Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Obsession
Soap's ears were still ringing from the explosion as he tossed his gear onto the metal bench. Another mission, another success. It looked as though the debrief would be lacking one skull-masked operator who couldn't be arsed to stick around.
“Ah swear, Ah'll never understand that man,” Soap muttered, yanking off his tactical gloves. The fabric stuck to his sweaty palms, reluctant to part ways after twelve hours of gripping his rifle. “One minute he's in my ear making jokes about bending me over and the next he's bloody vanished.”
Price was already lighting up a cigar, the familiar scent of tobacco cutting through the metallic smell of gun oil and sweat that permeated their gear room. “Ghost does what Ghost does, lad. Been that way since day one.”
“Still,” Soap insisted, rolling his stiff shoulder, “would it kill him to have a pint with the team after pulling our arses out of that compound? That flanking maneuver he pulled saved the whole operation.”
Gaz chuckled as he methodically broke down his sidearm. “You two were practically finishing each other's sentences on comms. 'I've got your six, Soap.' 'Roger that, Ghost, moving up.' Like a bloody married couple.”
Heat crawled up Soap's neck. “It's called effective tactical communication.”
“It's called something, all right,” Price mumbled around his cigar.
Soap tossed a dirty rag at Gaz, who caught it without looking up. The mission had gone perfectly. Textbook even. But something felt unfinished. Ghost had been right there beside him when the chopper landed, his masked face turned toward Soap as they jumped down onto the tarmac. Then Soap had turned to congratulate Price, and in those five seconds, Ghost had disappeared like smoke.
“He's got his reasons,” Price said, seeming to read Soap's thoughts. “Not everyone processes a firefight the same way.”
Soap nodded, but his mind was already mapping the base, wondering which shadow Ghost had melted into this time.
Taking the brief respite to retreat to his room, the fiery Scot grabbed his shower supplies and fresh clothes heading towards the communal shower. His muscles ached from the mission. Twelve hours of high-intensity combat would do that, but there was a lightness in his step that only came from perfect execution.
The intel extraction had gone better than even Price could have hoped. Three high-value targets identified, weapons cache locations mapped, and not a single team casualty. And Ghost... Christ, the way Ghost had moved through that compound was something else. Like watching a bloody wraith materialize exactly where he needed to be.
“Tangos, two o'clock,” Soap remembered whispering into his comm, and before he'd even finished the sentence, Ghost was already adjusting his position, rifle raised.
“Ah see 'em,” Ghost had replied, voice low and rough through the static. “On your mark, Soap.”
And that was how it had been the entire operation. They were anticipating each other's movements, covering vulnerabilities before they became problems. When that unexpected patrol had stumbled upon their position, Soap hadn't even needed to signal, Ghost had simply appeared at his six, both of them dropping the hostiles in perfect synchronicity.
Soap kicked open the door to the shower block, the humid air hitting him like a wall. He'd told Price as much during extraction, how he and Ghost had cleared the eastern wing in half the expected time. Price had just nodded, that knowing look in his eye that always made Soap feel like the old man could read every thought in his head.
“You and Ghost did fine work,” Price had said, “but let's not forget who took out the communications array while you two were playing footsies.”
Gaz had chimed in then too. “And who handled the exfil under heavy fire, might I add?”
But Soap couldn't help it. Something about operating with Ghost felt different, electric, like they were two parts of the same weapon system. In the field, they communicated without words, just small gestures and knowing glances (or what Soap assumed were knowing glances, given the mask).
“Bloody hell.” Soap muttered to himself as he stripped off his filthy gear and cranked the shower to scalding. The water sluiced away dried sweat and grime, but did nothing to wash away the nagging disappointment of Ghost's disappearing act.
“Woulda been nice to celebrate properly,” he grumbled, letting the water pound against his tense shoulders. “Just a few drinks, that's all Ah was asking.”
