Unadulterated and Insufferable

It's not the first time Johnny regrets testing Price's patience. He had caught sight of the captain's last nerve and decided to cha cha across it, rather clumsily.

"Me?"

Being raised by a Scottish mother left him with good reflexes, it's the only reason he's able to duck before Price can cuff him over the back of the head.

Just a heads up: This is a Boxing AU where Ghost is a boxer. Hope you enjoy!

ingredience:

lemons/limes (this needs to make up the bulk of the fruit being used, like at least 80%)

whatever other fruits or fruit scraps you want, plus any herbs/other flavorings you want to try. by fruit scraps I mean things like cherry pits, apple peels, pineapple cores, strawberry ends, things like that.

granulated white sugar, the coarser the better, 50% by weight of total citrus rinds + 100% by weight of any additional fruit. you'll measure this after you prep the fruit.

water as needed

equipment:

a few nonmetallic mixing bowls

a mesh strainer

a chinoise, ricer or some cheesecloth

a kitchen scale

a citrus juicer or reamer (manual or electric)

a potato masher

juice the citrus through a strainer - saving all rinds -  and refrigerate the juice for the time being. dice the rinds and other fruits if any, keeping the rinds separate. make note of weights, and measure your sugar.

 Place sugar in a large nonmetallic bowl. If using non-citrus fruits and/or any other flavorings, mix them in with the sugar and mash with potato masher. add diced citrus rinds, mix thoroughly, and mash again. cover and let stand at room temperature for at least 4 hours. this allows the sugar to draw out flavors that would otherwise get discarded with the rinds, and the rinds' acids should be enough to dissolve the sugar into a syrup.

Afterward, mash one last time, then collect the syrup by pressing the macerated mixture through a strainer/chinoise or ricer, or squeeze it through cheesecloth. if you want, this can be saved as a standalone syrup at this point, for use in cocktails or desserts. if not, slowly pour the reserved juice through the solids to to help get the remaining syrup out, and squeeze/press again. do the same thing one more time with warm water (roughly the same amount of water as juice). discard solids (or try making sangria with them!).

taste the mixture and add more water if necessary. a stronger mix is totally fine if you anticipate serving over ice on a hot day, or adding booze, or if there was a lot of non-sour fruit. keep in mind that it will taste a bit less sweet once it's chilled. pour into a pitcher and refrigerate.

citrus oils will float to the top, so stir/shake before serving. love you. enjoy.

some tried and true flavor combos:

straight lemon or lime, or any combination of the two, is of course an untouchable classic

lemon & strawberries (that's pussy babe!)

lemon & orange with a hint of vanilla (creamsiclemonade...?)

lemon & apples or apple peels with cinnamon/ginger/allspice (for late summer)

some cocktail type combos, booze optional:

lemon or lime & berries with basil + gin

lime & mint + white rum

lime & ginger + dark rum

lime & cucumber + gin

lime & orange (berries optional) + tequila

Ghost figures it out the second MacTavish hops off a transport truck and bumps him in the shoulder, all obnoxious cheeky grin and stupid accent. 

Through five layers (the leather on MacTavish’s tac gloves, the poly under that, his pullover, the henley under that, and the compression shirt under that,) he feels the jolt in his shoulder, up his neck and down through his chest.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost mutters, gaze tracking MacTavish as he jogs across the tarmac and up the ramp of the waiting C-130, because MacTavish (“Soap,” Jesus Christ) doesn’t seem to have noticed anything at all, let alone anything amiss. 

So Ghost doesn’t say anything. Why would he, he doesn’t need to. They’re in close enough proximity most of the time these days that it does’t really matter. And MacTavish is fuckin’ touchy, puffed up little twat that he is, so it’s fine. 

It’s a problem after Las Almas. After Las Almas he has to tell Price.

Posted up in the church tower feelin’ like his fuckin’ skin was gonna melt off, MacTavish ducking corners and Shadows alone in the streets, two days holed up in a shitty safehouse after that, living in each other’s pockets, MacTavish’s shoulder warm and solid against his in the American approximation of a pub in Chicago. 

