Servus

This has to be one of my fav ghoap AUs and I’m DYING for more, please!

🥺🥺 thank you so much!! i love this au too, it just hits in such a different way. if i’m honest, i don’t really see them getting out? it’s all about how mental health sometimes can’t be healed, that sometimes you can do all the treatment and take all the medication and it still won’t change anything especially if you have doctors that see you as difficult to treat or think you aren’t doing enough to help yourself (totally not my disabled ass projecting 😅)

i think if they ever were released though (likely bc of spacing issues or funding lbr), ghost would need a heavy support system; an externally controlled structure that helps keep him on a schedule to care for himself and survive even if he still is severely depressed. without that guidance, it would be too easy for him to slip back into that apathy and end up just as bad as when he started (sort of like how i wrote him here)

whereas soap needs something that can keep his emotions and impulse control in check and a physical outlet and a way to keep himself grounded in ways other than self harm. socialising is also very difficult bc he can interpret any action as an insult and he can’t stop himself from rising to it

the only way they would ever be able to be released is if they were released together; they’re too codependent otherwise, too attached to each other, and since their regular therapies already don’t work, there’s no way they would be able to be coached into separation or a healthy relationship. if say ghost was released bc there was nothing else they could do for him but soap was forced to stay bc he’s a danger to himself and others, ghost would never get out of bed again and slowly waste away and soap’s anger would consume him to the point of prison time. i don’t think he would kill someone, not intentionally, but with ghost taken away from him, he would absolutely beat someone so badly that it comes close

but that’s where the irony comes in; the specific support they need is exactly what they give each other. soap is happy to help wash, feed and force ghost to work out bc it allows him to have things to do with clear rewards; it’s not as abstract as a garden that may not grow or impersonal as building something he can’t fit in his flat. every action has an immediate effect; he can see ghost is full, can see he is clean, can see his muscles grow. it’s also an effort; on top of working out, hauling a 90+ kilo, over 6 foot man around when he can’t get out of bed isn’t light work and that physical exertion goes far in keeping his emotions in check (so long as nothing happens to ghost; someone giving him a dirty look at his appearance or on days he doesn’t talk is a guaranteed trigger)

and for soap, ghost is the steady presence he needs when he feels out of control and explosive. he’ll get cut off at the grocery store and instead of crawling over the trolley to bash their head in, he’ll take one look at ghost and see how little he gives a shit about it that he can push that anger back down. and if he can’t, then ghost is there to put a hand on his shoulder and redirect his attention to something else. it still does so much for him that if he does explode, it won’t send ghost running; ghost isn’t afraid of him or his anger, knows that even if he’s the subject of his rage it will still blow over and he will never actually hurt him. knowing ghost will always be there, that he won’t lose him the first time he messes up, helps keep him calm, makes him unafraid of his meltdowns so he doesn’t try to suppress them which always just made them worse

ghost isn’t allowed to be alone on leave

it’s a rule the 141 have known since the formation of the task force; set with such severity by price that soap and gaz could never bring themselves to question it. leave is rare anyway, so it honestly slips their minds

then las almas happens. shepherd happens. makarov happens

too much happens in too short a time that even price agrees they need a break

so he gives ghost the option; either he joins one of the others for the duration of their leave or they set up a check in schedule

it used to grate on ghost, this presumed helplessness; that he's someone who needs to be taken care of

then he came back from an enforced leave 20 kilos lighter; his limbs heavy and stiff from laying thoughtlessly in bed, the days blurring together long before he could grasp them

ghost can't be alone, not bc he's a flight risk, but bc losing his purpose makes him aware of how everything is just too much; how much every small action builds up until it's actually a dozen small actions that become insurmountable when he's caught in the depths of fatigue

it starts with laundry; it makes sense to live out of his duffle instead of unpacking, but then he runs out of fresh clothes. it still makes sense to only wear the clothes he'll bring back to base so he just bears the building reek of body odour until he can't smell it anymore