But that was Ghost all over, wasn't it? There in the thick of it, voice in Soap's ear whispering things that would make a sailor blush. “That's it, Soap, just like that” then gone the moment the danger passed, like he couldn't bear normal human interaction.
Soap closed his eyes, letting the hot water cascade over his face as another of Ghost's commands replayed in his mind unbidden.
“Get down on your belly, MacTavish. Crawl through that pipe like the good soldier you are.”
It hadn't been the words themselves, standard tactical direction, but the way Ghost had said them. Low, commanding, almost a purr. And Soap had obeyed instantly, dropping to his stomach in the mud without hesitation.
“That's it,” Ghost had murmured through the comm, “nice and slow. Don't want you getting caught with your pants down.”
Soap's hand drifted down his stomach as he remembered the wave of heat that had surged through him at those words. In the middle of a high-stakes infiltration, with hostiles patrolling mere meters away, he'd gotten hard as steel in his tactical pants. He'd had to bite his lip bloody to keep focused.
“Ah see you, Soap,” Ghost had whispered when he'd emerged from the drainage pipe. “Looking good from where Ah'm standing.”
Christ on a bike, had the bastard known what he was doing? The whole mission had been like that. Ghost in his ear, voice dropping to that gravelly register whenever they were separated, words innocent enough for the comms record but delivered with such deliberate intensity that Soap had been in agony by extraction.
“Almost there,” Ghost had said as they'd approached their final objective. “Right there. Just a little more, Soap. Give it to me.”
“That's it, Johnny,” Ghost had growled when Soap planted the charges. “Ah love watching you work those hands. Makes me think what else they could do.”
“Next time,” Ghost's voice had dropped even lower as they'd sprinted toward exfil, “Ah want you alone. No comms, no team. Just you taking my orders properly.”
“Got better uses for that lip, Sergeant.”
Soap groaned, bracing one hand against the shower wall. He was hard again just thinking about it, water running down his back as he remembered how he'd had to adjust himself repeatedly during the helicopter ride home. How Ghost had watched him from across the cramped space, inscrutable behind that skull mask, not saying a single fucking word.
And then nothing. Radio silence, both literally and figuratively. The moment they'd touched down, Ghost had reverted to his usual terse self. “Good work,” he'd said to the team collectively, voice flat, professional. Not a hint of that intimate rumble that had been in Soap's ear for twelve straight hours.
Soap turned the water temperature down, trying to cool the frustration burning under his skin. Was he going mad? Had he imagined the whole thing? Ghost wasn't exactly known for his playful banter. The man was a phantom, cold and efficient. But Soap knew what he'd heard.
“Fuck.” he muttered, shutting off the water with more force than necessary. He grabbed his towel, roughly drying himself as droplets pattered against the tiled floor. He needed to get his head straight. Maybe it was just adrenaline and exhaustion playing tricks on his mind. Maybe Ghost's voice always sounded like that over comms, and Soap had never noticed before.
But as he pulled on fresh clothes, Soap couldn't shake the memory of Ghost's last words to him before they'd split up inside the compound, “Come back to me in one piece, Soap. Ah've got plans for you.”
The debriefing room was already crowded when Soap arrived, still damp-haired from his hasty shower. He'd expected Ghost to be absent. Another one of his post-mission disappearing acts, but there he was, seated at the long metal table, still in his field gear. The skull mask was as expressionless as ever, giving no hint to what might be going on behind it.
The only available seat was next to Ghost. Of course it was.
Soap slid into the chair, hyperaware of the tight space. Their shoulders pressed together, thigh against thigh. Ghost didn't shift away, didn't even acknowledge Soap's presence beyond a barely perceptible tilt of his masked head.
The rigid posture should have felt standoffish, but there was something else, a deliberate quality to the way Ghost remained perfectly still, like he was making a point of not moving away. The tactical vest still carried the dust of the compound, streaked with dried sweat. The familiar scent of cordite and that particular spice that was uniquely Ghost filled Soap's nostrils.
