Yeah, give me a sec.” Ghost responds.

Soap watches the door swing open, Ghost shirtless and only in sweats, leaning against the doorframe. He's not even wearing the mask, and he's looking so soft and relaxed in the dim lighting of the corridor.

Soap’s chest swells with something warm—now this is coming home.

He stops a few feet away from the door and drops the hand holding the phone, pocketing the device without bothering to end the call. Ghost does it a moment later, pulling the phone away from his ear and tapping on the screen a few times before sliding the phone, along with both hands into his pockets.

“Glad you made it.”

Soap gives him a smile that reaches far beyond what shows on his face. It extends deep into his chest as a level of peace vibrates in his bones, making him feel like he's coming apart at the seams.

“Any chance you'll let me in?” Soap cocks his head.

Ghost slowly eases himself away from the doorframe and backs into the door, gesturing Soap in with a flourishing movement of his arm.

Once again, Ghost locks up.

Soap hands him the dishes, and gets to untying his shoes, making a half-hearted attempt to crouch before quickly abandoning the movement. Fuckin’ knee.

“Hey,” Ghost gets his attention, setting the dishes on one of the bedside tables before walking back to him. He curls a hand around Soap's waist and guides him to sit on the foot of the bed.

He kneels down and starts yanking on Soap's laces, and honestly, Soap just lets him. He leans back on his arms and watches Ghost carefully pull off his boots.

“How bad does it hurt?” Ghost asks, bringing the boots over to sit on the floor nearer to the door, pressed right up against Ghost’s own pair.

Soap shrugs, rubbing his leg through the brace. “It's fine. Was just a bit cramped in the train.”

Ghost huffs out a breath and disappears into the bathroom, and Soap hears the water turn on.

“Shower helped me a lot, might be just what you need.” Ghost offers, coming back into the room.

Soap nods slowly, wondering if he can pull himself together enough to get up, get undressed, stand under the shower, get washed up, and still make it out the other side.

“You should eat while it's still a little warm.” Soap nods, grabbing at the straps of his brace and starting to pull it off.

Ghost hums and grabs the two dishes, coming to sit on the end of the bed next to Soap. “We both should.”

Soap nods tiredly and feels a little of his energy fade out as he takes one of the dishes out for himself. It's silent while they eat, both of them so beyond exhausted that it's not even funny.

And eventually Soap finishes taking off his brace, letting it slide unceremoniously to the floor before easing himself up. He juts out a hand to Ghost’s shoulder to steady himself, giving himself a second to get used to the swollen pressure around his leg.

“Do you want help?” Ghost asks after a beat. “I don't mind coming in with you.”

“I’m solid. You can warm up my side of the bed while ye wait for me though.” Soap jokes softly, pulling his hand away and heading toward the bathroom.

“Just give me a shout if you need anything.”

“Aye.” Soap murmurs, slipping into the bathroom and leaving the door cracked open, it's not much different to showering in each other's rooms.

The glass walls of the shower stall are still foggy from Ghost’s own shower, air humid and smelling of gently scented shampoo. He starts the shower with and undresses slowly, feeling more beat down now than he has right after some ops.

It's not until he slides under the hot shower spray that he thinks Ghost might have been correct. That maybe this is what he needs.

Soap closes his eyes, letting his weight rest on his good leg and focusing on the feeling of his muscles melting beneath the scalding water. The water beats down on his head, trickling down the front of his face and dripping from his chin.

He does a half hearted attempt to wash himself, using the other half of the tiny complimentary shampoo bottle to scrub at his hair, then his body.

He emerges minutes, maybe hours later, pulling a towel off the rack next to the shower and wrapping it around his waist.

There's a pair of boxers and a pair of Ghost’s sweats on the counter, and maybe another time, Soap might have been concerned he didn't notice him sneaking in. But right now, he's just grateful.

He gets dressed and he goes right for the bed. He's heavy, arms feeling impossible to lift, legs pulsing, neck protesting against the weight of his weary head.

He stops just as he reaches the side of the bed, pausing with the corner of the comforter in his hand. He half inhales, furrows his eyebrows, and tilts his head.

Upon his pillow, there is a box. It’s not too big, sort of flat, wrapped haphazardly in brown paper.

Looking up, he finds Ghost’s eyes already on him. He's laying on the further side of the bed looking oh so innocent, a sleepy expression clouding any sense of answer that Soap is looking to get out of him.

“What's that?” Soap asks plainly, picking up the package with one hand and using the other to pick up the blanket, settling himself up against the headboard. He sits there, wearily, and flips the package back and forth a few times.

“It's your birthday present.”

Soap stares at Ghost, then back to the box, then back to Ghost—the picture of shock, he's sure.

“It's what now?” Soap blurts, positive he's heard wrong.

“It's your birthday, isn't it?”

“I—?” Soap swallows thickly, feeling a sense of nervousness creep up behind his spine. “I didn't know you knew that.”

Ghost shrugs, looking a little sheepish. “After you were held hostage, I handled some of the medical paperwork because Price had his hands full… saw your DOB.”

Soap’s jaw flexes. “I don't celebrate it.”

“We don't have to celebrate.” Ghost murmurs. “But I still want you to have that.” He nods his head toward the package.

Soap exhales softly. “You really didn't need to g—”

“Johnny,” Ghost hushes, voice gentle enough that it wouldn't even break surface tension on a glass of water. “Open it.”

Soap looks back at the package and turns it around, wedging a finger under a crudely taped flap, and pulling it loose. He does the same with the other side, feeling Ghost's gaze bore into the side of his head.

He slides the box free from the paper and feels his heart do an odd sort of thing, where it slows down and simultaneously speeds up, all in the same few seconds.

Because in his hands, resting in open palms like he's never actually held a single item in his life, is a small tin of watercolours and an almost identically-sized pad of watercolour paper. And it's not just any watercolours. They're expensive, he knows the brand because he’s talked himself out of buying pencils from the same line about a thousand times. Never could drop that kind of money on himself.

But Ghost did. And it’s just…

“I thought it'd be nice for leave.” Ghost speaks, the quiet words ringing in the dead silent room. “If you—maybe if you wanted to paint some of the things we see.”

A few things war in Soap’s mind—he’s a little uncomfortable being blindsided by such generosity, and then he’s also feeling undeserving, and there’s also guilt. But then a softness comes breezing in. It feels like a cool summer evening, Ghost’s consideration touching his cheeks, his jaw, his neck—like they're whispers against his skin.

And that spurs on the other, lighter side of his head. He feels it grow steadily, like an old bulb being fed an energy surge, the way everything brightens. He’s so… he’s fucking lucky. To have someone that makes him face his own perceived worth, and shows him that he’s apparently been fucking lowballing himself. That, or Ghost is just an extremely blind man, but Soap’s been privileged to watch the way he’s keenly sorted through intel, picking up on the details that almost everyone else misses.

Soap exhales in a measured way. “I've never used watercolours before, might be a bit shit…”

Ghost shrugs at that. “You're never shit at anything you decide you want to be good at.”

“Watercolours are a different beast.” Soap gives him a soft smile, hands shifting around the things sitting there, finally. He pops open the tin and eyes the small squares of rich pigments, all individually wrapped and sitting neatly in rows inside the gleaming metal. He spies the small brush neatly tucked into a side compartment, looks at how new and high-quality everything is.

He closes the lid, pressing into the corners of the box until he hears the sound of the tin clicking closed, and pauses momentarily. And then it's onto the pad of paper.

Soap flicks through the thick, blank pages. They feel so fresh and new—nothing like his journal, where even the empty pages feel weathered and water damaged at this point because it’s been across the world, and it was the cheapest one he could get at the time.

The supplies in his hand scream at him to be used and in the same vein, he wishes he could keep them perfectly pure and protected forever.

“Do you like it?” Ghost asks. His tone is guarded and it makes Soap realize that he's not really said a word about it.

“I honestly don't know what to say,” Soap answers, the words making his chest cinch. “I really—I just…”

He thinks about Elgin and how he’s been so nervous to face it, and how Ghost is giving him this tangible representation that they're on the same page. He's not facing this blasted place alone, and he knew that from the moment they stepped on the train, but it’s like he’s seeing it now, too. He's experiencing it with every sense, every feedback that his body gives him, it's all—

“Yes, I mean, yeah. Of course I like it. Thank you.” Soap tries again, looking right at Ghost. Baring it all, letting Ghost see that he appreciates it. Not just the new art supplies, but the fact that he's here, that they're side by side.

Ghost gives him a soft smile, like he's been stressed about this gift and Soap has just shouted his approval from the rooftops, instead of stammering out a response coated in his inability to accept what he doesn't deserve.

“You're welcome. Now set that aside and let's sleep, I'm fuckin' delirious at this point.”

Soap does as he's told, just as eager to sink into bed and finally shut his eyes. He's been dreaming about it all day, and he dreams of it even now—shutting off the lamp and already considering how they'll fall in together.

As it turns out, it goes like this. Ghost on his back, stretched out in every direction and still not reaching the outer perimeter of the bed, a treat to be sure. And Soap curling toward him, hauled in the moment he gets close, head cradled to Ghost's chest, a hand over his ear even though the only storm on the horizon is the one brewing outside the walls of this room.

Soap sighs so hard and long and deep, that it stands to reason his lungs might just never fill back up. His hand finds the top of Ghost's head, fingers sinking into his scalp and lightly massaging through his slightly damp hair, drawing a soft noise of contentment from Ghost.

“Hope you had a happy birthday, Johnny.”

Soap can't help but smile into Ghost's warm skin. He hears the slow heartbeat resound in his ear, feels the heat of him, and he knows there's security to be found in this night.

“Aye. One of the better ones.” Soap whispers.

“Next year, we'll celebrate.”

“Over my dead body.” Soap huffs out, dragging his hand from Ghost's hair to press over his mouth.

Ghost chuckles softly, sliding his fingers around Soap’s palm and twining their fingers together, moving their joined hands down to rest against his chest. “If that's what it takes.”

“Some days, I wonder if ye even like me.” Soap responds indignantly.

“Nobody in this world I give a shit about more.”

“That right?”

“I can promise it.”

Soap readjusts, settling more permanently against Ghost. “Suppose that'll do.”

Waking up.

Something Soap’s successfully done thousands of times. But today is just…

There's nowhere to be, there's no noises of base—no air ducts rattling in the walls, no perpetual sound of distant footsteps, no voice in the back of his mind sayin’, you’ll be late, ye shithead.

There's no sense of urgency, no weight of what the day will hold.

All there is, is what's wrapped up in this bed.

Which, currently, is Soap, sleep warm and sprawled out without care. With Ghost, who’s fast asleep against him.

Soap squints his eyes open. They never pulled the curtain on the window before they went to sleep, so he’s able to look out on the cloudy day.

He very gingerly lifts his arm and glances at his watch, eyebrow raising when he sees it's exactly the time he always wakes up. Blasted internal clock.

But it's okay, he doesn't really mind.

He's not feeling overly refreshed or rested, but there will be time for that.

Right now, Soap is privileged with the simple thing of watching Ghost sleep. It's a rare thing—Ghost’s face being perfectly relaxed, none of the jaw-clenching or serious expressions that tend to accompany consciousness. For his body to be so automatic, like it's existing with nature instead of working against it.

He studies the loose curl of his fingers on Soap’s hip, like he tried to grab him in his sleep, but just couldn't quite follow through. He eyes his hair, now dry, sticking up this way and that, the pulse of his carotid beating against the skin of his neck.

Soap’s arm is asleep, Ghost’s head is fully resting on his bicep. But Soap won't move, not now and not until Ghost decides he'd be more comfortable elsewhere.

This is a man who has been tortured and imprisoned and endured more than Soap is likely to be made aware of, and here he is, resting. He is at peace, consoled and protected. And Soap will never willingly take that away from him.

So his arm is asleep, his fingers send feedback of white hot pins and fiery needles, and he has lightning storms corrupting the nerves running the length of his forearm.

But his focus still, and might permanently, be fixed on the vision of Ghost asleep.

In a place where Soap can actually protect him, a feeling that he was momentarily detached from after Ghost got shot, and when he was being operated on, and when he was cuffed.

Soap doesn't realize he's tensed up until he feels Ghost shift against him. They're lying on their sides, facing each other, Soap a little higher up on the bed, Ghost’s head bowed against his chest.

“S’okay.” Ghost murmurs, his arm coming around Soap’s back.

Soap is positive he's a forever changed man. He doesn't know how or why or what it all applies to, but he knows he was a different person before Ghost stepped into his life. Not a worse person, but an emptier one.

Not even fully awake, and Ghost takes up residence in Soap. Spells out his worst fears and translates his body language. Ghost takes care of him and he says it's okay when he can't even have an idea of what's going on.

Soap moves to hold him more intentionally, to make him feel consumed and covered from all angles. To show Ghost that he's serious about protecting this.

“Time’s it,” Ghost sighs into the stifling hold, his body relaxing in ways Soap has rarely felt from him before.

“Way too early,” Soap whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay.” Ghost mumbles in return, voice low and gravelly and it's just…

Soap is so glad they're here.

x

It's fitting that Soap’s first sketch of the trip (he's not quite ready to tackle the watercolours yet) is of Ghost in bed.

This time, Soap is in bed, too. There are two complimentary breakfasts on the side table, a steaming coffee, and a steaming tea, and it's all ready for Ghost to wake up to. He snuck out, got it special. Figured Ghost would be up when he got back.