showering starts to go around the same time; without the constant distraction of work and training, all his pain and exhaustion catches up to him. the thought of hauling his body out of bed, of standing long enough to get clean, having to wash his hair and drag a bar of soap over his body just to then do the same with a towel and put on a new set of clothes... it just seems never ending. it's easy to miss a day here and there, then a few more when he gets used to laying there on his sweat-yellowed sheets. then before he knows it, it's been three weeks and his skin itches with the weight of his discomfort and the layers of filth

ghost tries to hang onto food the longest

he knows how much damage it'll do to his body to suddenly lose the macros and caloric density it's used to, knows it'll take longer to recover from than anything else... but then he runs out of his frozen meal prep. his fresh vegetables start to wilt and spoil and the guilt of letting them go bad stops him from buying more. protein lasts slightly longer if he eats it straight from the frypan instead of putting it on a plate but he cooks more to make up for the lack of sides and runs out quicker than he anticipated

but he's used the same pan night after night, built up burnt seasoning and meat residue and he knows he has to clean it before he can use it again. but that means moving it from the stove to the sink. means turning the sink on and scrubbing the pan clean of its stubborn muck. means drying it to put it back on the stove that's just as filthy and should be scrubbed too

it's too much

so ghost leaves the dirty frypan on the dirty stove and eats vegetables out of cans that he only needs to drain

then he runs out of forks

then he runs out of cans

he stops wearing clothes so it won't itch his dirty, irritated skin. he gives into the fatigue clawing at his eyes and weighing down his bones bc the only time he doesn't hurt is when he's asleep. but sleeping so much, laying down so much just makes his body ache in new ways

then he can't make himself get out of bed for shitty food he doesn't even want; that hurts him just to get

he gets hungry. then he's starving. then the hunger goes away altogether and he knows that's the point he should be worried but the only food he has is instant noodles and tea and even waiting for the kettle to boil to make them is just...

it's too much

it's all too much

why is existing so much work

he’s so tired

it’s

too

much-

ghost isn't allowed to be alone on leave

the check ins are harder but he wants to pretend he'll be better; that he won't need as much help, that price won't have to worry so much about him this time

so he picks the check ins; watches his captain give his subordinates their schedule of alternating shifts, each a maximum of three days apart. watches the doubt, then the worry, then the determination as he gives them their marching orders and list of tasks they need to ensure they complete before the end of each check in

and he tries not to be ashamed when every time, without fail, he needs their help

needs soap to gather his sweat-crusted laundry, somehow without an ounce of judgment or disgust; all too happy to tackle the fitted sheet if it means he can feel something fresh against his skin

needs gaz to wrap him in a towel and blow dry his hair when he can manage to move his rust-coated limbs into the shower. he lets him use his own products to wash his face, his hands soft and gentle as he holds his head up and smoothes sweet smelling oils into his undeserving skin

needs price to bring the meals he preps for him; listens to him explain the macros and calories in each container as he washes the few dishes that made it to the sink and puts a new packet of disposable cutlery on the counter within easy reach

it's still so much sometimes, even with all their help; little things a normal person wouldn't think twice about doing building up in his head and it makes him so angry that he just can't do them

that he's beaten by something as benign as a little pain and tiredness

but as price, gaz and soap remind him, that's what they're there for; to help him when he can't help himself, when things get too much. they watch each other's backs, no matter if the battlefield is a desert in urzikstan or an apartment in manchester

they have him

Soap discovers it on accident.

The morning he does starts off with Ghost passing him in the hallway, a steaming to-go cup in his hand. The smell of coffee meets him.

"Since when do you drink coffee?" he says, halting in his tracks.

"Since the time you learned to mind your own business," Ghost says without pause in either voice or step, continuing his march like a man on a mission.

Soap snorts and keeps walking, thinking nothing of it until a few days later he spots Ghost with another coffee, this time along with a little paper bag. He makes the mistake of setting it on the counter for a moment.

Johnny immediately hooks a finger in the opening and peeks inside, the smell of sweet and warm baked goodness meeting him.