Price was already halfway through his assessment at the front of the room, pointing at the mission map with his laser pointer. “...extraction of the intel package exceeded expectations. Minimal contact until the third checkpoint, where Bravo Team engaged approximately fifteen hostiles...”
Soap tried to focus, he really did. But Ghost's body heat was bleeding into him, and all he could think about was the voice that had been in his ear for twelve hours. The commands, the innuendo, the promises. Now Ghost sat beside him, silent as the grave, ramrod straight, not giving an inch.
For all Soap knew, the bastard was fast asleep behind that mask, catching up on mission rest while the rest of them suffered through Price's excruciatingly detailed analysis. Or maybe he was staring right at Soap, watching him squirm, enjoying his discomfort.
“MacTavish,” Price's voice cut through his thoughts. “Care to share your assessment of the compound's eastern section?”
Soap blinked, forcing himself back to the present. “Uh, sir. Eastern approach was as expected. Ghost and Ah encountered minimal resistance until we reached the server room. Four tangos stationed outside, two inside.”
He felt Ghost shift beside him, the fabric of his combat pants scraping against Soap's. The sensation sent a jolt through him. Soap swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat unbearable. Could the others see the flush creeping up his neck?
“We neutralized all six without raising the alarm.” Ghost didn’t shift away, didn’t give him any space.
The heat from his body was overwhelming, curling into Soap’s chest, setting him on edge. It was like Ghost knew exactly what he was doing, sitting so close, making Soap fight to keep his composure. The fiery little gremlin in his heart swelled. Let them all see his Ghost claiming him. That was right. Ghost was his. Fucking hell did he wish that were true.
“The server room's security was more advanced than intel suggested,” Ghost added, his voice flat and professional. Nothing like the low, intimate murmur that had been in Soap's ear during the operation. Christ, Soap was still so turned on from the mission, from the dance of murder they’d pulled off together, from the way Ghost had controlled him with nothing but his voice.
“But MacTavish handled it. Pulled the data in under two minutes.”
Price nodded. “Good. The intelligence you extracted has already been sent to headquarters for analysis. Early reports suggest we've got coordinates for three more weapons caches and a potential lead on Zakhaev's next meeting.”
The debrief continued for another forty-five minutes, with each team member reporting their section of the operation. Soap found himself stealing glances at Ghost, searching for any indication that the man beside him was the same one who'd whispered promises through the comm system. But Ghost remained motionless, offering only clipped, technical responses when directly addressed.
When Price finally concluded with, “Dismissed. Get some rest, you bloody muppets,” there was an audible sigh of relief from the team. Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone stood, eager to escape to the mess hall or their bunks.
Ghost was already on his feet, collecting his notes with efficient movements. This was Soap's chance.
“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice casual despite the hammering in his chest. “Fancy that drink now? Team's heading to the pub up the road. Nothing fancy, just a beer to celebrate a job well done.”
Ghost paused, one gloved hand resting on his mission folder. For a moment, Soap thought he might actually say yes. There was a tension in Ghost's shoulders, a slight tilt to his masked head that suggested consideration.
“Can't.” Ghost said finally, voice clipped. “Reports to file. Maybe next time.”
“Reports? Price just said they can wait till morning,” Soap pressed, aware he was pushing his luck but unable to stop himself. “Come on, one drink. You earned it with that flanking maneuver alone.”
Ghost stood perfectly still for three heartbeats, then opted for, “I don't drink with the team, Soap. You know that.”
“Right, but I thought…” Soap stopped himself, suddenly aware of how desperate he sounded. “Never mind. Another time.”
Ghost nodded once, sharply, then turned and strode from the room without another word. No explanation, no “see you tomorrow,” nothing. Just gone, like he'd never been there at all.
Something inside Soap's chest fractured, a hairline crack spreading through his ribs. He stood motionless in the now-empty briefing room, staring at the door Ghost had disappeared through. All those words during the mission, all those maddening, suggestive commands. Had he imagined them?