Yeah. It becomes a problem. 

Price stares at him for a long time after the words “MacTavish and I are bonded,” fall gruffly out of Ghost’s mouth, half a day after his mandatory two week post "North American adventure" leave ended. 

He’s jittery, bond sick his piecemeal medical education supplies helpfully, even as he contains it to cracking his knuckles and jerking his head side to side to crack his neck.

“Fuckin’ what,” Price says finally, “since fuckin’ when?” 

“Does it matter?” Ghost asks, rolls his shoulders, first one, then the other, then the first again, then both together, “He doesn’t know.” 

“He doesn’t know? How does he not know?” Price is incredulous, which is fair enough, Ghost supposes.

“Didn’t notice, I’d guess, when it happened,” Ghost shrugs. MacTavish, for once, isn’t the issue here. The issue is that Ghost’s gone and bonded himself to the little fucker, and now he can’t spend two weeks in his shit flat drinking shit bourbon by himself like an adult without getting fuckin’… weepy about it. About him, and what’s he’s doing on his leave, up somewhere in Scotland, without Ghost to watch his six and keep him out of fucking trouble. 

“Simon.” Price digs his knuckles into the inner corners of his eyes, presses them into the bridge of his nose, elbows on his desk as he hangs his head, “Are you seriously telling me that you bonded to Sergeant MacTavish an extended period of time ago and just didn’t say anything?”

Ghost thinks about it for a long minute and then says “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” 

“Jesus fucking christ.” 

It’s not as if it’s a hardship, to let Johnny crawl into his lap, to grip tight to the smooth skin at subtle curve of his waist and let him rock himself into what sounds like a pretty spectacular orgasm, if the soft reedy moan he tries to muffle into the curve of Ghost’s neck is anything to go by. 

It only becomes a problem when Soap reaches for his belt buckle, still rutting against Ghost’s thigh, scraping his teeth over the tendons in Ghost’s neck.

“Don’t,” Ghost bites out, too sharp, and Soap jerks back.

It’s not as if Ghost doesn’t want it, want him, but it’s how he wants. That’s a thing far too dangerous for a man like Ghost to ever let out of its cage.

“Let me,” Soap dares, lets the bristles of Ghost’s stubble sting his lips as he slides his mouth along the line of Ghost’s jaw, “be so good for ye, Simon.” 

“That’s enough. Get off me,” Ghost orders, even sharper, and Johnny goes very, very still for a brief moment before all of a sudden he’s on his feet, standing stiff at attention in front of Ghost’s bent knees. 

“Yes, Sir,” Soap spits, accent flattened all to hell. He’s furious, Ghost realizes, can fucking feel it, heat that doesn’t belong to him crawling down the back of his neck.

Johnny doesn’t flush easily, Ghost knows. Olive toned skin just dark enough to cover any light burst of red that might crop up, and he’s essentially immune to embarrassment, but he’s flushed now, dark and angry across his cheekbones and down the sides of his clenched tight jaw. 

Ghost has fucked up, again, as usual, but he doesn’t fucking understand it. Soap knows better, he has to know better, Ghost knows the bond goes both ways, that Johnny can feel him just as well. He must feel the way that Ghost’s desire fucking prowls, paces along the hardline boundaries Ghost has set for it, what kind of threat it would pose unleashed. 

He reaches out, tries to wrap his fingers around Soap’s wrist just to, to, he doesn’t know, to feel him, to soothe the pounding of his heart, somehow, because it’s not as if he can explain, but Soap jerks away, snaps “Don’t fucking touch me,” still barely any trace of his accent. 

Soap swallows, hard, and he won’t meet Ghost’s eyes for all he’s still the picture perfect example of a solider at attention, “Apologies for my insubordination, Sir. Am I dismissed, Sir?”

The question hangs there in the air between them for a long moment because Ghost wants to say no, the fuck he’s not, to ask him what the hell he thinks he was doing, trying to touch Ghost like he’s an average man, with normal wants, like it matters at all what would be good for Simon, as if there’s any good in it. 