But he was right where he left him and as soon as Soap had got in bed, sitting against the headboard with plans to eat, Ghost just… rolled over, planted his head on Soap’s lap, said, “don’t leave,” and went right back to sleep.

So, Soap is making the best of it. Holding the bottom edge of his sketchbook against his chest, and lightly sketching the back view of Ghost’s head and shoulders. He captures the strands of waves and the structure of his muscles and the humanness of his soft form.

The food will be cold and the drinks will be lukewarm, but who cares? It’ll be similar to eating on base, maybe it's a good way to transition out of their routines for the time being.

Ghost rouses again as Soap has entered the spiral of making tiny adjustments that aren't really necessary because the drawing is about as good as it’s going to get.

It almost startles Soap slightly—gone in his trance like state of concentration, when he feels Ghost start moving. Listening to him groan quietly as he stretches out his legs then back, spine popping in a few places as he attempts to ease out of sleep.

With what appears to be great effort, Ghost turns from his side onto his back, his head still resting against Soap’s lap.

He blinks up at Soap like he’s still coming to, still figuring out where he is. There’s a slight edge of panic that reads like worry—an inability to understand why they aren’t getting ready for work, if they’re missing duties, falling short on responsibilities. Ghost must have been sleeping deep if it’s taking him this long to boot up. “Johnny?” He utters, eyes latching onto Soap with an intensity that really doesn’t need to be there.

“Simmer,” Soap shuts his journal and sets it aside, reaching a hand down to brush back Ghost's hair. He smiles softly, feeling extraordinarily pleased that this is the picture that corresponds with Leave: Day 1. “Mornin’.”

Ghost’s entire body goes still, and then it goes heavy. Like he’s just connected the dots and he’s understanding that nothing is wrong. “Morning.” Ghost greets apprehensively, the single word almost indecipherable with how rough his voice is.

“How'd you sleep, then?” Soap asks quietly.

“Good.” Ghost nods.

Soap scratches patterns into Ghost’s scalp and listens to his breathing go all soft and hazy. Ghost’s eyes drift shut, eyelashes fluttering as they meet.

“Better not fall asleep or breakfast will get colder than it already is.”

Ghost’s eyes fully open once more and he hums in disapproval. Too bad for Ghost, it’s much too endearing to take as serious disappointment. “Thought I was getting breakfast.”

Soap raises an eyebrow. “I was awake anyways. Seemed like you could use the rest.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I…” Soap glances toward the window again, watching the low hanging clouds drift by. “It's just being back.”

Ghost blinks, like he's half ready to fall asleep again. “Worried?”

“Nah,” Soap shakes his head, surprised when he can find himself saying it with relative ease. “Just have this… urge to look over my shoulder, y’know?”

“I get it.” Ghost reaches up, softly stroking the back of his hand across Soap's cheekbone. “But I have your six, I'm the one behind you. Don’t forget it.”

“Yeah.” Soap breathes softly, closing his eyes at the gesture and opening them only when Ghost starts shifting again, hand pressed flat against his own side. “I got tea for you.”

A mere moment later, Ghost heaves himself up, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Soap, dropping his skull against the headboard with a soft clunk.

Soap reaches for the cup in question, miraculously still steaming a bit, and passes it over to Ghost, who immediately cradles it in his hands.

”What would you like to do today?” Ghost asks tentatively, like he's not confident it's the question to be asking.

Maybe it's not, because Soap doesn't have much in the way of an answer. His one and only directive this morning has been to enjoy the peace as long as it lasts, and so far that’s been going extremely well. But he thinks about it, because he wanted to show Ghost a thing or two here, not just stare at the interior walls of their hotel room for the remainder of their stay. (Even though that sounds just as appealing, if he’s being honest.) “Walk around a bit, maybe?”

Ghost hums into a sip of tea. “How's your knee today?”

“It's not great, but I'll just wear my brace.”

“You're supposed to watch it, Johnny,” Ghost tilts his head. “What if we just take it easy today and then tomorrow we—”

Soap's phone starts buzzing incessantly before he can finish the sentence. It’s vibrating somewhere inside the mountain of blankets and pillows, lost to the echo of last night’s exhaustion, not even on its charger because what does he even need it for, if Ghost is right here?

His mind jumps frantically to Price, or to Gaz—then, as he’s digging his hand under the blankets, he considers it could just as easily be Callan, too. Reaching out with a phone call, because honestly he was never an avid texter, always liked speaking voice to voice more.

It honestly does not cross his mind, however—as Ghost finds the offending device in question, handing it over to Soap in a way that flashes the display name to the both of them—that it could be his mother.

How the fuck could she know.

And if she doesn’t know, then what the hell are the chances that she’s calling now, of all times?

A bitter edge crams its way into Soap’s spine and his limbs buzz at the intrusion. He shakes his head and feels the re-intrusion of all tension that the night had enough mercy to disperse.

Could it have been Callan that spread the rumour, got word back to his mam? But no—no, Callan is solid. Callan said ‘it’s about time you have a visit back home that doesn’t leave you worse off.’ He doesn’t even think the rest of the table recognized him, he didn’t see anyone else he knew.

His phone continues to buzz in his hand, it’s his mam. He should answer. He will answer. His mam loves him, and she is a good woman and he’s making a big deal over nothing. Soap is catastrophizing, he’s painting the picture without even getting the paints out, he’s—

“Johnny,” Ghost’s hand lands midway his thigh, squeezing lightly.

The buzzing stops and Soap, wide-eyed and nervous, watches as the display goes dark and his own reflection haunts the screen.

Soap can feel heat searing between his shoulder blades and looks away, swallowing. He doesn't feel like he's in trouble, not really, not because he ignored a call from his mother. Maybe he would have in the past, you know, when he was fourteen and had that first Nokia, that came with a laundry list of hard and fast rules. Or maybe, when he was fifteen, and anything he did wrong resulted in the automatic consequence of, “give me your phone… Now, John.”

Got distracted while working on somethin’ for school? Give me your phone. Forgot to do the dishes? Give me your phone. Came home a little late from his mates? Give me your phone.

But these days, he's an adult. He pays for his phone, it's his own, she frankly can't do shit. And yet.

Her words still echo through his mind. If he lets himself think about it, he hears himself being chastised for ignoring her call.

“Johnny,” Ghost repeats. It's grounding, the deep voice and the warm whiskey eyes that gleam just inside his peripheral vision.

“Yeah, I’m good, that was just…”

Ghost nods like there's an answer to be had in the words, but the truth is, there isn't any explanation that could frame this in a logical way.

What adult man gets flustered because their mam has called them? Why is there a cold sweat chasing the flutter of muscles in his back, when she was good to him? Because she was good, maybe she wasn't always fair—or at least it didn't feel like she was, to a thirteen year old that couldn't hold his temper or listen to basic instructions. But she was good. A good mother.

“Can we go for a walk?” Soap asks quietly.

“‘Course.”

It must look bad, Soap thinks, because Ghost doesn't even suggest him wearing the brace.

x

Elgin, like a great many long established cities in the UK, is home to very old brickwork buildings, poor urban planning, and smattered with jarring touches of modern life. Walking somewhere that the scream of rush hour traffic doesn’t grate on Soap’s head, is almost wholly out of the question. There are parks and the like, sure, but with his leg as good as busted, getting there is not possible.

So, while he and Ghost do step outside, he is no less suffocated. He's surrounded by a town he wasn't ready to see in the daylight, and the knowledge that it's only a matter of time until his phone rings again.

It's lucky there's no need to verbally communicate, because Soap doesn't know how to use the English language to tell him what he needs.

Instead, Soap’s face just contorts into a simple look of exasperation mixed with urgency, and Ghost’s face leeches his understanding, even past the black medical mask he’s chosen to wear.

And Ghost nods his head back in the direction of the hotel. Not even fifty meters away, back to the hotel, is he—?

“At least there, there’s nobody else.”

No cars, nobody else walking to the side of the busy road, no eyes on them.

Soap finds himself nodding, frustrated that they have to abort the attempt early, because he knows that the sense of stir crazy doom will not abate. He could scream. He wants to.

But then the door closes behind them, and Ghost sweeps Soap into his arms. He does it so casually that in another world, Soap might not have even realized it was happening. Just another one of those things, like breathing, that the body falls into without conscious effort.

“I just feel like I'm in a room and the fuckin’ walls are closing in,” he says against Ghost’s throat.

Ghost's fingers drag up and down Soap’s back. Soap lets him have more of his weight, gunshot wound be damned.

“Want to evac?”

Soap snorts at the similarities between this place, and an active warzone. “Not yet.”

“I want to ask about it but I don’t know if I’m allowed.”

Without having to say it, Soap knows what he's talking about.

One time, when Soap was a kid, there was a kid in school that'd been beating on him a bit, and there was a day he'd finally just had it, so he shoved the fucker into a wall. Resulting in the headteacher having a sit down with the two of them and both mothers.

Where he'd expected scolding and to be punished for being violent, his mom just shrugged at the headteacher and said—”Paul has been bullyin’ him for months and I'm honestly surprised yer only finding an issue in this situation now that John has decided to stand up for himself. You can't just expect my son to get treated awful day after day, with no assistance from the staff, can you? Of course he had no choice but to do what he thought he had to do to stop himself gettin’ hurt!”

Soap had thought his mom was fucking cool after that, in a way that eleven-year-olds rarely do. She took him to get some sweets after, and they had a talk about how it wasn't really okay to hurt people, and how words should be your only weapon. But Paul never bothered him again.

“You can always ask me anything.” Soap murmurs, fingers sliding into his hair.

“Is she the reason you’re so tense here?”

Soap lets the words fully wash over him because he wants to give Ghost the most comprehensive answer.

She could be calling because yesterday was his birthday, sometimes she does try to call him on his birthday.

The room feels like it gets a little more compact as they stand there, the walls stopped only through the sheer force of Ghost's field of gravity. He’ll be the one thing that keeps this whole thing afloat, he reckons.

“That’s… hard to answer.”

Two moments later—the phone buzzes in his pocket again. This time he’ll answer, he resigns himself to answer. He has to—

He pulls away from Ghost and lifts the phone to his ear, leaning his shoulder into the wall.

“Hello,” he greets, his lower chest filling with cement and his head spinning for all it's got.

“Hey, John! I’m just—is it alright I’m calling? You know me and textin’.”

“Oh, Callan.” Soap deflates. How didn’t he notice that his screen flashed an unknown number instead of ‘Mam’? “Yeah, it’s more ‘an alright.”

Ghost seems appeased as well, shoulders dropping an inch as he eyes Soap. Clearly dismissing the call as a non-threat, but still wary—Soap gives him a smile, it’s hard not to smile at the man.

“Great. Listen, I had a meeting cancelled on me, so my afternoon is completely freed up if you’re still wantin’ to meet up. If ye got your own plans, not a worry, just thought I’d see.”

It sounds like as good a distraction as Soap could otherwise find out here. A mission, an objective.

“Aye, that sounds great. When and where?”

“Figured you may like a break from all the fuckin’ traffic up where you are, how about Cooper Park? That spot by the lake we’d go to when we were wee bastards.”

Soap swallows and nods, keeping his eyes on Ghost. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

“Great. How’s noon work? I could bring the beer and lunch, an’ you just show up.”

“That’s perfect.” Soap responds softly, watching Ghost cock his head in confusion.

“Think your teammate’d want to come?”

Soap allows himself to picture it for a moment. Kind, gentle Callan next to Ghost—who is also very kind and gentle, if you know him. But if you don’t, he’s intimidating and all sharp edges, and so he wonders if it’s the right move. If Ghost would even care to be there.

“I’ll check with him. Thanks, Callan.”

“Aye. I’ll bring enough to feed an army of Johns, so no worries either way. And… you’re doin’ me the favour.”

Soap can’t help but huff out a hollow chuckle. “I can’t say I’d agree, but I’ll see ye in a few hours then.”

And there goes the phone, back in his pocket, hot and waiting for the next staccato of vibrations.

“What was that about?” Ghost asks, pulling the mask off so it’s just hanging loose by one ear.

Soap looks at him for a beat, then two. And he wonders if this was the sort of thing he should have spoken to Ghost about last night already, but he remembers how tired they were and how there wasn’t room for Elgin in the space between their hazy bodies.

“That was Callan.”

“Gathered.” Ghost nods belatedly, just the once, narrowing his gaze slightly.

“I ran into him in the pub last night when I was gettin’ food.” Soap explains, sliding down the wall at his back until his ass hits the floor, so he can untie his boots without straining his knee. “Gave him my number so we could catch up.”

“He’s one of the good parts about this place, isn’t he?” Ghost says suddenly, his tone confident, like he’s positive he’s not wrong.

“Aye.” Soap affirms. “I’m gonna meet up with him today. He said you’re welcome to come.”

“What does he know about me?” Ghost looks almost taken aback.

“Nothing. Just that you’re here with me, that we work together.”

Ghost crouches down and starts unlacing Soap’s second boot. “And that’s enough to get an invite to the inner circle?”

“Yes.” Soap nearly laughs, but the nerves eat it up before the levity can leave his chest.

“So… Do you want me there? Or is this one of those things you need to do on your own?”

“I’ll be fine to go alone if you want to stay here and rest… I'll also never say no to you being around. But it’s up to you.” Soap says. “This is your leave as much as mine, you should spend it how you like.”

They get a ride through an app because what else are you to do when you need to get somewhere and your mobility is hindered?

Soap spies Callan almost right away. It’s quaint, really, the dark blue blanket spread on the grass near the water. A six pack of beer and a cooler that presumably has the food—probably prepared by his mam the moment she found out John was visiting, with the homemade bread and the apple pastries he always loved so much. Callan’s mam is another one of those solid people—wouldn’t have breathed a word about him bein’ here, if Callan said not to.