Exhaustion crept over him, curling around his shoulders like a dead weight. What kind of fool had he been, thinking there was something more to it than tactical advantage? It was Ghost, for Christ's sake. Ghost didn't do personal, didn't do close. Soap rubbed a hand over his jaw, the roughness bringing no clarity. He could still hear Ghost's voice, low and intimate. “Ah've got plans for you.” A fist clenched inside his chest. Plans. He'd thought, hoped, it meant something else. But it was just mission bullshit, just Ghost's way of keeping him focused. Soap sank back into his chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. What the hell was wrong with him?
Soap dragged himself up from the chair, limbs heavy with exhaustion and something worse, disappointment. The briefing room felt cavernous now, echoing with the ghosts of conversations that hadn't happened, connections that hadn't formed. He shuffled his papers together without really seeing them.
“Bloody idiot,” he muttered to himself. “Fucking pathetic.”
The walk back to his quarters stretched endlessly, each step hammering home his foolishness. Other operators nodded as they passed, some offering congratulations on the mission, but their words bounced off him like bullets off kevlar.
When he finally reached his door, Soap fumbled with the handle, suddenly clumsy. Inside, the sparse room offered no comfort. Just his narrow bed, metal desk, and the few personal items he'd accumulated over his years with the 141. He sank onto the edge of the mattress, staring at the wall.
What had he expected? That Ghost would suddenly tear off that mask and confess undying affection? That all those words over the comms had meant something?
“Fucking Christ.” Soap groaned, falling backward onto the bed. The ceiling had a water stain shaped vaguely like Africa. He'd been staring at it for months now, watching it grow after heavy rains.
His mind replayed the moment Ghost had rejected his invitation. The stillness, the pause, the flat refusal. No explanation needed because the answer was obvious, Ghost simply wasn't interested. Not in drinks, not in camaraderie, not in Soap.
The realization twisted in his gut like a combat knife. He'd been reading signals that weren't there, projecting his own wants onto Ghost's professional behavior.
“Maybe he doesn't even like blokes,” Soap muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes. But that didn't feel right. There had been something in those words during the mission, something deliberate in the way Ghost had pressed against him during the debrief.
Or was that just wishful thinking?
Soap rolled onto his side, pulling his knees up slightly. The posture made him feel like a child, vulnerable in a way he hadn't allowed himself to be in years. What if the problem wasn't Ghost's preferences, but Soap himself?
He caught sight of his reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall. The short-cropped mohawk that Ghost always called stupid, the scarred face, the perpetual intensity that Price said made him look constipated. Not exactly model material, was he? Not smooth or sophisticated or whatever the hell Ghost might be looking for.
“Maybe he likes them pretty,” Soap whispered, the words sounding pathetic even to his own ears. “Maybe he likes them feminine.”
The thought bloomed into an absurd image. Soap in a dress, batting his eyelashes at Ghost. He snorted, then the snort turned into a hollow laugh that died as quickly as it had come.
He forced himself to sit up, dragging a hand down his face. This wasn't helping anything. He needed to focus, to channel this frustration into something productive. Soap pushed himself off the bed and moved to his desk, pulling out the worn folder containing his performance reviews.
The numbers stared back at him. Marksmanship: 98/100. Excellent by any standard. But Ghost had scored a perfect 100, hadn't he? Three missions running. Soap flipped the page, scanning his demolitions evaluation. Technical perfection, the report said, but with a note from Price about “excessive enthusiasm” and “unnecessary collateral damage.”
“Wild and explosive,” he muttered, imagining Ghost's precise, controlled detonations. No wasted energy, no showing off. Just clean, clinical efficiency that probably made the uptight Brit feel smugly superior.