“Dismissed, Sergeant,”  he manages instead. He makes the mistake of blinking, and Johnny is gone. 

------

Two hours later they’re geared up on an infil flight, Gaz between them, Price pacing in front of the three of them going over an incredibly short notice mission brief at the top of his lungs. 

One of Makarov’s top lieutenants cropped up on a Berlin cctv camera of all things, leaving an obvious trail back to a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. It’s a fucking trap, it’s obviously a fucking trap, they all know it’s a fucking trap, but they’re going anyway. 

Soap’s on overwatch, and fucking pissed off about it, Ghost can tell before he even opens his mouth to argue the point.

“Sir,” Soap starts, and even though it’s directed at Price, Ghost has to tense against a wince, “I should go in, I can-”

“Absolutely not. Sightlines and intel are both for shit. Ghost goes in on the north, Gaz and I flank from the south and east. You cover us from the rise to the west, we RV at your location once the package is secured for exfil,” Price runs down again, and points a steady finger in Soap’s face when he takes a sharp breath, “This isn’t a fucking debate, Sergeant MacTavish. Stealth is priority one - Ghost goes in.” 

“What fuckin’ stealth,” Soap mutters, quiet enough that Price doesn’t hear him, although Ghost and Gaz certainly do, “They know we’re fuckin’ comin’,” 

They do. 

“In position. Eyes on the north entrance. Bravo 0-7 you’re clear for infil.” Soap accent is nonexistent again, quite possibly the cleanest comms Ghost has ever heard from him, and it’s fucking unnerving. 

The building is unnerving, too. The northside is a maze of offices, as the building schematic had suggested. Ghost makes his way slowly down the first of many short, blind hallways, vaguely wishing he had Soap on his six as the Sergeant calls the southern entrance, a loading dock, clear for secondary infil for Gaz. It’s dead silent inside, no sign of anyone, let alone a crew of heavily armed ultranationalists. Ghost calls office after office clear, working his way east to west and west to east as he moves ultimately south, while Gaz makes his way entrance via the loading dock. 

“Bravo 6-1, breached the loading dock door. Storage space is packed with shelving units, all stacked. Visuals are garbage - Bravo 0-6, repo to southern infil for backup?” 

Price’s entrance, to the east and without the benefit of any kind of overwatch, is immediately abandoned. 

“Copy 6-1, moving to your location,” Price confirms, and Ghost breathes a little easier, which turns out to be a mistake. 

Soap is confirming the southern entrance clear again for Price when the comm unit on Ghost’s shoulder explodes in a spray of plastic shards and goes entirely dead. 

There’s a team of three, and Ghost takes two rounds in his chest plate before he manages to take them out. 

No comms, a compromised plate, blunt force injuries to his ribcage, the likelihood that their target is even still here being near zero, and the horrifying spike of absolute terror that hits him like a sledgehammer through the bond, Ghost makes a call. He breaks directly south, moving as quietly as he can as he makes for Price and Gaz’s last known. 

It takes way too long. Resistance gets heavy the closer he gets to second third of the building, and the break between the office section and the warehouse section, a dealers choice of bottlenecks with one entrance east and one west. Ghost makes his way through the west door, taking a nasty stab wound to his left bicep to do so. The pulsing terror coming through the bond hasn’t abated at all, although it’s been joined by a steady rise of rage in the last few minutes, so Soap’s alive and pissed the fuck off about something, at least. It’s strangely comforting.

There’s no sign of Gaz or Price in the warehouse, aside from dead Konni here and there. It’s not surprising, really; Ghost is moving slower than he should be, losing blood steadily from the gouge in his arm and breathing hard from the shots to his torso.

By the time he makes it out the loading dock door, he’s pretty solidly convinced he’ll have find cover for the night and scrape together a secondary exfil in the morning, because there’s no way Bravo’s hung around to wait for him. He clears the fence and jogs for the rise to the west anyway, towards their original RV. 

Halfway up the hillside, the shouting comes into range.