Ghost is approximately two feet behind his left shoulder, probably strategic because it’s his injured side so he can be ready to support Soap in case he steps wrong.

He’d texted Callan that he’d be taking him along, and he got a thumbs up in response, so it won’t be a surprise that they’re showing up together. The surprise will come when Callan looks up at all six foot four of Ghost, sees his thick build, and the scars visible on the exposed skin of his face, where the medical mask doesn’t cover.

“Callan.” Soap calls out when they’re only a few metres away, walking up to him from behind.

Strategically, this position leaves them horribly exposed. The walking path is at their back, as well as the main parking area—there’s no cover nearby should they have to make a stand.

And it strikes him, in a bittersweet way, that Callan is such a civilian. That most people never have to think like they’re living their last day on earth, or close to it.

Ghost seems to have the same reservations, because he’s looking all around as they approach the blanket, familiarizing himself with the area.

“Aye, John—” Callan grins, looking alive and healthy, and even brighter than he was last night. “And you must be the teammate,” he says to Ghost, raising an eyebrow. “Name’s Callan,” he says, eyeing Ghost curiously.

Ghost pauses for a split second, then gives an upward nod of his head in greeting. “Ghost.”

If Callan is at all shocked with the type of man Soap’s chosen to bring home, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t look put off by the mask or by the stern expression, or the fuckin’ size of the man. He just looks pleased as punch that they’re here at all. “Thanks for the drink last night, John.”

“Yeah, ‘course. You don’t look like you partook in The Elgin Way.” Soap snorts, taking a seat on the blanket near the middle, so he’ll have Callan to his left, and Ghost can settle to his right.

“Steamin’ hell, no chance.” Callan snorts. “I told you that last night, I had a nightmare of a morning to get through—hence, I’ve already started.” He raises a beer bottle, already almost empty. “So help yourselves.”

“Thanks.” Soap chuckles, grabbing a bottle out and first offering it to Ghost, who looks hesitant but takes it nonetheless, twisting off the cap and immediately tugging down his mask to take a sip.

Soap looks over and sees Callan looking at the water. He takes a beer for himself.

“What’s a nightmare of a morning look like for a man workin’ in the river trust?”

“Whole lot of bureaucratic red tape bullshit and town council and fuckin’ permits. If you only knew about the permits, John.”

“What the hell d’ye need permits for?” Soap asks quizzically.

It turns out—quite a lot. Turns out Callan can rant about permits for a solid ten minutes without ceasing, coming up with curses that Soap hasn’t heard since they were kids blowing up that custodian’s closet. And the funny thing, is it’s just the thing Soap needs to settle into this. It gives him the time for his heart rate to settle down and for his mind to find some quiet solace.

He calms a bit. Not like the way he was calm this morning, sketching out the unruly mess of waves and highlighting the strands that got caught out by the grey daylight.

But he finds an ease.

Callan eventually says—”Well, I’m sure you’ve heard enough about my life.” He chuckles, and Soap sort of smirks, watching him open up the cooler. “And I’m sure you’re hungry. Told Mam I was meeting you for lunch and naturally she sent along everythin’ but the kitchen sink.”

“She always did love me more an’ you.” Soap jokes.

“Aye, ye wish.” Callan chuckles, shaking his head. “Whatever’s extra after we eat, ye can take. I assume ye have a fridge in your room. And I’m going to her place for dinner tonight anyway.”

Soap twists to peer into the cooler as Callan opens it, suddenly going stiff as he twists his knee. (Probably didn’t help walking as much as he did last night.)

Ghost’s hand is immediately on the small of his back. “Johnny?” He murmurs. The first he’s spoken since telling his name. He’s been a little withdrawn, but not more than Soap had really expected him to be in the presence of his longtime friend—this whole thing was more for Soap’s benefit than Ghost’s.

“Aye, fine.” Soap grits out, readjusting his knee.

Callan looks concerned, but doesn’t say anything.

And then Ghost is stripping off his hoodie in fifteen degree weather, strategically folding it and then kneeling next to Soap, carefully adjusting Soap’s leg and wedging the hoodie under his lower thigh, keeping the pressure off his knee.

“Any better?” Ghost asks, a hand remaining curled around Soap’s knee as he waits for confirmation.

“Yeah.” Soap heaves out a breath of relief and shifts in place. “Thanks.”

Ghost nods, his worry not necessarily abating, but he sits back down next to Soap, a little closer this time.

Soap looks over to where Callan’s hand is resting on the lid of the cooler, then up to his face, where he looks a little struck.

“Well, if it’s you who’s watching out for John out there, I don’t think I’ll ever worry again.” Callan half chuckles, eyes twinkling.

Soap looks over to Ghost.

And yeah, Ghost’s arms are thick and relentlessly on display, his Nirvana t-shirt does little to hide his frame from anyone looking directly at him. And Soap is… he’s not used to it, per se, but he’s not surprised by it. It’s just normal.

But he looks through Callan’s eyes, at all that bulk and those blond waves. He sees him through the lens of a civilian, how Ghost appears infinitely strong and yet reserved. How he’s a little terrifying with his elbows confidently resting on his bent knees, but oh so softly clasping the neck of his beer bottle between his index and middle finger. The way he stares at Callan, his gaze cool and measured, before he says—”I try.”

Callan just smiles, like he’s been let into the world’s biggest secret. “Where are you from?”

“Manchester.” Ghost answers after a beat.

Soap digs into the cooler, more carefully this time. Fuckin’ yeah, Callan’s mam did send along apple pastries.

“And you work with Johnny, here?”

“Oh fuck off, ye know you’re nae allowed to call me that, Cal.” Soap retorts.

Callan’s eyes are positively gleaming at this point. “Ye know, Ghost, I tried calling him Johnny before, when we were younger. But he didn’t talk to me for a week after, until I promised never to do it again. So if he honest to god lets ye call him that, yer special.”

Ghost’s expression softens ever so slightly. “He couldn’t exactly ignore me, considering we were on the run at the time.”

“As if that would have stopped him.” Callan teases lightly, chuckling as Soap’s elbow makes sharp contact with his ribs. “Stubborn bastard.”

“Gettin’ hunted down was slightly more a concern than what I was bein’ called.” Soap mumbles.

“And every time he’s called ye that since?”

Soap can feel his face heat up despite the fact that there’s a cool breeze, and wonders if it was a blasted mistake to let these two worlds collide. Because he’s certainly not gonna deny Callan’s allegations, let him think what he wants, he won’t have Ghost thinking it’s not true.

“As I recall, you have some nicknames as well—” Soap threatens, raising an eyebrow. “Seem to remember that one yer mam used to call ye back when we were but wee bairns? Maybe we’ll bring that one back?”

Callan’s hands raise in surrender. “Fine, fine.”

Ghost taps him on the shoulder and leans in close. “Mind if I take a little walk?”

“Go on,” Soap gives him a nod, reaching into the cooler to pull out a sandwich. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Ghost whispers, getting up and turning on a dime, his back to them as he walks off.

“Didn’t take it too far with the teasin’ did I?” Callan asks as Ghost gets out of earshot, sounding tentative, eyebrows pulled together.

“Nah, you’re solid. He’s just going for a walk, nothin’ else to it.”

“He tell ye that?” Callan says curiously.

“Not in so many words.”

“Then how do ye know?”

Soap takes a bite of the apple pastry and lets himself consider it, just for a moment. “‘Cause I know him.”

“How long have you worked together?”

“Nearin’ on two years. But it’s not just… it’s not just like ye work with somebody and clock out at the end of the day. It’s… it’s different gettin’ shot at with someone on the regular.”

Callan snorts at that. “Yeah, I’ll bet it is.” He smiles. “I don’t think you realize how funny it sounds when you say that so casually. Like getting shot at is somethin’ normal.”

Soap stares at his hands for a moment, thinks about how they were covered in wet, slippery blood. Thinks about trying to get the bloodstains out of his plate carrier so he doesn’t have the weight of them pulling him to the ground every time he has to gear up.

“I suppose it’s my normal.”

“Well, if there’s nothin’ else to drink to, there’s that.” Callan raises his bottle toward Soap, and Soap clinks his own against it.

“Aye, there is indeed.” Soap lets the following wash of beer trickle through the blood, but it doesn’t do much.

“So how’s it been so far, bein’ home and all?”

Soap huffs out a breath. “My mam called.”

“Yer mam?” Callan frowns. “I thought ye didn’t tell her you were comin’.”

“I didn’t.”

“Well what’d she say, then?”

“I didn’t pick up.” Soap answers hesitantly, like Callan will tell him that’s not right to do to his mam. And it’s not—it’s not the respectful thing to do, so it’d be warranted.

“Good.” Callan nods.

“How’s it good?” Soap asks, bewildered. He’s shocked because Callan was always the one who listened to his mom, respected his parents, and always highly regarded the whole ‘treat your elders with respect’ thing. “I ignored her.”

“You’re finally standin’ up for yourself.”

Soap has never regarded being a coward as a means to stand up for himself, so his understanding continues to unravel, and his mind draws complete blanks.

Shoving Paul into a wall, that was standing up for himself.

Backed into a corner, plunging Ghost’s knife deep into two enemy combatants, that was standing up for himself.

Letting the phone ring out because he was too paralyzed to answer, seems quite the opposite.

“What am I not gettin’?” Soap sighs, shaking his head. He’s at the end of a rope, hoping Callan will give him the one thing he needs to cross the gap.

“She takes from you. You never seem to notice, or maybe you don’t want to.” Callan shrugs, looking a little lost in thought himself.

Soap he… doesn’t know what to do with that, so he just shakes his head.

“And you just seem to… let her take an’ take.”

He has no idea what it means.

“But what do I know, I’m not the one who had to grow up with the woman.”

Callan is the nicest person he probably knows. And he’s so fuckin’ normal. And when Soap’s mam would kick Soap out, he’d always end up there, and Callan’s mam would give him a snack and ask about his day. And Callan has that same tendency to be overwhelmingly kind. So it’s always jarring when he hears the man talk about someone in a less than flattering light.

“I’ll probably see ‘em while I’m here.”

“I’m not surprised. Just… be careful with yourself, aye? I can tell you’re not a hundred percent.”

Soap thinks back to his answer from before. It’s my normal.

“I’ll be careful.” Soap offers.

“Will ye take Ghost?”

Soap makes a sound that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. “I don’t think I could stop him.”

“I get the feeling.” Callan says fondly. “But I’ll bet he doesn’t know a thing about your mother.”

Soap sighs almost inaudibly, but in a heavy way, feeling the weight of cement flow back into his chest. He feels like there’s a force stealing away his oxygen, a fire burning it off just as he’s inhaling.

“I’ll text ye my new address just in case, I moved since ye were last here. Come over night or day, you’re always, always welcome, John. Ghost is, too.”

Soap nods slowly. “I’m sorry I’m not better at keepin’ in touch.” He says, swallowing down all the regrets that fight at the chance to crawl up his throat. “I don’t think I deserve you tryin’ so hard on me.”

“You’re worth it.” Callan says. “And ye did leave me your email, I coulda reached out just the same. And I know if I needed you, you’d be there. Could always count on you like that.”

“I would be.” Soap says after a beat.

“See? An’ that’s what matters. So haul yer arse over to mine when your mam decides to screw things up.”

Soap takes another bit of apple pastry and imagines his life, if all he had here was Callan and Callan’s family, and how he’d take every chance to come home that he could. So maybe he’s not… wrong.

“Promise me.” Callan nudges Soap’s elbow, all gentle but firm. “I have a spare room, too, you know. Always more ‘an welcome to it. I’d actually have insisted on you stayin’ with me if I thought your teammate would let you out of his sight.”

Soap leans his weight toward Callan’s shoulder briefly and exhales. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Callan turns to give him a smile. “Eat one of those sandwiches now, mam made your favourite.”

Soap’s eyes widen. “With the oven roasted chicken an’ everything?”

“Aye.”

“Oh fuckin’ hell, why didn’t ye say.” Soap immediately reaches into the cooler and grabs one out.

The conversation turns a little more casual after that. Callan tells him a few of the more rewarding parts of his job, a story about some abandoned owl eggs they found and incubated, and then some mishaps from the summer student they have working with the group.

Soap laughs and he’s… he’s so separated from his nervousness. He feels settled in and finally at home.

And then it happens. It doesn’t seem like things will ever fully line up for Soap. Life’s just gotta find a way.

Soap’s phone buzzes and he pulls it from his pocket, encased with dread.

He shows Callan the screen, and then resigns himself to tapping the answer button and holding it to his ear. It feels… not manageable, but maybe it’s just inevitable, like something he’ll have to do eventually so why not get it over with now.

Callan looks like he just about makes to swat away the phone but it’s too late, because Soap is already saying—”Hi, mam.”

“John MacTavish, tell me why I had to hear from my friend Aila that my son is visitin’ home, and not from my own son?”

“Who’s Aila?” Soap frowns, his mind spinning as he tries to figure out who she is and how she could know—

“Aila has been in my book club for eight years. Ye know her.”

“And why does she think I’m in Elgin?” Soap knows his hand would be shaking if it wasn’t pressing his phone hard into his ear.

“Because she checked ye into The Royal last night!” She quips. “With another man, she said.”

Soap pulls the phone from his ear for a moment, and then places it back, setting his jaw.

“Well? Is she tellin’ lies, then?”

“No. She’s right.”