Ghost nearly takes Soap's hand off from how hard he slaps it away.

"Hands off."

"Ach, Jesus, alright." He rubs his stinging hand. "A good morning to you too, Lt."

Ghost rolls the top of the bag closed again and leaves just as suddenly as he appeared, mind and attention focused elsewhere. He disappears around the corner as Soap tries to think of how and why Ghost is walking around with warm pastries. Did he go off base and bring it back? Did he bake it himself? Now there's an image, Johnny thinks.

He's given the opportunity to find out just the next day.

He's en route to the shooting range to meet with Kyle when he runs into Ghost marching off with yet another bag in his hand.

"Hey, Lt," he calls, jogging over to him. "I'm headin' to the range, you in?"

"Later." Ghost doesn't look at him, instead scanning around searching for something. Soap looks down at the bag in his hand, seeing light condensation on the inside from whatever hot food is in it.

"Jesus, you doin' food deliveries on the side now or somethin'?"

"Or something," Ghost says in the tone of voice that actually means: "Shut the fuck up."

"Well if that's the case," Soap starts, willfully ignoring him just to rib him a bit, "I think I'd like to make an order for lunch—"

Ghost tenses. He does so in a way that Johnny only sees when there's a loaded gun in his hand and a soon-to-be corpse standing in front of him. It activates something in Johnny's lizard brain and muscle memory takes over, immediately stepping into a defensive position, facing whatever it is that's coming at them.

But all he sees are a couple of medics on their break.

You're sitting at one of the tables outside, trying to get as much fresh air as you can on the woefully short break you managed to get. One of your coworkers, someone who's worked on the same ward as you ever since you arrived at this base, walks up to you. You smile up at him in greeting. He hands you a styrofoam cup filled with a steaming drink, made from the overworked coffee maker which you gratefully accept.

The both of you are too far for either Soap or Ghost to hear. They can only see you kick out the other chair for him to take, see him sit in front of you, and start getting into a conversation that you both lean into.

You laugh at whatever he said and the sound of it reaches to where the two soldiers stand.

Soap swears the air drops in temperature a few degrees. He stills. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. All he dares to move is his eyes to look over at Ghost.

Ghost stands there like the manifestation of cold wrath itself. His eyes, as dark as the thoughts running through his head with perfect clarity, stare down the medic sitting in front of you. As sharp as the knives that his fingers have the sudden urge to wrap around.

The sound of the bag in his hand collapsing under Ghost's deathgrip cuts through whatever spiraling void his mind began to fall down. Ghost heaves a quiet breath and resumes his march over to your table. Soap stays where he is, watching with a morbid fascination.

When he approaches, you look up at him and instead of the concerned (if not frightened) expression that Soap expects, you give him a beaming smile. He places the bag down in front of you.

In the moment that you're busy opening and looking through it, Ghost shoots the man across the table from you a look that Soap can't see from here, but the way that all of the blood drains from the medic's face gives him a pretty good idea.

You place the containers of food on the table and say something to Ghost. He rumbles something back to you and turns away without anymore fanfare. By the time he makes it back to Soap's side, the puzzle pieces have started to click together.

"Aye, so it's your lass who you've been sneakin' all those goodies to."

"Wot?"

"Ye know, your girlfriend?" He gestures to you.

"Fuck are you on about, Johnny?"

Soap is struck with the full understanding that A) Ghost is head over arse in love with you and B) Has no intention of doing anything about it. Which does and doesn't surprise him. The man's a workaholic, dedicated to the job just as much as any other of the 141; they wouldn't be alive if they weren't. But he's also not one to be passive about things. Ghost is about as blunt as a sledgehammer to the back of the head, doesn't waste time with tedious little social dances.

Which leads Soap to come to the other, most crucial realization of C) Ghost has absolutely no idea.

"Nothing. Never mind."

Ghost rolls his eyes and slinks off, leaving Soap standing there with a million thoughts racing through his head.