“Ah’m no fookin’ leavin’ ‘im ‘ere, ye clarty fookin’ bastart,” Soap’s fucking screaming, accent back full force, “he ain’t fookin’ dead, ah’d fookin’ know it if he were fookin’ dead.” 

Whatever whoever Soap is screaming at, and Ghost assumes it’s Price, says back isn’t audible. 

“Ye keep yer goddamn voice down then, fookin’ leave me ‘ere and ah’ll bring ‘im back in the fookin’ mornin’, cuz he ain’t fookin’ dead!” 

Another quiet pause and then, even louder, although that’s likely just because Ghost is closer, “Ah ken ye fookin’ ken we’re bonded, fookin’ everybody knows, ah’m no’ fookin’ stupid!”

Well. Obviously only one of those things is accurate.

“Quit fucking yelling, this is a stealth mission, MacTavish,” Ghost snaps as he breaks the treeline into the small clearing at the top of the rise. Soap’s got one fist knotted in Price’s collar, a finger wagging in the captain’s face, and he’ll be lucky to get out of this with only several write-ups in his file, “Nobody but Price knew that until you opened your fat gob, and you are fuckin’ stupid. Look at Gaz’s fuckin’ face, for christ’s sake.” 

Gaz’s face is, in fact, a fucking picture of annoyance and disbelief, although it’s quickly overcome with the same relief painting Price’s features at the sight of Ghost, which is somewhat gratifying.

Soap is not relieved. The agonized fear coming through the bond dissipates immediately, and it’s pure fury after that.

“Ye mingin’ fookin’ cunt,” he shouts, and Price scrambles to grab the bitch strap on the back of his plate carrier to hold him back as he launches himself at Ghost. 

“That’s enough, Sergeant MacTavish!” Price shouts, hauling Soap backwards even as he splutters and swings fruitlessly at Ghost, “Get in the goddamn truck. Gaz, you’re driving. Ghost, in the back, I need to dress that arm.” 

It’s a long ride back to the German base where the helo back to Sterling Lines is waiting for them, and an even longer flight back home. 

Price debriefs quietly with Laswell over the sat phone on the absolute fuckshow of a mission, Gaz naps, and Soap’s simmering rage blankets everything with a lovely, familiar soupçon of tension. Ghost chest hurts. 

It continues to hurt through brushing off Price’s order to go to medical when they land, and through returning his gear to the armory, and through collecting his shower kit and locking the door to the communal shower in the officer’s wing, which he’s not really supposed to do, but it’s 4 in the fucking morning, and anyone with a complaint can take it up with Price.

It still hurts as he stands with his head hung under the blistering hot spray in the shower. It abates only when he manages to stop himself from breaking Johnny’s arm as a tentative hand lands on the wing of his right shoulder blade. 

“Yer a huge fuckin’ piece of shite,” Johnny says as he plasters himself against Ghost’s back, accent mellowed some with his cheek tucked against the knob of Ghost’s spine. 

“Shut up,” Ghost sighs, stares down at the tile under his feet, too tired to argue or even get hard, “Just, fucking, just take what you need.” 

Johnny does, wraps one arm too tight around around Ghost’s ribs to haul him down enough to nudge his cock between Ghost’s cheeks, fingers of his other hand pressing bruise into Ghost’s hip. Johnny rock against him, slow, clinging, so fucking sweet as he presses his mouth along the hard line of Ghost’s shoulders, swallowing water and panting, “Simon, oh, fuck, Simon, Simon, please.” 

Ghost figures it out the second MacTavish hops off a transport truck and bumps him in the shoulder, all obnoxious cheeky grin and stupid accent. 

Through five layers (the leather on MacTavish’s tac gloves, the poly under that, his pullover, the henley under that, and the compression shirt under that,) he feels the jolt in his shoulder, up his neck and down through his chest.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost mutters, gaze tracking MacTavish as he jogs across the tarmac and up the ramp of the waiting C-130, because MacTavish (“Soap,” Jesus Christ) doesn’t seem to have noticed anything at all, let alone anything amiss. 