There are several beats of silence. Soap doesn’t know what she’s thinking, or what she’s about to say next—and the anticipation is killing him.

Callan silently opens another beer and slides it in his hand, the kind man.

Soap takes a lengthy drink.

“You’ve hurt me, John. Deeply.”

“Sorry you feel that way.” Soap responds dully.

“Suppose she’s not lying about the rest either.”

“The rest of what?”

“She said she booked you and… and a man, into a room with one bed. Just wondering what your explanation is for that.”

Soap’s face contorts into something resembling confusion, and then his entire expression drops. Because it suddenly becomes clear what she’s… what’s being insinuated.

“Aye—” Soap glances desperately at Callan, then to the beer, then to his sore knee, Ghost’s hoodie all perfectly folded beneath him. “He’s my Lieutenant, we work together. That was just the room we ended up with… I didn’t realize hotel staff were allowed to give out that kind of information.”

“Not to most people, but I was a big help when Aila’s father passed away, we’re close.”

“Great, well. Thanks for checkin’ in.” Soap rapidly makes to end the conversation because he can well and truly feel his hand shake now.

“You’re coming to visit, aren’t you? I can do up the guest room so you won’t have to be sharing beds.” She says it like she knows, but she can’t—Aila wasn’t in his fucking room, locks were fucking locked, and two elite operators most certainly would have woken up to the sound of anyone walking in.

“I don’t know, I’m only here for a day or two.” Soap answers, thinking about Callan saying she takes from you. And maybe this is what he means—though he can’t remember ever shaking in response to her before. Last time he was there, two years ago, it hadn’t exactly been fun, but he’d done it. Not a second thought to it.

But now it’s… now there’s the option of Ghost, he can have warmth and safety. And he doesn’t need to brace through an emotionally tolling visit with his mam.

Why, if he had the choice, would he endure the way she’s speaking to him now—making him feel like he’s done something wrong when this is the only thing in his life that’s felt one hundred percent right?

“You can’t make time for me and your father?” There’s a pause. “Is there an issue, John?”

Callan places a heavy hand on his shoulder, like he can sense that there’s a part deep inside of Soap that’s writhing.

Soap exhales so shallowly that it feels like none of the dying air leaves.

“No, it’s not like that.”

“If not seein’ us is a choice, I hope you’d at least have the love in your heart for us to explain it.”

“I can try to see ye tonight.”

The hand tightens, fingers digging in just above his collarbone.

“Well, we’d like that, John, if you can manage it.”

“We’ll be there after dinner, ‘round seven. That work?”

“...We?”

“I’ll take my—I’ll be takin’ my friend.”

“I’m honestly not sure I’m up to having guests.”

“Okay, so we won’t bother ye then.” Soap answers quickly.

His mother sighs. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, I dunno what you want then.”

“We'd like to see our son, I didn't realize it would be so inconvenient for you.”

“It doesn't need to be inconvenient.” Soap can feel his jaw lock up tightly. “What does it matter if I bring him along?”

“Exactly. What does it matter? Why do you want him there?” His mam counters, a cool tone in her otherwise casual voice. “Shouldn't it be that you want to see us?”

Soap feels his stomach churn and he wonders if maybe this whole thing would just be better if he went alone—no exposing Ghost to all this anyway.

“You'd want me to leave the man responsible for the fact I'm alive to talk to you right now on the street while I come in to say my hellos?”

“You know I hate hearing you talk about all the danger you are in, son. Trust me, I think of it on my own enough.”

Soap inhales slowly, tries hard not to get worked up even though every cell is winding itself into circles and the release is imminent.

“Aye, well. It's the truth.” Soap fights to keep his voice even. “So do ye want us to drop by? Or does tonight not work?”

“Well it won't work, as I said I am not up to having guests.”

Soap fights not to let the relief overwhelm him.

It kind of feels like since he was held hostage this most recent time, being confined is too much for his nervous system.

“Maybe some other time then.” Soap responds offhandedly.

“...That's it?”

This is sort of like being confined. Hands around his neck, holding his airways closed.

“Will you have time tomorrow?”

This is where Soap would usually cave, but the man who escaped his own shackles once before doesn't seem content just to let himself fall to the wind.

“No we won’t, sorry.”

“...Fine, just come tonight then. I'll just have to find a way to deal with it.”

“We'll be there at seven.”

“Fine.”

And Soap hangs up.

It's really not good, the way he handled it. Because now she's in a mood, they're going into a situation with the proverbial guns already drawn. He didn't even ask Ghost if he'd be willing to come, if he'd want to face up against this with Soap. And really, it's a stupid fucking question, because of course he would. But he still feels like he's made terrifying assumptions and he's leading them both into a corner.

His breaths are coming in too short, Callan's hand tightens on his shoulder. Frantically he looks in the direction Ghost walked in, because if he knows anything about the warning signals his lungs are giving him, this is not going to be pretty.

It was a phone call with his mam, it was a phone call.

A few weeks ago he was preparing for his death, ready to fight against enemy forces until his last bullet or his last breath, whatever came first.

“John?” Callan says his name the way he's heard some people warn about bad weather.

Soap closes his eyes and drops the phone recklessly to the blanket, shaky hands coming up to cover his face. He wants to hide, he doesn't want Callan to see this, he doesn't want to be breaking over something that never looked like a weapon.

And he wants Ghost because Ghost is the only person in the world who can take one look at Soap and know what's happening. They've been here before.

“Breathe, John.”

But Ghost is off taking a walk and Soap has a friend that he feels too guilty to rely on, and he's going to have to try and back himself out of this corner alone. He's in public and this is so so embarrassing, there's barely anyone around, but he's mortified. He wants to walk away—run, maybe. But his knee aches and his head spins, and he knows he's not going anywhere.

Another breath hitches, gets taken hostage by his lungs, and then another. Jerky inhales that stack on top of each other like hiccups that he can't swallow down. There's a wheezy quality to them, like his throat is the size of a pinpoint and the air can only whistle through.

Callan swears softly, and says—”Will Ghost make it better?”

And Soap nods a resounding yes, still not able to remove his fucking hands from his face.

His chest quakes restlessly, trying to steal breath after breath. He feels Callan reach between his legs and grab at his phone, and Soap lets him.

“Need you to unlock your phone.” Callan urges quietly.

“2-9-4-0” Soap grates out. “Simon. Yer lookin’ for Simon.”

Callan makes a noise that sounds like a hush, and then Soap can hear the phone dial. Callan has put it on speaker.

“Soap, I'm inbound, what's up?”

“Callan, actually.” Callan says, gently rubbing between Soap’s shoulder blades. It's a nice feeling actually.

There's a split second of deafening silence.

“Why?” It's low and gritty. If voices could kill… Callan may just be needing life support.

“John’s having a panic attack, I think. Are you… nearby?”

“On my way. Tell him I'm on my way.”

Something spurs in Soap’s heart, and his whole chest moves as his body tirelessly tries to pull in more oxygen.

“Aye.”

It feels like an eternity passes, but Soap is positive it's less than forty-five seconds until he hears Ghost fucking running in the perfectly manicured grass.

His initial thought is that Ghost should not be running. He’s still recovering from a bullet wound, he should so not be fucking running.

He heaves in a shaky breath and pulls one hand away to watch him come. His chest jolts in a whole different way as he sees the urgency in which Ghost tries to get to him. It's so unnecessary because what is Soap going to do, badly breathe himself to death? Unlikely.

But Ghost runs like life has ripped Soap open, his insides flayed and exposed to a world that’s trying to destroy him. Ghost runs like he's worried that Soap is really hurt.

He couldn't have been far away. Probably only just out of sight, he would have gotten here soon anyway.

Soap watches him slow down a few feet from the blanket, like he knows that calm is the one thing Soap can't quite seem to grapple on to. And his body deflates as he steps before Soap, crouching low and keeping his hands pointedly to himself as he studies Soap.

“What happened?” He asks, voice soft. He sounds more concerned than Soap has heard him in a while. Since those moments right before he'd talked him out of getting rid of the mohawk, maybe.

Soap pulls both hands away from his face so Ghost can see. No injuries. His eyes are wet though, silent tears relentlessly expelling themselves from stinging eyes. He wonders if Ghost knows he didn't mean to cry.

It's sort of… embarrassing to be doing this in front of Callan because up until now, it's only ever been him and Ghost. And there was never any hesitation in Ghost’s expression like there is now.

“His mam called. He picked up this time.” Callan fills in, his hand not leaving Soap's back.

Soap waits for Ghost’s expression to shift at all, but he's closed off outside of the worry.

He nods once, twice, looks almost like he's about to reach for Soap, but he stops himself.

“On you, Johnny.”

Which is code for I'll follow your lead. Except leading is the last thing that Soap is prepared to do. Leading takes energy and forethought, and all Soap can seem to do is suffocate.

It's probably because Callan is here. Ghost doesn't want Callan to see what they are behind closed doors, because that's been their whole thing, hasn't it? This is something that stays under lock and key, not something anyone else on this earth is allowed to know about. Of course Ghost doesn't know what to do.

Ghost wants Soap to lead them both out of this completely unravelling sense of panic, and he can't.

His diaphragm is burning, his lungs are burning, his body staggers through half-cooked breaths. Callan is staring at him, Ghost is staring at him. It's too much attention all at once and he withers, he slumps because he can't do this one simple thing. He's falling apart, his hands return to his face so he can sort of hide in a small way. Escape the looks, try to focus on climbing out of this very deep, very dark pit.

Soap can feel his fingers start to tingle, his vision go slightly staticky behind his hands, his lips numbing. It's his brain telling him he doesn't have enough oxygen, that he's not getting enough air—as if he didn't know.

His head is so heavy it hurts.

“I'm fine.” He grits out, determined to do this all alone. He's in good company, but he doesn't know how to ask for help, he doesn't know if he wants it.

But then he feels Ghost bodily pull his head forward. Strong fingers curling in his hair and pulling his head right into his chest. It's like Soap jumped off a cliff, and a hand grabbed him at the very last moment—his body jerks at the change of momentum, he shakes as he tries to reorient his path.

Soap's ear is pressed to Ghost's chest, his loud, thumping chest. The other ear is covered with a strong, calloused hand, keeping Soap's head locked against him like a vice.

Ghost's breathing is slow and even, intentionally so. He's displaying the pattern that he likes to silently urge Soap to join him in when he's breathing like a drowning man.

“I've got you, Johnny.” He breathes into Soap's hair, where the mohawk used to be. His lips and nose are against the top of his head, mask is off. “If this is too much, tap me twice.”

But it's not too much. Soap sort of didn't want anything to touch him because he already felt those hands around his neck, but somehow this works. Ghost is boxing his head into his chest with his arms, but Soap finally feels hidden enough to let himself focus on finding the light at the end of the tunnel.

He's not in Elgin. There's nobody else here. It's just Soap, surrounded by an impenetrable fortress, protected from every angle.

Fingers gently start playing with his hair. They start at the front and card slowly through to the nape of his neck—a process that just repeats and repeats.

And Soap doesn't know how long they stay like that, Ghost holding him out in the open, Soap slowly taking back lost territory. But eventually, he's breathing slowly and evenly.

Ghost reluctantly starts to release him.

Soap has apologies on his tongue. For Callan, that he had to see this. For Ghost, because he didn't fully believe he was going to save him yet again. And maybe he'll spare one for himself, for putting himself through this fucking place.

“Sorry.” He ends up whispering to everywhere, shaking his head and wiping roughly at his eyes. “I didn't mean—I didn't think that—”

“Don't, John. If you go apologizin’ for bein’ human, then we'll have to go in a circle and do the same, we’ll be here all day.” Callan teases ever so gently, like he's not sure if Soap could take it in full form. “Seriously, it happens.”

Ghost stays oddly silent.

Soap tries not to overthink it, he tries not to think about how maybe Ghost didn't want to comfort him in front of anyone else, and how maybe he just broke something irreparable.

Soap picks up the beer he was about one sip into before, and takes a long pull. He wipes at his eyes again. He tries to settle his fried nerves, but knows it will take time.

He thinks about how he has to go to his parent’s tonight though, and how he won't get to recover. Which feels so fucking impossible that his chest jerks in a gasp again, just once, to remind him how close he is to falling right back apart.

“Come to mind tonight instead.” Callan offers. “We can watch football and I'll make that salsa dip you always loved.”

Soap is so tempted because in terms of recovery, it would be second only to spending the night inside Ghost’s arms.

“Have to see ‘em, Callan.” Soap responds after a beat. “I need…” He heaves out a weighty breath.

“I'm still texting you my address. Door is always open to you, day or night like I said.”

Ghost is very tense beside him and Soap only wishes he had the fortitude to look over and check his expression, but he's too embarrassed to do that. He feels so stupid that Ghost had to run here and fix things.

“Thanks, Callan. For everything.”

“Aye.” The voice is soft beside him. “Any time.”

Soap reaches the bottom of the beer bottle and feels the welcome buzz around the edge of his bones, just a little something to disconnect himself from the reality before him.

Callan hands him another apple pastry. Ghost remains silent and stoic next to him, like he's waiting for enemy combatants to start appearing in front of them.

The lunch isn't ruined, and Soap can only breathe a soft thanks to whatever deity knew he couldn't handle fucking up one more thing. Callan tells him about some of their mates from school, how one became a stripper and accidently accepted a gig for a hen party in which the man’s mother was included. Awkward, apparently.

Soap’s right hand falls to the blanket, his finger wraps into Ghost’s nearest belt loop. Ghost startles slightly, beside him, but eases into it a second later, almost looking more relaxed.