Soap disagrees with the notion that he's impulsive. Impulsivity carries the notion of thoughtlessness, of a lack of regard for the future. Instead, Soap sees no point in running in circles, hemming and hawing. He encounters a problem, sees what needs to be done, and executes. Hesitation gets you blown up.

Which is why, after encountering this predicament, Soap knows what needs to be done to solve it. All that is required now is the right time to act and the perfect opportunity strikes on an afternoon he's walking with Ghost to Price's office.

"Lieutenant!" your voice calls out from the other end of the hallway. The man in question immediately halts and turns back around. You come jogging up to the both of them, a small plastic container in your hands. "I was going to give this back to you earlier but, you know, busy." You hand the container to him which he takes. "Thanks again, it was really good."

"You liked it?" he asks, soft, timid, like your approval is what keeps the world spinning.

Soap wishes he had a camera right now. Or a pencil and paper. Just to immortalize the look on Ghost's face.

He stands with his chin tucked, like a bashful wee puppy dog if Soap had to describe it. He stares at you with his big, unblinking eyes, glittering like you just handed him the key to paradise instead of a piece of empty plastic.

"It was delicious," you say fervently, "you have to show me what recipe you used."

Sweet, steaming, bloody Jesus.

Ghost has been cooking meals for you.

Soap stares gobsmacked, open mouthed at the side of Ghost's head, mind reeling. Ghost doesn't realize because he's too busy looking at you. Nothing short of a bomb threat could pull his attention away.

Ghost shrugs, fiddles with the container like he all of the sudden doesn't know what to do with his hands.

"It was nothing. Just something I threw together." The way his eyes soften, sweet as melted chocolate at your praise screams otherwise.

"Well, either way. It was amazing." You look down to quickly check your watch.

"No rest for the wicked, eh?" Ghost drawls.

You sigh. "Tell me about it."

Soap watches the moment with certainty that nothing will come of this, can see in perfect vision that you'll leave and Ghost will do nothing but watch with the yearning they write about in poems. The both of you will live in complete ignorance about the near apocalyptic levels of longing that he just knows bothers Ghost more than he realizes.

He glances at Ghost. Glances at you. Formulates a plan. Sees every way it could go horribly and every consequence that could come of it. Commits anyway.

"Have to say, I really admire you medic folk," Soap says before you scurry off, leaning a shoulder against the wall, casual as can be.

"Oh," you say, taken aback by the sudden flattery. "Thank you, Sergeant."

Soap feels Ghost's presence behind him like a world-ending missile in its pre-launch phase. He swears he can hear a countdown start.

"Aye, some of the hardest workers I've seen. Nothing short of brilliant, too."

The missile's coordinates lock in right on Soap's head. He refuses to acknowledge the cold sweat that starts up along his spine.

You wave him off, a pretty heat making its home on the apples of your cheeks. Soap wouldn't have guessed Ghost had an eye for sweet little things like you. "Takes all sorts to keep the wheels moving," you say, a humble deflection.

"But you all are the ones that keep us in one piece. That's no' a small task," he leans his head in just a touch, as close as he dares with the Shadow of Death standing right behind him glaring holes with those demon eyes of his into the back of his skull. "Ah, careful though," he further dares to employ the little side-smile-eyebrow-quirk that's yet to fail him, lowering his voice into a gravely lilt that always gets him the attention he wants, "you keep on like that and you'll make the rest of us look bad, bonn—"

"You have training duty to report to," Ghost interjects in his full Lieutenant Voice that has Soap unconsciously shooting up from his slouch on the wall. By the time his muscle memory has passed, Ghost has already shifted his attention back to you. "I'll see you later, yeah?" he addresses to you, sounding like a completely different person from literally just a second ago.

You smile at him and nod. "Yeah." He returns the nod and watches in soft silence as you march off to whatever else the rest of your day has in store for you. The two of them stand in silence. He measures the air like he would the stability of a live explosive in his hand.

"So," Soap says once you're out of sight, hearing the countdown reach zero. "When's the weddin'?"