So Ghost doesn’t say anything. Why would he, he doesn’t need to. They’re in close enough proximity most of the time these days that it does’t really matter. And MacTavish is fuckin’ touchy, puffed up little twat that he is, so it’s fine. 

It’s a problem after Las Almas. After Las Almas he has to tell Price.

Posted up in the church tower feelin’ like his fuckin’ skin was gonna melt off, MacTavish ducking corners and Shadows alone in the streets, two days holed up in a shitty safehouse after that, living in each other’s pockets, MacTavish’s shoulder warm and solid against his in the American approximation of a pub in Chicago. 

Yeah. It becomes a problem. 

Price stares at him for a long time after the words “MacTavish and I are bonded,” fall gruffly out of Ghost’s mouth, half a day after his mandatory two week post "North American adventure" leave ended. 

He’s jittery, bond sick his piecemeal medical education supplies helpfully, even as he contains it to cracking his knuckles and jerking his head side to side to crack his neck.

“Fuckin’ what,” Price says finally, “since fuckin’ when?” 

“Does it matter?” Ghost asks, rolls his shoulders, first one, then the other, then the first again, then both together, “He doesn’t know.” 

“He doesn’t know? How does he not know?” Price is incredulous, which is fair enough, Ghost supposes.

“Didn’t notice, I’d guess, when it happened,” Ghost shrugs. MacTavish, for once, isn’t the issue here. The issue is that Ghost’s gone and bonded himself to the little fucker, and now he can’t spend two weeks in his shit flat drinking shit bourbon by himself like an adult without getting fuckin’… weepy about it. About him, and what’s he’s doing on his leave, up somewhere in Scotland, without Ghost to watch his six and keep him out of fucking trouble. 

“Simon.” Price digs his knuckles into the inner corners of his eyes, presses them into the bridge of his nose, elbows on his desk as he hangs his head, “Are you seriously telling me that you bonded to Sergeant MacTavish an extended period of time ago and just didn’t say anything?”

Ghost thinks about it for a long minute and then says “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” 

“Jesus fucking christ.” 

It’s not as if it’s a hardship, to let Johnny crawl into his lap, to grip tight to the smooth skin at subtle curve of his waist and let him rock himself into what sounds like a pretty spectacular orgasm, if the soft reedy moan he tries to muffle into the curve of Ghost’s neck is anything to go by. 

It only becomes a problem when Soap reaches for his belt buckle, still rutting against Ghost’s thigh, scraping his teeth over the tendons in Ghost’s neck.

“Don’t,” Ghost bites out, too sharp, and Soap jerks back.

It’s not as if Ghost doesn’t want it, want him, but it’s how he wants. That’s a thing far too dangerous for a man like Ghost to ever let out of its cage.

“Let me,” Soap dares, lets the bristles of Ghost’s stubble sting his lips as he slides his mouth along the line of Ghost’s jaw, “be so good for ye, Simon.” 

“That’s enough. Get off me,” Ghost orders, even sharper, and Johnny goes very, very still for a brief moment before all of a sudden he’s on his feet, standing stiff at attention in front of Ghost’s bent knees. 

“Yes, Sir,” Soap spits, accent flattened all to hell. He’s furious, Ghost realizes, can fucking feel it, heat that doesn’t belong to him crawling down the back of his neck.

Johnny doesn’t flush easily, Ghost knows. Olive toned skin just dark enough to cover any light burst of red that might crop up, and he’s essentially immune to embarrassment, but he’s flushed now, dark and angry across his cheekbones and down the sides of his clenched tight jaw. 

Ghost has fucked up, again, as usual, but he doesn’t fucking understand it. Soap knows better, he has to know better, Ghost knows the bond goes both ways, that Johnny can feel him just as well. He must feel the way that Ghost’s desire fucking prowls, paces along the hardline boundaries Ghost has set for it, what kind of threat it would pose unleashed. 