Callan is all smiles when they eventually say their goodbyes because he has to go back to work. He says, “thanks for this, John, I loved seein’ ye. Maybe it won't be the last time before you leave.”

Soap nods, because he thinks he could see it. He wants to be better at this friend thing, maybe he doesn't want to be what Callan thinks his mother is.

And you always seem to… let her take an’ take.

Callan gives Ghost a strong handshake, and Ghost looks borderline surprised at the grip of the man. But Soap knows that Callan works with his hands when he can, used to be a part time farrier during his later school years and after—he’s fuckin’ tougher than those gentle eyes would have you believe.

“I like you.” Callan says, eyes roaming Ghost (now masked once more) appraisingly. “And I hope to see you again too.”

To which Ghost nods, ducking his head and peering at Callan through his lashes. “You’re not so bad for a Scot.”

And Callan is thrilled by that answer, barking out a laugh that Soap can’t help but smile at. “Yeah, well hopefully by the end of your stay ‘ere, you’ll have a new appreciation for us, aye?”

“Miracles do happen.” Ghost jabs lightheartedly.

For all that Soap hurts, inside and outside, he watches Callan leave and finally turns to face Ghost. Something between them feels… unsettled, and he really can't bear for it to stay like that. So naturally, he goes into damage control mode.

“I'm sorry.” He whispers, feeling his own body wring a little tighter. He couldn't please his mam, and he couldn't please Ghost and maybe this whole thing has been a mistake.

Maybe he should be on his own tonight, give Ghost reprieve.

“I didn't know that would happen and I shouldn't have let Callan call, and I—” His heart races and he feels like he's breathing through a straw again already. He's too rubbed raw from earlier, it's really not the time to be getting into this. But he can't leave it untouched, he refuses to let—

“I didn't know what you wanted me to do.” Ghost says, voice taut. “I didn't… know if you'd be upset, me touching you when he was here, I didn't know—you couldn't breathe and I didn't know.”

It tumbles out in a pile, the words. And they stand there in it, the cement finally slops out of Soap’s lungs and onto the ground, filling in the gaps between the syllables. He’s rooted to the spot, can't move his legs, unable to speak.

He battles the elements—the whiplash of windy fear and the fiery jolt of devastation.

He finally opens his mouth, just for Ghost to add the cherry on top.

“I'm so sorry.” Ghost shakes his head, eyes half-lidded in grief. “I let you down.”

“You have never once let me down.” Soap whispers. He means it. He means it like he's never meant anything before, he's so serious, so incredibly genuine about it. Soap has lied about a thousand things to a hundred different people—but with Ghost it's always been solid truths and full trust.

And it's no different now, when he reflects on all the times Ghost has picked him up, carried him, made him whole.

“You couldn't ever let me down.”

Soap wants to step into an ocean and close his eyes, let the water pull him around which ever way it may, give in to the undertow and the rip currents. He wants to let nature have him, because the constructs of this world seem to be created for his destruction.

Ghost swallows thickly and nods like he'd give anything to believe what Soap is saying.

“Can we just… sit here a while? You and me?” Soap asks after a long moment.

“Yeah.” Ghost nods slowly, motioning to the bench that lies a dozen feet to their right. “There?”

“Aye.” Soap immediately agrees and Ghost’s hand on his lower back guides him toward the seat, both of them sighing as they sit down heavily.

Ghost's arm stretches across the back of the bench, and Soap inadvertently leans his shoulders back against it. Every time he breathes, their bodies shift together. He's not quite tucked into Ghost's side, but he's also not not tucked into his side.

And it's there, that Soap crashes. Breathing in cool air and watching two swans drift across the other side of the small lake. He dips his head, lets it fall against Ghost's shoulder.

“Did Callan tell your mum you're here?” Ghost asks, voice soft.

Soap shakes his head against Ghost. “Nah, it was the receptionist at the hotel. Apparently long time friends with my mam, so…”

“We should have stayed at the Travelodge.” Ghost responds bluntly, ending his sentence in a sigh.

And it's so obviously not a joke, that it ends up being the funniest thing Soap may have heard to date. Before he knows it, laughter is spilling out of his chest with a freedom that he hasn't felt since they left base.

“Simon,” Soap chastises without heat, and he feels Ghost's chest shake with silent chuckles alongside his soft laughs. “That fuckin’ Travelodge is for transients and no-questions-asked hookups.”

“You don't fit into either of those categories?”

“Not a chance.” Soap snorts. “I like asking questions too much.”

Ghost throws his head back in a sudden laugh, and Soap can't help but look up at him. Throat exposed, eyes scrunched in unexpected glee, face loose. Looser, honestly, than can be expected after the heaviness Soap just forced him to endure.

“Yeah, you do.” Ghost says fondly, pausing for a moment and then curling his arm intentionally around Soap's shoulder.

There’s practically nobody here. But if word gets back to his mam that he was getting comfortable with another man on a park bench, then who the hell cares.

“Are you…” Soap starts, fiddling with his hair in the bathroom mirror of the hotel room. He's not sure why he's even doing it, he still needs to put on a shirt, and his hair is wet from the shower he just had, so no amount of finger combing is going to do anything. “Are you sure you want to go?”

“Told you I'd follow you anywhere.” Ghost reminds him, voice soft. He's standing behind Soap, holding his gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “Now, get up on the counter so I can help you with the brace.”

Soap carefully turns around in place and does as he's told, placing his hands flat on the counter and levering himself up, sitting on the edge.

He watches as Ghost slides the brace over his leg, systematically doing up the straps. His mother is sure to say something about it, but Ghost practically forbids him from taking so much as a step without the damn thing. It’s just… it’s a lot better than it was, his knee, but there’s still a ways to go.

“I would…” Ghost hesitates, hands resting against the done up brace. “I want to get on the same page before we go.”

Soap watches him thoughtfully. “A’right. Go’on start the briefin’ then.”

Ghost's eyes flick up to him. “Your accent has gotten about ten times worse since we got here.” He says, furrowing his eyebrows and shaking his head.

Soap smirks at that. “Think ye mean ten times better.”

Ghost’s lips twitch briefly, a soft hint of a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. “Anyway,” he starts, eyes falling to where his hands rest on Soap's leg. “I just… What do you need from me tonight? Because I don't want it to be like earlier, where I hold back because I don't know the correct operating procedure.”

Soap reaches forward, curls his hands into the front pocket of Ghost's hoodie and hauls him closer. “You always know the right thing to do. I trust you.”

“I’m not sure I understand why you want to go. Just being on the phone with her made you…” Ghost trails off.

Soap shrugs, tipping his head forward and resting his forehead against Ghost's shoulder, feeling Ghost's arms tentatively slide around his lower back.

“Can I wear your t-shirt?”

“Didn't pack your own?” Ghost huffs, turning his head into Soap’s, speaking the words against his temple.

Soap smiles a little. “Aye.”

“So wear one of them.” He points out.

“Didn't you say once you'd give me the shirt off your back?”

“I didn’t.” Ghost retorts dully. But he takes a half step back and pulls his hoodie off, dropping it to the side, before pulling the Nirvana t-shirt off, turning it around and tugging it right over Soap’s head. “Better?”

Soap feels the immediate transfer of warmth that the worn in fabric gives him, and he glances over his shoulder at the lines of slightly cracked, yellow tour dates that span his back. He lifts his eyes to Ghost, who is now bare-chested and looking expectantly at Soap. “Aye, Simon. Thank you.”

“The things I do for you,” Ghost shakes his head, his eyes giving away his fondness, even as he tries to keep his expression neutral.

Soap is positive that the fundamentals of his training apply to the way he prepares to move up the front walk of his former home.

The way he rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath and sets his jaw.

Back when he was fresh out of qualifications, he knew of an SAS unit in which each soldier had trained themselves to go completely relaxed and focused with a single word, or song, or physical trigger. He thinks, belatedly, that he wishes he'd have tried to learn that.

This place is just… so familiar.

Everything in reach is something he's touched before, he remembers all the feelings he held inside the palm of his hand as he made this same walk throughout his teenage years.

Ghost is barely a step behind him, tense from the moment they got out of the car.

Soap takes one final breath. It's his parents place, he's not getting shot or killed here, he's gonna be fine.

He walks up to the front door and opens it like he's done a thousand times. Absently, he wonders if he should have knocked. But he used to live here, his mam still calls it home to him, surely it's fine.

It's fine.

“Hello?” He calls out, looking down the hall as he lets his jacket slide off his arms. Smells exactly the same, looks the same. Sounds the same, too—there are four grandfather clocks in various parts of the house, and he can hear the mechanical tick of at least two of them now.

“John, you're here.” He hears his dad’s voice filter through from the kitchen, the floor creaking as he begins approaching.

Soap slings their jackets on the coat hook closest to the door for an easy escape. His heart is racing, he barely knows how to act. “How copy?” Soap murmurs.

“Solid.” Ghost responds softly. “You?”

“Hangin’ in there,” he breathes, turning on his heel just as his father appears at the other end of the hall.

“Good to see ye.” His dad gives him a warm smile. “And who's this?”

Ghost reaches out a hand. “Simon.”

“James. Nice to meet ye, Simon.”

Soap doesn't even have time to process that Ghost has shared his first name instead of his callsign, all he can do is watch them shake hands. His dad flinches and Soap can just about hear the bones in his hand grind together. It would seem Ghost has taken it upon himself to make a point.

“John,” his dad turns to him next, extending his hand the same he's done to Ghost.

Soap takes it, giving it a firm shake that likely pales in comparison to Ghost’s. “How are ye?

“Good, good. How's work?”

For a split second, Soap thinks about hanging from the chains, losing Ghost's knife, Amin’s compound, running to exfil, holding Ghost's body together. “It's fine. You still keeping busy?”

“Yes, always busy.” James nods. “Workin’ on a semi from Jack’s fleet, you remember Jack?”

Soap shifts on his feet. “Yeah believe so.”

“Yeah, gotta take the transmission out, it's a big job. Say you're not free tomorrow are ye? Could use an extra set of hands. Could use Simon too, the brute.” James laughs sort of nervously, sparing a teasing smile to Ghost, who doesn't even slightly return it.

Soap shakes his head. “Afraid we can't, sorry. We’re not here long.”

James shrugs. “Aye so your mother said. Sounds like we were lucky ye could squeeze us in at all.”

Soap shifts again, taking the weight fully off his bad knee. “Where is she?”

James looks behind him like he's expecting to see her in his shadow. “Oh, she was—Margeret?” He calls down the hall, frowning when he doesn't hear her respond. He sighs and starts down the hall, Soap casts a glance over at Ghost, who only raises an eyebrow, and then they both follow along.

Margaret, as it turns out, is in the back garden. She has pruning shears in her gloved hands, dark hair gathered in a low pony at her neck, thin lips pursed.

She's at the rose bushes, her pride and joy, and Soap starts walking over to her.

He doesn't even need to look to know he's being followed.

“Hi, Mam.” Soap greets, stepping up next to her.

She stares at her rose bushes, grabbing small little sprigs and trimming the most miniscule bits off. It's like she hasn't even heard Soap, but Soap knows she has. He's just supposed to work for it.

“Mam.” He repeats, watching her snip off another tiny piece.

She doesn't say anything. Just keeps… snipping.

“Margaret.” James prompts with a sigh.

“I heard, the roses are just taking my attention. I'm nearly done.”

Soap nods knowingly, carefully refraining from rolling his eyes.

“Well, I made some coffee. Either of you want some?” James offers after a beat.

“Aye, sounds good.” Soap affirms, turning on his heel. One minute in and he's had enough of this shit.

“Margaret? Join us inside soon?”

“Mm.” Margaret offers, neither a confirmation or denial, hell, not even an acknowledgement.

James marches on ahead, visibly annoyed. He doesn't usually have a lot of patience for his mam’s bullshit though, so it's not a surprise.

Soap and Ghost follow at a slower pace, giving them a few moments to visually check in.

They filter into the kitchen to the sight and sound of James slamming around a few cups. Soap gets his temper naturally, though he really tries not to let it get the better of him like it does with his dad.

Ghost sort of works himself to stand between Soap and James, and for a moment, Soap is confused as to why. But then he sees the way Ghost bristles when the milk gets roughly pulled from the refrigerator and the refrigerator door slams sharply.

Soap steps forward and places a hand on his lower back. “He's not violent.” Soap whispers, “Simmer.”

Like he’s a balloon and Soap stuck a needle in him, Ghost deflates.

“How do you want yer coffee, John.” James says tersely, anger curling around his expression, but Soap knows it's not pointed at him. (It's not pointed at him.)

“Same as it used to be.”

James looks at the cup, back at Soap, and sighs. “Remind me.”

“Why don't I pour an’ I can make Simon’s too.”

James looks relieved. “Aye, you do that. I think we've got something to go with the coffee, let me check with yer mam where she put it.”

Soap watches his dad go, and then spares Ghost a glance. “Do you actually want a coffee?” He asks in a low tone. “I'm sure I could find some tea, too, if ye—”

Ghost shakes his head. “Rather nothin’ if it's alright.”

“S’fine. You feeling alright?”

“Yeah.” Ghost whispers. “Not keen on taking off the mask… If that’s—unless you think I should.”

Soap gives a look to the black medical mask. “What? If you’re not keen, keep it on. You know I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t mind… I just thought, if it makes it easier… for you, for them—” Ghost trails off, ducking his head.

Soap’s head immediately shakes side to side. “You’re my priority here, what’s better for you is better for me. You read me?”

