Fandom:

Call of Duty (Video Games)

Relationships:

Simon "Ghost" Riley & Gary "Roach" Sanderson, John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley

Characters:

Simon "Ghost" Riley, John "Soap" MacTavish, Gary "Roach" Sanderson

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfor, tEmotional Hurt/Comfort, Game: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 (2009), Captain John "Soap" MacTavish, Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley, Gary "Roach" Sanderson & Simon "Ghost" Riley Friendship, Pining, Simon "Ghost" Riley Loves John "Soap" MacTavish, and he's coping about it great, Soft Simon "Ghost" Riley, Soft Gary "Roach" Sanderson, During Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Violence, the complex feeling of finding your dead brother in someone else

Relationship:

John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley

Characters:

John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Shepherd (Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2)Gary "Roach" Sanderson, Task Force 141 Ensemble

Additional Tags:

i made it with two versions of colouring and the other one had the poem in arabic (i couldn’t actually find the original author also pls forgive my handwriting)

Relationship:

John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley

Characters:

John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Shepherd (Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2)Gary "Roach" Sanderson, Task Force 141 Ensemble

Additional Tags:

In his life, MacTavish never thought he’d be in a position where his dreams were dangerous.

“Mm— mhm,” Ghost hummed into the kiss, unable to stop talking, even for a moment, “yeah, like that.”

The details of the dream changed each time; sometimes, in his peripheries, they swam and shifted, so that he’d start in one place and end in another. There were always constants, though— the heat Ghost radiated, the scent of his shampoo, the way his lips would press against his, and occasionally, lower— in the present moment, though, he recognised the hot warmth of morning sunlight flooding through the dusty windows of his flat, the scent of cooking eggs, the countertops he had him pressed against as he wrapped steady hands around his waist to keep him close—

“You’re gonna burn the eggs again,” Ghost reminded him, smiling against his lips. He was pressed against the countertop, nearly chest to chest so that he had to tilt his head up to kiss him—

“To hell with the eggs,” he grumbled, as Ghost pulled back again to smile wider, looking up at him.

“Lady’ll eat ‘em out the rubbish,” Ghost replied, eyes dilated and catching the morning light, aglow. “She’ll get fat.”

“Fatter, you mean,” MacTavish corrected, and when Ghost opened his mouth to reply again, kissed it to keep him quiet. “Jesus, Simon, quit running your mouth.”

“You like my mouth.”

He knew, by the silence outside, that it was a Sunday morning— lazy, and slow, and quiet. He also knew that if he looked down, the fur slinking between their legs would glare reproachfully at the attention.

It was dangerous to be dreaming that way in the field. Dangerous to do it around his men, dangerous to do it at all— but he was half awake, half asleep, and couldn’t help the way he lifted a hand to the back of Ghost’s head to tangle his hair in golden blond strands—

“C’mon, Johnny— mmph,” Ghost huffed, as he pressed their lips together again, before putting a hand on his chest to push him back, “eggs’re gonna be well done by now— mm—”

“Fuckin’ hell, Simon,” MacTavish complained, and dragged his tongue across the ridge of his teeth, “you’re stuck on these eggs. It’s always about the bloody food with you.”

“Fastest way to a man’s heart,” Ghost hummed, shrugging carelessly as his tongue slid across his— the eggs sizzled and popped, and somewhere by his head, Sandman’s foot kicked dangerously close.

“Aye,” he agreed, and Simon’s hand drifted higher up his chest, nails raking soft paths up. “Through the ribs is more efficient, though.”

The laugh bubbled up against his lips, and when Ghost smiled next, his teeth bumped up against his. It was swelteringly warm, warmth curling up the back of his neck, more so when Ghost threw an arm around his neck to followed the sunlight up— vaguely, he knew he had fallen asleep on his stomach, the polyester of the sleeping back crunching under his cheek, but then the hand on his chest trailed up to feel around his collar, and Ghost was taking a fist of his tags around his collar.

“Where’re you going, huh?”

“Got to go,” he replied, and he was almost sure the sound of eggs popping in oil wasn’t entirely in his imagination, “you know I’ve got to go.”

“You’re always doing this,” Ghost grumbled, and the hand up the back of his neck reached up to the back of his head, tugging gently on the mohawk— “c’mon, we’ve not even had the eggs yet.”

“I know,” MacTavish agreed, and the ring of blue around Ghost’s pupils was outright dangerous, “I know.”

“Not even got time for a goodbye kiss?” Ghost asked, half teasing as he looked down at him— the morning light only caught half his face, the freckles dotting across his cheeks and nose. His hair was falling into his eyes, eyelashes caught gold in the sunlight; flushed pink, his lips were the same colour as his cheeks, pressed pink and spit slick. MacTavish sighed, all too aware of the consciousness encroaching on the corners of his vision, and pulled back— but the fist on his tags pulled tight, pulling him back, and—

“You’re so bleedin’ stubborn, Simon,” MacTavish laughed, lips inches from Ghost’s.