He reaches out, tries to wrap his fingers around Soap’s wrist just to, to, he doesn’t know, to feel him, to soothe the pounding of his heart, somehow, because it’s not as if he can explain, but Soap jerks away, snaps “Don’t fucking touch me,” still barely any trace of his accent. 

Soap swallows, hard, and he won’t meet Ghost’s eyes for all he’s still the picture perfect example of a solider at attention, “Apologies for my insubordination, Sir. Am I dismissed, Sir?”

The question hangs there in the air between them for a long moment because Ghost wants to say no, the fuck he’s not, to ask him what the hell he thinks he was doing, trying to touch Ghost like he’s an average man, with normal wants, like it matters at all what would be good for Simon, as if there’s any good in it. 

“Dismissed, Sergeant,”  he manages instead. He makes the mistake of blinking, and Johnny is gone. 

------

Two hours later they’re geared up on an infil flight, Gaz between them, Price pacing in front of the three of them going over an incredibly short notice mission brief at the top of his lungs. 

One of Makarov’s top lieutenants cropped up on a Berlin cctv camera of all things, leaving an obvious trail back to a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. It’s a fucking trap, it’s obviously a fucking trap, they all know it’s a fucking trap, but they’re going anyway. 

Soap’s on overwatch, and fucking pissed off about it, Ghost can tell before he even opens his mouth to argue the point.

“Sir,” Soap starts, and even though it’s directed at Price, Ghost has to tense against a wince, “I should go in, I can-”

“Absolutely not. Sightlines and intel are both for shit. Ghost goes in on the north, Gaz and I flank from the south and east. You cover us from the rise to the west, we RV at your location once the package is secured for exfil,” Price runs down again, and points a steady finger in Soap’s face when he takes a sharp breath, “This isn’t a fucking debate, Sergeant MacTavish. Stealth is priority one - Ghost goes in.” 

“What fuckin’ stealth,” Soap mutters, quiet enough that Price doesn’t hear him, although Ghost and Gaz certainly do, “They know we’re fuckin’ comin’,” 

They do. 

“In position. Eyes on the north entrance. Bravo 0-7 you’re clear for infil.” Soap accent is nonexistent again, quite possibly the cleanest comms Ghost has ever heard from him, and it’s fucking unnerving. 

The building is unnerving, too. The northside is a maze of offices, as the building schematic had suggested. Ghost makes his way slowly down the first of many short, blind hallways, vaguely wishing he had Soap on his six as the Sergeant calls the southern entrance, a loading dock, clear for secondary infil for Gaz. It’s dead silent inside, no sign of anyone, let alone a crew of heavily armed ultranationalists. Ghost calls office after office clear, working his way east to west and west to east as he moves ultimately south, while Gaz makes his way entrance via the loading dock. 

“Bravo 6-1, breached the loading dock door. Storage space is packed with shelving units, all stacked. Visuals are garbage - Bravo 0-6, repo to southern infil for backup?” 

Price’s entrance, to the east and without the benefit of any kind of overwatch, is immediately abandoned. 

“Copy 6-1, moving to your location,” Price confirms, and Ghost breathes a little easier, which turns out to be a mistake. 

Soap is confirming the southern entrance clear again for Price when the comm unit on Ghost’s shoulder explodes in a spray of plastic shards and goes entirely dead. 

There’s a team of three, and Ghost takes two rounds in his chest plate before he manages to take them out. 

No comms, a compromised plate, blunt force injuries to his ribcage, the likelihood that their target is even still here being near zero, and the horrifying spike of absolute terror that hits him like a sledgehammer through the bond, Ghost makes a call. He breaks directly south, moving as quietly as he can as he makes for Price and Gaz’s last known. 

It takes way too long. Resistance gets heavy the closer he gets to second third of the building, and the break between the office section and the warehouse section, a dealers choice of bottlenecks with one entrance east and one west. Ghost makes his way through the west door, taking a nasty stab wound to his left bicep to do so. The pulsing terror coming through the bond hasn’t abated at all, although it’s been joined by a steady rise of rage in the last few minutes, so Soap’s alive and pissed the fuck off about something, at least. It’s strangely comforting.