“Okay.” Ghost gives him a tentative nod.

“Good.” Soap says with a soft smile, then turns to the cups on the counter, automatically making his parents’ coffee to their liking.

The coffee machine is the same one that's been here for a decade and Soap can't help but twitch as his fingers curl around the handle of the glass carafe. It still looks brand new despite the thousands of times it’s been used.

His mother is… everything has to be just so. The coffee maker has to be cleaned just so, the kitchen, just so.

Up until he was sixteen, she’d bought all his clothes for him and Soap never really had an itch to have his own style, so he went with it. At the time, he was just happy he never had to go clothes shopping, but now he looks at his father and sees the same exact style that she’d been putting Soap in from sixteen. Casual, but proper. Cleaned up. A little on the uppity side. James and Soap, along with the kitchen and the coffee machine and the garden, had to be just so.

The mohawk had nearly done her in. It was the first sense of individuality Soap had ever felt, and since then, he’s been greedy for it. It’s why he’s also shown up in jeans that are ripped at the knees and a Nirvana t-shirt that is one or two sizes too big—to show her who he is. Soap is pure grit and determination and he’s all his own, not just another thing for her to control. Not that she’s—he wouldn’t define her as controlling. That word has too many negative connotations. She’s just always had high expectations, and if they weren’t met, she had trouble dealing with it.

“Why did your mum ignore you out in the garden?”

Soap watches the dark liquid slosh into the first cup, foam gathering around the wall of the cup as it settles out. “She just does that.”

“She ignores you?”

“It’s just… her thing. It’s hard to describe.” Soap waves off a hand, unsure how to lay it out in a way that doesn’t frame his mum in the wrong way. He doesn’t want to paint her in a bad light when she’s not a horrible person, and Ghost has a right to form his own opinions.

Ghost makes a hesitant noise of acknowledgement, shifting on his feet.

“I mean it.” Soap says after an extended moment. “You are my priority, give me a signal if you want to go.”

“We need an evacuation signal, at your parents’ house.” It’s not a question, just a pointed statement. Ghost’s arms fold over his chest and his gaze heats up the side of Soap’s face.

Soap feels bile wash threateningly into his throat. “Ghost.” He warns, shaking his head. He fills the last cup and slides the coffee pot back into the machine, exhaling heavily. He feels upended, out of place—like he’s a square trying to shove himself into a round hole. He keeps catching the echo of the kid he used to be, the man his parents always wished he'd become.

He’s solid where he is, proud of what he’s made of himself, relieved to have Ghost at his side.

Last time he was here, he was alone. His mother had pulled him along to the farmer’s market on Saturday morning and they’d churned through the busy, stuffy building. Everybody and their fuckin’ grandad was there, and Soap had felt claustrophobic as they’d worked their way through the pulse of bodies. He knew his jaw had locked, knew his face was probably formed to the expression he saves for the thick of battle—stoney and unrelenting. He’d had to breathe through it. watching his mam buy some unnecessarily expensive sliced meats and some random health food items, before finally storming out the buildings.

“Ye could have acted like ye wanted to be there, John.”

“What?”

“I don’t even know why ye bothered to join me. Ye didn’t even say hello to Michael and his wife.”

“I’m sorry, the place was so busy I didn’t even see ‘em.”

“I pointed them out, John.”

On Sunday morning, he trailed after his parents to church and was made to greet a portion of the similarly salt and peppered congregation. Luckily, he had a second chance on giving that hello to Michael and his wife (he thinks they were the same ones, anyway).

He gets asked countless times how he likes being a soldier, almost with a pitying look in their eyes, like that’s all his parent’s say about him. ‘Our son, yeah, he left us to become a soldier.’ But it’s probably better, you know, that deeper knowledge is limited and controlled—it could be a security risk if it wasn't.

After the service, he has one older gentleman sidle up to him and say—I hear we have a lot in common, I was active duty for a few years, you should come by and see my medal collection—got them all professionally framed’. And it’s not that Soap doesn’t respect veterans or the merit behind their commendations. But his own medals are stuffed in a cardboard box under his bed along with the user manual for his hair clippers, a family picture his mother thrust into his hands just before his third deployment, the empty box his phone came in, and possibly a few paper clips.

Footsteps in the hall have Soap tightening his shoulders.

James returns and beelines to a cupboard near the fridge, sorting through the contents to grab out a plastic container filled with a modest assortment of baked goods. They are suspiciously full of seeds and look alarmingly on the healthy side, and the sight of them makes Soap’s stomach clamp shut.

“They're from Aila, she heard you were in town.”

Soap raises an eyebrow, stunned at the audacity of Elgin’s middle-to-old-age demographic. Aila ratted him out, and then sent baked goods to his mother? Fucking hell. “Thanks, but we just ate before we came.”

James shrugs. “Simon?” He offers the dish in Ghost's direction, and Soap watches him shake his head.

“I'm full, too.”

James shrugs again, and Soap sort of forgot how much he does that. The shrugging. Like life is a perpetual question. Easy to wonder how his shoulders are still sitting in their socket. “Suit yerself, more for me.” He chuckles softly.

Soap passes his dad the coffee he'd made for him and blindly takes a sip of his own, not even tasting it as it goes down.

Margaret comes into the kitchen a second later, and James reaches out to point to the mug. “Yer coffee's there, Margaret.”

“Oh.” She murmurs, disinterested, heading to the sink and washing her pruning shears. She’s meticulous with them. Cleaning them. Just so.

James sighs, “John made it,” he says sternly.

Soap can feel himself get slightly heavier, eyes flicking between the two of them.

“John should know I don't drink coffee these days.”

Soap sticks a hand in his pocket so that nobody will see the fist it turns into.

“Come on, Margaret.”

“What?” Margaret turns on him, lips pursed. “You want me to drink it even though I don't want it?”

“No, I want ye to stop ruinin’ John's visit, he's not been home in two years.”

“Ruining?” Margaret looks aghast, betrayed—“Why do you say ruining? I’ve been nothing but civil.”

A look flashes over James face that insinuates his thoughts to the contrary, and Margaret huffs. Her thin lips purse together again, eyes full of liquid venom as she stares at James.

“Just try to have a nice time.” James grumbles, a suggestion that appears to hit Margaret like a gut punch.

“I’m always ruinin’ everything in your eyes, so I don’t even know why ye want me here for this.”

“John came a long way to see us.”

Margaret takes a moment to shoot a look bordering on murderous and storms out of the kitchen, her long black cardigan trailing after her almost elegantly. The resounding stomps down the hall and out the door, however, are anything but.

Soap exhales heavily and sips at his coffee again, feeling Ghost come to stand closer to him as James goes after her.

“So…” Ghost hums quietly, visibly forcing himself to loosen.

Soap huffs out a hollow laugh, feeling like a criminal as he rests his head against Ghost's shoulder. “Aye.”

“She always like this?”

“Not always—she's good too, she can be really nice, ye know, she just… she's just in a mood right now.”

“I don't like the way she treats you.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn't always easy as a kid.”

“I wasn’t aware kids had a responsibility to be easy.” Ghost points out. “And you're not a kid now.”

Soap stares into his mug, watches the steam swirl off his cup. “It's my fault for not telling her I was here, I shoulda been honest in the first place.”

“Johnny, none of this is your fault.”

Soap steps over to the sink and dumps out the coffee, stomach feeling too bitter to drink it.

He braces his hands on the edge of the sink and takes in a deep, steadying breath. He surveys the kitchen—everything in its proper place, perfectly clean, flowers in a vase on the worktop.

James footsteps appear back down the hall and Soap watches him pop his head into the kitchen. “I, uh… We’ll sit out in the back garden.”

Soap automatically nods, listening to his dad leave again. No end to the fuckin’ chaos. He turns to Ghost, who's looking at him in an appraising way. Like he’s seeking out the signal for mission abort, tactical retreat. “You up for it?” Soap asks in a way that he hopes sounds even and calm and undisturbed.

“Won't leave a man behind, you know that.” Ghost’s eyes nearly sparkle and Soap wonders what the fuck he's doing here, when he could be anywhere else in the world having Ghost all to himself.

Soap snorts in subdued amusement, shaking his head. “Aye, might've found a battle you'll finally run from.”

Ghost reaches out to clasp his shoulder, squeezing once, tight. “I’d take on a million Margaret MacTavishs for you.”

“Thank yer lucky stars there's just the one, then.”

It's a nice garden. Though the seasons are beginning to change and cooler weather is setting in, you can see the flourishing evidence of a well cared for yard.

There are trellises and different planter boxes, a number of stakes and probably enough gardening string to wrap the earth twice. It's perfectly organized, not a leaf or petal out of place. Colour everywhere you look. Soap’s always imagined it would look good on the front of a magazine.

Margaret is already sitting on one of the patio seats, looking off in the distance like there's truly something to be found there. Soap absently wonders what James has said to have her sitting delicately in place—he can be gruff and less than eloquent, but he’s not usually mean just for the fun of it.

Soap steals the two-person porch swing that hangs from the pergola, and uses his eyes to offer Ghost the opening at his left side.

“I see you got rid of the mohawk. Finally.” Margaret says, still looking away.

“Temporarily.” Soap says evenly, readjusting as Ghost settles down at his left side.

Margaret hums and James just shakes his head at her, taking a sip of his coffee.

“It's a nice garden.” Ghost finally speaks up, folding his arms over his chest.

James looks surprised to hear him speak, and looks expectantly at Margaret. Soap is not as hopeful for a response.

“Thank you.” Margaret mumbles, so fucking disconnected and so obvious about it, that Soap thinks he may literally lose his mind. It's just something she does, she's done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more, because for the life of her—she can't (or won't) see the advantage of communicating like an adult.

Silence passes once more. Ghost’s knee bumps questioningly into Soap’s, and Soap responds with a subdued bump back.

“So, mam, did you enter that uh—what was it called… Mayweather’s Rose of the Season? Did ye sign up for that?”

“Yes.” Margaret says, voice light and hollow as she picks at a loose thread in the corner of the patio cushion.

“And?” Soap prompts, frowning.

“And?” Margaret repeats.

Making him work for it some more, it would seem.

“Did ye win?”

“No.” Margaret answers shortly.

Soap takes a deep breath.

James sighs a little too heavily. “John, tell us about what’s been happening at work lately. What do you do?”

“Afraid it’s mostly classified what we do, sorry. But it’s been good, we’ve been… yeah, we’ve been busy. Doing a lot.” Soap swallows against a dry throat, forcing himself to bob his head. He thinks about how slippery Ghost’s artery was. “It’s been good.”

James nods like he’s not following along, but he also looks relieved to hear something other than a one word answer. “I suppose you get to work on some big equipment then, aye?” He sort of chuckles out, giving Soap a wry smile.

“Well, we get to use big equipment, but we don’t work on it. Maintenance and repair is done by specialized engineers an’ the like.”

“Why don’t ye work on your own stuff, wouldn’t that be more efficient?”

“Nobody said the government was efficient.” Soap jokes dryly.

James laughs loudly. Too loud. He’s trying too hard. But it’s better than Margaret’s distant glare. “No doubt there, John. Like I said, I’ve been working on Jack’s fl—” James pauses as Margaret gets to her feet. “Where are ye going, Margaret?”

“I’m not interested in talking about machinery, so I’m going to leave you to it.”

“Well, let’s talk about somethin’ you’re interested in then—” Soap switches to damage control mode. “What would ye like to talk about?”

“You should know my interests, I’m your mother.”

“Aye, that’s why I brought up the roses.”

“You asked me one question and that’s it.”

“Ye… didn’t really seem keen to talk about it.” Soap tries to delicately explain.

Margaret shakes her head and stares off again, like she needs to gather herself. “Why is it on me to carry the conversation?” Her voice starts raising a bit, not nearly as high as it can go, but high enough that Ghost gets all tense next to him. Soap desperately wrangles for an idea that’ll bring peace to this again. “I gave ye an answer that should give you the idea to ask somethin’ more. And you have no desire to get to know me, you don’t want to understand why am I seeming upset about not winning Mayweather’s yet again, for the sixteenth year in a row. You are supposed to ask questions in a conversation, explore how the other person feels, learn who they are.”

Soap wants to inwardly roll his eyes, because she—she just… He asked about the fucking roses, she acted like she didn’t want to talk about it so he respected her wishes. It’s exhausting to contemplate the fact that, with her, most of the iceberg is under the water. He has to somehow read her mind and know the exact reaction she wants to see from him.

And it makes him compare, just for a split second, what a relief it is to speak with Ghost. Ghost talks to him and it’s never a game, it’s never something he has to think too hard about. It’s never a minefield that he has to step carefully around. He enjoys talking to Ghost—like, really enjoys it.

“Ah.” Soap answers noncommittally. He realizes he’s damned if he makes any further comment, and so damned if he doesn’t—but the easier option is just to stay quiet.

Except that’s just fucking awkward too, the four of them sitting there in the silence. Moments slog on, Soap looks to the side of his mother’s stern expression and then to the garden, and then down to where his knee is resting against Ghost’s.

James is the first brave enough to speak up again.

“We’ve been havin’ some lovely weather lately, a drier and warmer autumn than we’ve had in ages—”

Margaret throws her hands up. “Why are we even sitting here? Seriously, James. This is what you always do—just talk about disinteresting things.”

“At least I’m talkin’, Margie.” James shakes his head, folding his arms over his chest.

“Small talk isn’t talking.” Margaret criticises.

James sighs out, deflating as he takes a long drink of his coffee and then leaning forward to swipe a treat of Aila’s from the box he’s placed on the patio table. “So you’d have us sit here in silence?”