Soap thumbed through more pages. Hand-to-hand combat scores (top 2% of the unit, but Ghost was top 1%), endurance testing (exceeded requirements by 24%, while Ghost had managed 27%), tactical assessment (exceptional leadership potential, though “occasionally impulsive”).
“Fuck's sake,” he growled, slapping the folder shut. No matter how good he was, Ghost was always a fraction better. Always that bit more controlled, more precise, more deadly. The perfect fucking soldier.
Soap yanked open his desk drawer, pulling out the battered leather journal he'd kept since selection. He flipped past mission notes, past tactical diagrams, past letters he'd drafted to his sister but never sent. The pencil was already in his hand, worn down to a stub, the graphite smudging his fingers as he pressed it to the paper.
Almost without conscious thought, his hand moved across the page. Strong jaw line first, then the hint of sharp cheekbones beneath the mask. Soap's pencil dug into the paper, carving Ghost's silhouette with too much pressure, the way he always did. The mask came next. That skull face that revealed nothing, that kept everything locked away.
He'd sketched this same profile dozens of times. Ghost standing at the firing range. Ghost cleaning his weapon. Ghost's hands (those fucking gloves always on) wrapping detonation cord with surgical precision. Ghost's shoulders, tense with readiness. Ghost's neck, the only bit of skin he ever showed, always pale, always with that slight flush when they'd been running drills too long.
Soap realized he was breathing too hard, his hand trembling slightly as he detailed the tactical headset, the way it pressed against Ghost's temple. The graphite dust was everywhere now. On his fingers, smudged across the page, probably on his face where he'd absently wiped away sweat.
Two years of these sketches. Two years of drawing the same masked face, trying to imagine what lay beneath. Two years of watching Ghost from the corner of his eye, memorizing the way he moved, the angle of his head when he was listening, the precise economy of his movements. The pencil snapped between his fingers.
“Bloody hell,” Soap muttered, tossing the broken pencil aside. He stared down at the drawing, at those empty eye sockets of the mask that revealed nothing. What he wouldn't give to see those eyes, to know their color, their shape, whether they crinkled at the corners when Ghost made one of his rare, dry jokes.
And that movement, the way Ghost flowed like water through a combat zone, precise and deadly. Soap had memorized every gesture, every stance. The slight cock of his hip when he was waiting for orders, the tilt of his head when he was listening on comms, the way his shoulders squared before he took a shot. Always in control, always measured, always fucking perfect.
And that fucking voice. Low and rumbling, wrapping around Soap's spine like a vise when he spoke through the comms. Soap's fingers twitched, remembering how Ghost's gloved hands had looked adjusting his rifle, imagining how they would feel gripping his hips, pinning him down, taking control.
What he wouldn't give to feel those hands on his hips, to taste the sweet essence of those lips. He'd glimpsed them rarely when Ghost would fold up his soft mask to sip at his fucking tea. Just the lower half of his face, just enough to see the firm line of his mouth, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. The scar that seemed to bisect his lips enough to reveal his canine like he was some kind of fierce dog resting but always ready to attack. The way his lips would press against the rim of the mug, steam rising between them. What he wouldn’t give to be the fucking rim of that mug.
Earl Grey, three sugars or honey. Once in the morning. Once at lunch, once in the afternoon, without fail if they weren't on assignment. Soap had watched the ritual so many times he could recite it from memory. The careful way Ghost brewed it, letting it steep exactly four minutes, the precise stirring motion, the way he'd inhale the aroma before taking that first sip.
Bloody fucking hell. Probably before bed too, if he had to guess. Some nighttime ritual, sitting alone in his quarters, finally removing that mask completely, sipping his perfectly prepared tea while reading intelligence reports or cleaning his sidearm.
Soap pushed the journal away, disgusted with himself. This was pathetic. He was a grown man, a soldier, a fucking SAS operator who'd survived more firefights than most men had hot dinners. And here he was, pining like a lovesick teenager over a teammate who could barely stand to be in the same room as him outside of missions.