There’s no sign of Gaz or Price in the warehouse, aside from dead Konni here and there. It’s not surprising, really; Ghost is moving slower than he should be, losing blood steadily from the gouge in his arm and breathing hard from the shots to his torso.

By the time he makes it out the loading dock door, he’s pretty solidly convinced he’ll have find cover for the night and scrape together a secondary exfil in the morning, because there’s no way Bravo’s hung around to wait for him. He clears the fence and jogs for the rise to the west anyway, towards their original RV. 

Halfway up the hillside, the shouting comes into range.

“Ah’m no fookin’ leavin’ ‘im ‘ere, ye clarty fookin’ bastart,” Soap’s fucking screaming, accent back full force, “he ain’t fookin’ dead, ah’d fookin’ know it if he were fookin’ dead.” 

Whatever whoever Soap is screaming at, and Ghost assumes it’s Price, says back isn’t audible. 

“Ye keep yer goddamn voice down then, fookin’ leave me ‘ere and ah’ll bring ‘im back in the fookin’ mornin’, cuz he ain’t fookin’ dead!” 

Another quiet pause and then, even louder, although that’s likely just because Ghost is closer, “Ah ken ye fookin’ ken we’re bonded, fookin’ everybody knows, ah’m no’ fookin’ stupid!”

Well. Obviously only one of those things is accurate.

“Quit fucking yelling, this is a stealth mission, MacTavish,” Ghost snaps as he breaks the treeline into the small clearing at the top of the rise. Soap’s got one fist knotted in Price’s collar, a finger wagging in the captain’s face, and he’ll be lucky to get out of this with only several write-ups in his file, “Nobody but Price knew that until you opened your fat gob, and you are fuckin’ stupid. Look at Gaz’s fuckin’ face, for christ’s sake.” 

Gaz’s face is, in fact, a fucking picture of annoyance and disbelief, although it’s quickly overcome with the same relief painting Price’s features at the sight of Ghost, which is somewhat gratifying.

Soap is not relieved. The agonized fear coming through the bond dissipates immediately, and it’s pure fury after that.

“Ye mingin’ fookin’ cunt,” he shouts, and Price scrambles to grab the bitch strap on the back of his plate carrier to hold him back as he launches himself at Ghost. 

“That’s enough, Sergeant MacTavish!” Price shouts, hauling Soap backwards even as he splutters and swings fruitlessly at Ghost, “Get in the goddamn truck. Gaz, you’re driving. Ghost, in the back, I need to dress that arm.” 

It’s a long ride back to the German base where the helo back to Sterling Lines is waiting for them, and an even longer flight back home. 

Price debriefs quietly with Laswell over the sat phone on the absolute fuckshow of a mission, Gaz naps, and Soap’s simmering rage blankets everything with a lovely, familiar soupçon of tension. Ghost chest hurts. 

It continues to hurt through brushing off Price’s order to go to medical when they land, and through returning his gear to the armory, and through collecting his shower kit and locking the door to the communal shower in the officer’s wing, which he’s not really supposed to do, but it’s 4 in the fucking morning, and anyone with a complaint can take it up with Price.

It still hurts as he stands with his head hung under the blistering hot spray in the shower. It abates only when he manages to stop himself from breaking Johnny’s arm as a tentative hand lands on the wing of his right shoulder blade. 

“Yer a huge fuckin’ piece of shite,” Johnny says as he plasters himself against Ghost’s back, accent mellowed some with his cheek tucked against the knob of Ghost’s spine. 

“Shut up,” Ghost sighs, stares down at the tile under his feet, too tired to argue or even get hard, “Just, fucking, just take what you need.” 

Johnny does, wraps one arm too tight around around Ghost’s ribs to haul him down enough to nudge his cock between Ghost’s cheeks, fingers of his other hand pressing bruise into Ghost’s hip. Johnny rock against him, slow, clinging, so fucking sweet as he presses his mouth along the hard line of Ghost’s shoulders, swallowing water and panting, “Simon, oh, fuck, Simon, Simon, please.”