“I’d rather we weren’t sittin’ here at all, it’s far too cold outside, but of course I have to do what you say. Isn’t that right, James?”

“Well ye said you didn’t want to sit inside!” James blurts, shaking his head.

Soap shifts in place and Ghost taps the side of his boot into Soap’s. Soap immediately gives into the urge to look at him, turning his head to give him a look from the corner of his eye.

Ghost looks stone cold from the outside, an impenetrable force. Maybe a little angry, if you didn’t know how to read his face. But Soap does—so he sees the tightness around his eyes, the slight lift of his eyebrows like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

All in that one second, Soap’s a little mortified. He’s not embarrassed that his parents are arguing, he’s embarrassed that this is normal to him. He’s appalled that his parents aren’t even trying to pretend that they can get along in front of a guest. He wonders how they talk to each other if nobody’s watching.

“I said that I wasn’t up for guests, is what I said.” Margaret explains morosely.

“John’s not a guest.” James argues in confusion, shaking his head.

“He’s not, no.” Margaret agrees. Eyes flicking to Ghost, then to Soap, then back to the middle distance over to her side.

Soap bites his lip because if he says something, it’ll be the end of all this. The barely intact house of cards will fall all around them. He knows it. Pattern recognition is a skill that’s easy for the subconscious to fall back on.

He looks at Ghost, who looks no more worse for wear despite the snipe—though his eyes are slightly narrowed.

“Steamin’ Mary and Joseph, Margie, that’s no way to talk to someone in our home. John’s superior officer no less.”

“Mam, he’s saved my life, I’m nae sure what your problem with him is, but I’d appreciate if you didn’t make him feel unwelcome.” Soap says quietly, looking between his parents.

Margaret’s head whips over at him. Of course it does.

Historically, Soap has always just let her do her thing, and then when she decides to play nice, he goes with it. It's so much easier living in peace with her. So calling her out and potentially setting things back or rocking the boat? Better not.

But tonight, he’s here for the first time in years, he has Ghost at his side, he's almost died a dozen times since the last time he saw her, and he's just… so done with this shit.

“My problem?” Margaret seethes, hurt and upset.

“Aye” Soap spreads his arms along the back of the bench swing, glad that Ghost is so big that neither of his parents will see the way he buries his fingers into the shoulder of his hoodie. “Your problem.”

Margaret breathes heavily for a moment, eyes incensed as they stare relentlessly at him. “How could you even ask that, son.” She says in a low voice. There is pure, cold rage in that tone—and Soap doesn’t like it.

“What do you mean?” Soap frowns.

“You come to Elgin and don't tell your own mother, going as far as to hide it by staying at a hotel, and you have the nerve to ask me what my problem is?” She blurts. “You can't understand why I'm heartbroken? Think to yourself what a mother experiences when her own child turns away from her. Think about what that does to my heart, John.”

Her eyes water as she places a hand over her heart, and Soap feels overwhelming guilt curl up inside his stomach—but this is exactly why he didn't say anything about him being in town in the first place, isn't it?

He shouldn't have said anything, just continued with the small talk in the hopes that she'd get over it and join in. He shouldn't have stirred the pot.

“Breathe, Johnny.” He hears the almost imperceptible whisper drift warm and safe toward him.

And Soap realizes he's been holding his chest tight since the last words he spoke.

Quietly, he takes a deep breath. The fire does not leave Margaret’s face, in fact, it only intensifies.

“I'm sorry you have to hear this—this private family issue.” Margaret says in Ghost's direction, unregretfully.

“He is family.” Soap finds himself saying, barely even aware of the words as they leave his mind.

“I thought you said he was your lieutenant.” Margaret reminds him pointedly. She’s unimpressed, gaze boring into him like a heat-seeking missile. Soap knows even if he dares move, it’ll just follow, and he will get blown up in the end.

“Where'd you say you were from, Simon?” James asks, a clear attempt to change gears.

Ghost only very reluctantly peels his eyes away from Margaret. “I didn't. Manchester.”

“A Brit at our home,” James teases. “That'll get the neighbours talking.”

“More Scottish blood in me than you would expect.” Ghost answers dryly.

It takes about three seconds for it to click, for Soap’s mind to register the subtle tease in Ghost’s tone. And he sort of… Soap sort of chokes because his body can't quite decide whether to laugh or maybe cry, it's just such a bad time to be joking about the blood transfusion. But it's so Ghost, and it reminds him yet again that he's here. That Soap is not here alone.

“Okay, Johnny?” Ghost muses, eyes twinkling ever so slightly. And when he looks at Soap, he isn’t stonewalling—when he looks at Soap, he’s got this little spark of glee. He’s got their inside joke cradled in his gaze, only visible if you know how to decode the angles and the lines and the curves that all come together to form his soft expression.

“Aye, just—”

“His name is John.” Margaret snaps quietly. She’s always been that way about Soap’s name, to the point where Soap had adopted the same mindset for a lot of his childhood—but how freeing it is, to be called Johnny, specifically by Ghost. Another sense of individuality.

James clears his throat. “What side of your family do ye have the Scottish line?”

“Neither.” Ghost nods, as if it's a fulfilling answer to the question.

Soap couldn't even talk about the transfusion to his recruits, so explaining the story to his parents is so out of the question. “Movin’ on—” he says pointedly.

Margaret turns to James. “Your son is sharin’ a bed with that man.”

Well, that’s something James won’t try to run interference on.

James looks downright shocked, then taken aback, eyebrows furrowing and expression going dark. “John,” he chastises angrily.

Soap tries to stop himself from shrinking back against the sudden jolt of anger that vibrates through the patio. He fills his chest with air and sighs it all back out. “I am indeed, da.” Soap nods firmly. “We've bunked in far worse an’ that out in the field.”

James looks shaken, as if Soap has just burst into flames before him. “You know how people talk in this town. You can't just…” he sputters, face still contorted into something angry. “John.” He rebukes.

Soap’s mind fills in the real question without the words having to be said out loud. What’s wrong with you?

Soap lets his head momentarily fall back. He stares up through the open wood frame of the pergola, up into the grey sky. He takes a deep breath, then bravely faces both of his parents once more. Ghost's hip and thigh are warm against his, the breeze is too cool for his t-shirt, but he doesn't care.

“Anythin’ else you wanna get off yer chests while I'm here?” It comes out tired this time, Soap doesn't know how much longer he'll bother to stay—things won't be getting better. Why has he even bothered to stay this long, when he knew what was coming?

James sighs, shaking his head in disappointment and bewilderment. It's clear that he's not got much more patience in him either.

“It's not like that, we're just concerned about you.” Margaret says. “It's our job to watch out for you as your parents.”

Bullshit. Soap knows in his heart that his da is only concerned about appearances and what people might say, and his mam is just trying to make this about herself.

“John, you’re to get your things from the hotel and bring them back here, no reason you should be sharing a bed with another man in any context, especially when you can sleep here.” James demands, temper the shortest it’s been all night.

“I’m not sleeping here,” Soap shakes his head wearily. “Need to keep an eye on Simon.”

“What do you need to keep an eye on him for?” Margaret asks with equal amounts of scepticism and confusion.

“I’ve been injured in the line of duty. Johnny has extensive field medicine trainin’ in case anything happens.” Ghost explains dully, half-lidded eyes staring down Margaret mercilessly. He tilts his head at the end, as if to add a silent—I dare you to make me call him John.

“Well, then you can both sleep here, separate beds.” James fires off. Determined, twitchy. “John, you’ll sleep in your old room, Simon can sleep in the basement.”

“You can’t just expect me to host people without asking me, James—I have said five times already, I am not up to guests.”

“So you’d rather let our son sleep with a bleedin’ man in his bed?”

Soap’s brows furrow at the idea of his parents being so against him being with a man, but it’s not a surprise. Every Sunday was church, morning and evening. He thinks his father would nail himself to the crucifix on the front of the church if he found out exactly what Soap does with Ghost. Showering together, sleeping in the same bed together even when the situation doesn’t call for it, spending evenings curled up against each other while Soap’s phone plays whatever easy to watch show or movie they’ve chosen for the night.

Margaret gives him a look, like ‘are you clinically insane, James?’ “Of course not. I think John should stay here, perhaps Simon could find a temporary health aid to be with him.”

“Alright—” Soap crosses his arms. “I am not staying with ye, nor am I leavin’ Simon on his own. Let’s move on.”

“There is no moving on until we figure this out,” James snaps loudly. Ghost goes stock still. “Why would ye want to sleep in the same bed as a man, when you can sleep comfortably in your parents home?”

“Listen to the way you’re talkin’ to me right now, and then ask yourself why I don’t want to stay here.” Soap says in a regular tone, despite the fact that it has his heart racing. He’s nervous because he never does this, never talks back. And it’s not even talking back, but it’s… disturbing the peace, it’s disagreeing, it’s showing he’s not just going to take it.

“John.” James blurts out, shaking his head. “Do not talk to me in that way. You are to respect your mother and I.”

“I was taught that respect is a two-way street.” Ghost seethes, and the bitterness in the tone would have Soap wilting had it been directed at him.

James gapes like he’s shocked that Ghost felt like he was allowed to speak. “I respect my son, and you’ve no right to say anythin’ about it.”

“Think I have every right.” Ghost grits out.

“What in the bleedin’ hell would give you that impression?” James is shooting daggers at Ghost, but James doesn’t know that Ghost is an expert in close combat weapons—specifically blades.

“Because I respect Johnny. And if I ever caught myself treatin’ him the way you two have since we’ve been here, I’d put a bullet in my own head.”

Margaret looks completely offended, maybe disgusted. James just looks like he’s having an existential crisis. And Soap just… he’s frozen in form, unable to make his mouth move enough to put a stop to this—except, does he want it to stop? Ghost clearly laying out just how highly he regards him is… it makes him feel really good (even if he could do without the imagery of Ghost offing himself).

“I—you—that’s not—” James shakes his head, looking impossibly more upset. “You’re the one responsible for corrupting my son, aren’t ye? Do ye use your rank to control him?”

“James—!” Margaret sounds positively aghast, as if she’s never heard such an indelicate thing in her life.

Ghost starts making to get to his feet but Soap quickly reaches out, grabbing him by the sleeve before he can do somethin’ stupid, like walk over to his father and knock his lights out. “Ghost.” He murmurs, tone pleading.

Ghost looks over at him and his expression softens a little, like he’s just remembered where they are and why they’re here. Soap gives him a soft smile, a little—hey, it’s you and me.

Reluctantly, Ghost eases his full weight back into the seat and glares at James instead of doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his mind. Soap doesn’t blame the man.

“I’m not bloody corrupted. And nobody is controlling anybody. That was out of line, da.” Soap says in a gentle way, not because he wants to, but because if he venomously snaps it out like he wants—they won’t hear the words. “There’s no need to fight tonight… it’s—there’s been enough of that.”

James is pinned to his seat, looking a little melted to his seat because of Ghost’s relentless gaze burning into him. “I’m nae fighting.” He says, artificially calm. “I’m watching out for ye, John.”

“You don’t need to.” Soap responds. “Especially not when I’m with Ghost.” He nods his head to the man beside him.

“Ghost—?” Margaret drawls.

“Aye. It’s what you’ll call him.” Soap likes the idea of keeping Simon for himself, and he thinks—he thinks that it’s not good for Ghost to hear his given name slip from lips that say it with disrespect. He doesn’t deserve that.

“John, grow up. The time for nicknames was when you were a bairn.” Margaret counters.

“It’s his name.” Soap says firmly, no amount of sugar coating, because he wants her to understand. He wants her to know she just lost something, even if she may never understand what she was given in the first place.

Margaret sighs. “There’s no need to take such a defensive tone with me.”

Soap shrugs. “I don’t think you understand that Ghost is the only reason I’m here.”

“Not this again,” Margaret sighs shakily, voice sounding close to crying again, “John, ye know I love you, but my heart cannot take hearing about you being in danger.”

“It’s the reality.” Soap tries, frowning.

“John, don’t upset your mother.” James tosses his direction, grabbing another of Aila’s baked goods. He must not have a single taste bud.

“It was bad enough when your father spent years and years working away, while I had to deal with everything. Raising you, taking care of the home. What about me? Did either of you think what leaving me would do to me?” Margaret dabs at her lower lash line with the side of her index finger, shaking her head and pouting down at her lap. She looks up at James, then to Soap, where her gaze stays. “What about my dreams?”

“Your dreams?” Soap repeats dully.

“Everyone deserves—” she sniffles, “to have a dream, something they can think of, plan for, have as their own. But I have never been allowed to have a dream, I have never been allowed to have something for myself.”

Soap hears an almost inaudible fucking hell from Ghost’s direction, and can’t help but internally agree. Luckily Margaret doesn’t hear, because Soap wouldn’t even want to know how she’d take that.

“Nobody stopped ye from havin’ a dream.” Soap points out.

“Ye have.” She snaps out. “You, but especially your father. I always had to keep everyone else together, and there was nothing left for me at the end. And now I’m havin’ to hear that you’re risking your life, and yer father had a dangerous job for years, and—and—” She sniffles again.

“Oh, c’mon, Margaret.” James groans softly, shaking his head.

“See?” Margaret gestures to James, looking at Soap imploringly. “See? That is what I am left with, no support. I am not supported, not by either of you.”

“Mam,” Soap sighs, feeling his patience start to wane, and this is normally where he’d force himself to shut down. This is where he’d go quiet and just quietly agree with whatever she says, but today… today he just…

Maybe he’s stronger, maybe he’s dumber—maybe Ghost’s presence makes him feel a little braver. “Can we just… move on? I’m sick of all this arguing. There are more important things.”

“Oh, so my problems aren’t important. Yes, I’m not surprised to hear that.” Margaret swipes at her other eye and studies her finger like she’s checking to see if she smeared her make-up, not that she wears any. “Sure, son. Talk about whatever you think is important. Let’s make it all about you.”

Soap’s head is spinning. And he’s feeling like he did when he was walking back and forth through the surgical waiting room, feeling himself get dizzy right before he collapsed. He doesn’t remember going down. He just knows he came to with Price’s silhouette looming in his blurry vision, a concerned pull to his face as he’d yelled for a nurse.

He thinks, maybe, it’s a good idea he’s already sitting. And it’s a good thing that Ghost is right next to him.

“Margaret.” James warns. “What are ye doing?”

“I want to hear from our son,” she snips.

Soap clears his throat, letting a few moments pass as he gathers the jumbled words in his head and puts them all nicely in a row. His tongue feels thick in his mouth as he speaks. “Maybe it’s best we go.”

“John!” His father snaps. “Ye just got here.”

Along with his shoulders, Soap's given name is something he's surprised he hasn't worn out yet.

“I think you may be right, Johnny.” Ghost tells Soap, plain as day, not even trying to hide the words from his parents.

“You don't have a place to talk in this.” James calls out angrily, getting to his feet and taking an automatic step toward the porch swing. Soap knows he’s not going to hit either of them, fucking hell, but he’s sure acting like it’s in the cards— “I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth.”

Ghost suddenly and powerfully stands to his full height, looking like he's ready to storm through five feet of concrete and not like he’s just preparing to face off with James MacTavish.

James shrinks back in shock because Ghost truly is terrifying when he wants to be, and there's a (frankly, large) part of Soap that feels vindicated by the sheer sight of it. Ghost is absolutely massive compared to his father, dwarfing him both in size and in demeanour. And he’s in protective mode, which is so fucking unnecessary because Soap can deal with his own bleedin’ parents—but Ghost still has his six anyway.

Soap can't help it, the soft smile.

“Something funny?” Margaret asks pointedly, eyes burning against Soap’s face.

Ghost whips his head to look at Soap too, but unlike his mam, he doesn't need to ask in order to know it's a warm, fond thing—not a reaction to amusement.

Soap ignores his mam, briefly glancing at his father instead—who still seems slightly taken aback by Ghost’s size and threatening disposition.

It’s crystal clear, suddenly. That he’s wasting his time here, that he’s wasting his peace, wasting his precious leave on something that won’t yield results. Soap’s not going to feel better, not now, not after his mother decides to suddenly stop fighting and not after his father runs out of steam and switches subjects at a breakneck speed.

Then his eyes once more travel to Ghost, whose eyes are still on him, tentatively seeking out the path forward.

“Gimme a hand up, then?” Soap reaches a hand up to Ghost and flashes him that same, warm and fond smile.

“Sure,” Ghost turns to him fully, but instead of pulling him to his feet, he crouches slightly, reaching out to fix three loose straps on Soap’s brace—Soap knows he was playing with them during the tense exchange, but didn’t realize how loose his brace had actually become.

But Ghost noticed. And he’s fixing it for him now, and Soap just watches him do it because five extra seconds spent looking at Ghost is worth a decade of watching his parents. He can imagine their expressions anyway, his mother sneering, his father trying to determine if the intimacy of a man fixing another man’s knee brace is going to send Soap to hell.

Ghost straightens and he finally holds his hand out, his parents’ silence a welcome backdrop to the gesture.

And Soap never hesitates when he’s presented with the opportunity to have contact with Ghost. He wraps their hands together and stifles the soft groan that passes through him when Ghost hauls him up to his feet, a balancing hand shooting out to support Soap’s elbow. He holds on maybe a few seconds longer than necessary, but Soap won't be the one to pull back. “Steady?”

“As I can be.” Soap gives him a nod and Ghost moves to Soap’s side, sticking his hands into his pockets.

The change of position puts Soap right back in his parents’ sights, and he takes a measured breath. “Well, s’pose we’ll be off, then.”

Margaret is unsurprisingly the one to immediately scoff. “What—so you’re just going to run away? Family is supposed to stick by each other… but you're just going to leave?”

Soap stares at Margaret and finds himself wondering if he knows she's so close to losing him in such a big way.

“If you knew how this would have gone, would ye have changed anything?” Soap asks curiously. A make it or break it, he thinks. The answer to this will tell him everything.

“I'm still so hurt by you, son.” Margaret murmurs, shaking her head. “The sneaking around, hiding from us, when all we do is want to put our love upon you—that’s all we ever want, to love you and for you to be happy.”

“Is it?” Soap asks sceptically.

“It’s like you think I’m heartless.” Margaret cries out, shaking her head. “When all I do—all I’ve ever done is taken care of you.”

James just sighs heavily, like he realizes that his wife has just sealed their fate.

“That’s enough.” He mumbles.

“Aye. I’d agree.” Soap nods once.

“You always gang up on me with yer father.” She bites out.

“Bleedin’ hell—”

“Language.” James warns gruffly, eyes stern. But he’s not snapping anymore, and Soap wonders if it's because Ghost is still standing, more than a full head taller than his father and probably about twice as broad, too—his position clear, nobody is getting through to Soap.

“You always tell me I'm not even allowed to react to anything!” Margaret throws out exasperatedly.

“I didn't say that, Margaret.” James groans.

“You didn't have to, your facial expression says it all.” Margaret quiets her voice, showing her hurt tangibly once again. “You two have always been against me.”

She takes from you—

Soap turns to Ghost. “You have your things?”

“Yeah.” Ghost nods solidly, eyes lingering on Soap’s expression like he’s wanting to check if he’s surviving this.

“Goodnight.” Soap nods to his parents, flashing them a tight smile.

“C’mon, John, just stay a little longer.” James says sharply, like a plea that got mistranslated as a barked order.

“We’re not staying where we’re not wanted.”

Margaret scoffs, “Ye think yer not wanted? Are you tryin’ to be funny now?”

“Since I walked in this house, you’ve done nothin’ but try to fight with me, mam. I’m done.”

“That's absolutely not true, your father wouldn’t have allowed that. James, is that true?”

“John, we wouldn't have invited ye if we didn't want to see you. Your mother was heartbroken when she found out about ye being in the hotel.”

Soap exhales. “Well, it was great to see ye, wish ye the best.”

His mam gets up from her seat and for the smallest, tiniest split second, he imagines her coming over and saying sorry, and wrapping him in a hug. Because she’s his mam. But instead, he gets a full coffee cup thrown just to the right of his head. Soap can feel the sensation of the handle just ever so slightly graze his temple, then go on to hit one of the wooden pergola posts before smashing loudly against the side of the stone house—”Fine then.” She sniffles, mouth turned downward in a big frown. “Just go then.” And then she's storming away and heading inside.

The deafening silence that follows is punctuated by the sound of Margaret running up the stairs and slamming the door to her bedroom.

Soap has to control his breathing for a moment.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost mutters quietly, the whole of his body tense and primed for attack. He turns to Soap, his warm, dry palm touching Soap’s cheek, his jaw, his neck. He’s checking for injuries, Soap knows the look in his eyes, it’s frantic and worried and— “Johnny, you hit—?

“I’m fine.” Soap answers, though he knows his eyes betray his shock.

“Fuck.” Ghost deflates, shaking his head. He takes a step back and drops his hands away from Soap, just staring at him. “Fuck, Johnny.”

Soap works his jaw, feeling the hot sting of where the cup handle grazed him. It likely won’t even bruise, his skin probably won’t even get red where it made microscopic contact.

There's an urge to apologize to his father, but he doesn't follow through on it.

Instead, he reaches out to shake his hand. But that's always more or less been them, hasn't it? Just the bare minimum of niceties and commiseration of the terse silence.

James shakes his son's hand with a sigh, gathering his own coffee cup and blearily eyeing the one in pieces on the ground.

“Let's go,” Soap murmurs to Ghost, patting him on the shoulder and watching the way his body untenses.

He lets Ghost follow, because he knows Ghost needs to have eyes on him—to be assured that Soap is whole and solid and in one piece.

They’re sliding on their jackets when Soap’s father meanders over to them. And that’s where they get the next surprise of the night. “I'm sorry, John. That this didn't go better, I… you know how your mother can be… but that doesn't make it right, how she was tonight.”

Soap nods blindly and reminds himself to breathe.

“Simon, I'm… it was nice to meet you. And I'm sorry you had to see all that.”

“See you, da.” Soap grits out before Ghost even has a chance to decide if he wants to answer.

“Will you? See us?” James swallows. “It took two years this time, is there going to be another time after this?” It’s said in a critical way, but Soap knows that he’s mostly just hurt and maybe frustrated—confused about why it all went wrong because it’s emotionally complex and feelings really aren’t his thing.

Soap knows that his father tries. He was gone for a lot of it, working away more often than not because he was a mechanic specializing in something so specific, only three other people in the world could also do the job. His mother practically raised him alone, except most days were like tonight. She had a hard time doing so much by herself, Soap wasn't easy, life was…

Soap looks over his dad’s shoulder at the house where he wants to bury sixteen-year-old John, who had dealt with enough mental strain that joining the Army was a reprieve. “We’ll see.”

Ghost opens the door and reaches out to Soap, to usher him out first. Seems he still doesn't quite trust in his father but Soap gets it, he’s not sure he does either.

The air is fresh outside. Soap breathes it in as he steps out. He feels something click into place.

Ghost walks by his side and they go down the walk, then turn onto the street. It’s quiet but for the soft breeze rustling the leaves just starting to dry in the random few trees nearby.

“That...” Ghost sounds tentative, a little wrecked.

“Aye.” Soap agrees—another day, he may have laughed. Today, he is drained.

Ghost stops in his tracks and turns to Soap, reaching out and pulling him in. It’s desperate and intense, the way they cling, readjusting their arms, hands, fingers, curling in just to get a little more settled. A battlefield embrace—like they've just survived the impossible. Good, give the neighbours something to really dig into.

Soap settles into the hold instantly, feeling the tantalizing warmth of strong arms securing his shoulders. He breathes in the essence of Ghost—so familiar, so pleasant. And slowly, his nervous system gets the idea that he’s safe once more. He can relax, he can breathe.

Pulling his head back just a little, Soap gives Ghost a soft look. “Simon.”

“Johnny.”

A soft, relieved sigh leaves Soap’s lungs. It’s easy to centre himself, easy to reorient. “Callan lives close, maybe we could repay him those beers with some scotch.”

Ghost chuckles softly, eyes crinkling in the corners as his own version of relief flows through him. “Be better if it was bourbon.”

“If we can find a place that sells it, then I'll buy ye bourbon, ye menace.”

Ghost reluctantly lets go of Soap and pulls back, a levity in his expression that wasn’t really there before. He slips his hand into Soap’s and twines his fingers together, and Soap thinks: whiplash. Going from his mother throwing a cup at his head (did she miss on purpose?), the heavy, stagnant tension—to Ghost going out of his way to hold his hand, the way Soap’s chest is pleasantly full of safety and relaxation. It’s whiplash.

“Y’know.” Ghost says as they start walking again. There’s a slight tease in his voice. “The accent is getting so thick I need a jungle machete to make my way through it, Soap, we're going to have to do something about it.”

Soap hums softly, eyes dancing around the empty street ahead. They should probably get a car and save his knee the trouble, and prevent Ghost from overdoing his own injuries—but it’s not. This cooling off period, the lack of confinement, the simple pleasure of walking together. “Guess we'll have to escape Scotland then.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Ghost sounds a little more tentative there, and Soap’s eyes narrow, flicking to the side of Ghost’s head. “S’why I already booked the tickets.”

Soap’s eyebrows shoot up and he stares in confusion. “You what?”

“We leave the day after tomorrow. Figured if you weren't done here by then, we could come back on the tail end of leave.” Ghost is determinedly looking straight ahead.

Soap gives a little tug on Ghost’s hand, bringing them to a gentle stop. His free hand gingerly comes up, two fingers gently sliding along Ghost’s jaw so he can pivot his face toward him. Soap stares at his expression, the mix of feigned innocence and something that tells Soap he’s a little too pleased with himself.

“When the hell did ye have time to book tickets?” Soap asks blankly.

“On my walk at the park earlier. Made a plan, figured you had enough on your mind.”

Soap looks on in a continued sensation of disbelief, shaking his head. “And where are we going?”

“Surprise.” Ghost grins pleasantly. He looks like he attempts to stifle it for a few seconds, but he gives up easily—beaming at Soap without abandon. And Soap would kill to put that look of pure happiness on his face every day. (Every fucking day.)

“Can I guess?” Soap asks curiously, fondness filtering in faster than he can acknowledge it.

“I won't tell you if you're right.” Ghost warns him.

Soap scoffs, shaking his head fondly. If he knows one thing after seeing his parents, it's recognizing that he wasn't lying in his split second admission—Ghost is his family. “That's what you say now.”

Ghost interlaces his fingers between Soap's and holds on tight as they walk. “I’m literally trained not to reveal intel, Johnny.”

“They didn’t exactly train you against the likes of me, though, did they?” Soap hums.

Ghost snorts. “Alright, give it your best shot then.”

They step to the end of the street, and Soap turns left, leading them toward the nearest place he knows will sell bourbon. The man deserves it. “You sure you’re ready, Simon?”

“Always ready for you.”