“You’re so cruel,” Ghost shot back, pulling on the tags like a leash. “I’m going to have to eat these eggs alone, you know?”

“I know,” MacTavish nodded, and leaned closer, trying to keep the genuine pain out of his voice, “I’m sorry.”

Ghost laughed again, but didn’t move any closer, as if he was savouring the moment.

There was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep himself there. He knew it, Ghost knew it, but he couldn’t stay there, and he knew that too—

“Come on, Johnny,” Simon whispered, [sentence i never finished], “one more? For good luck?”

Anything, anything he asked for, any time he asked for it— but he didn’t say that. His cupid’s bow caught the morning sunlight, and the ridges of the Glasgow smile, keloided over his skin, shone when he lifted his hands and dragged a thumb across them; Ghost’s cheeks folded with the smile as MacTavish leaned in, eyes closing as he hummed happily, and—

The safehouse was small enough that even the sound of eggs cracking into a bowl in the kitchen was loud enough to wake MacTavish up.

“Sky.”

“No,” Ghost was saying from the kitchen of the safehouse, frown audible in his voice.

“Sun.”

“No.”

“I— Jesus,” Roach sighed, and there was the sound of spitting eggs again, as MacTavish blinked gritty eyes, “I dunno, uh— sandwich? Sandwiches?”

“Bloody hell— where the fuck’re you seeing a sandwich, Bug?” Ghost demanded incredulously, simultaneously quiet and annoyed— there was another hiss, as if someone had flipped the eggs, and when Ghost spoke next, it was with the distinct tone of someone pinching the bridge of their nose—

“Let’s just— forget I Spy for a second, how many words starting with S do you actually know, Sanderson?”

“Sanderson, for one.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ghost mumbled, as MacTavish listened to the distinct sound of another egg cracking— sunlight, hot and warm, sifted through the dirt on the window and onto the floor of the living room that the eight of them were sleeping on. Besides him, the empty spot Ghost had left when he must have woken up was steadily being encroached upon by Meat, an arm and leg thrown over the indent in the sleeping bags, and Roach’s pack had been rummaged through. The room was filled with the sound of heavy breaths and snores, and was distinctly warm in the way sleep seemed to make it; MacTavish turned over, blinking at the ceiling before scrubbing at his hair as he listened.

“Give me another egg.”

“Can’t we make omelettes?”

“With what, exactly? We’re making ‘em scrambled. There’s an S word— scrambled.”

“Oh. I mean, can’t we—”

“Scrambled, and that’s an order, sergeant. It’s s’posed to be morale boost, we’re not depressing everyone with limp omelettes.”

“Hm,” Roach agreed, sounding disappointed, before— “wait, is scrambled the word?”

“For fuck’s sake— no.”

The safehouse was practically a cabin, and they were crammed in like sardines between the eight of them. The bedroom had a hole in it, and the last week of storms had meant it was off-limits— all eight of them, then, slept in the living room, with the exception of Ghost, who had fallen asleep half the nights on night sentry, and MacTavish, who had stayed up with him, watching the rolling farmland flood with the rain. Morale had been running low for several days, between the storm, dwindling meal rations, and the way they were crammed together— the sunlight was a good sign, though, and he knew if he opened his eyes and glanced to the sky, it would be the clear blue that only followed storms. Yawning again, he turned over on his sleeping bag and kicked the blanket off of him, scrubbing his hand through the mohawk as he listened to the movement in the kitchen.

(there was supposed to be something connecting these parts that i never wrote :c)

“Go see if anyone’s awake,” Ghost ordered, and there was the hiss of a pan as more eggs were poured into it. A moment later, Roach appeared around the doorway; the angle hid him from MacTavish, so he went to Decker first, sleeping closest to the kitchen door.

“Hey—,” he listened to Roach lean down and whisper, “Decker. Wake up.”

There was no answer; MacTavish leant over, and shoved into Meat to try and get him up, who only rolled over.

“Decker,” Roach whispered again, “come on, get up.”

“Jesus,” Ghost appeared by his side a moment later, “the fuck’re you being so gentle for? Oi! Decker!”

“Mm— wha’sit?” Decker replied blearily,

“Eggs. Wake up and eat them or I’ll throw them out.”

“M’kay,” Decker nodded, “‘ll wake up the others.”

“Easy,” Ghost told Roach, before glancing over at him. “Morning, captain.”

“Riley,” MacTavish acknowledged, propping himself up on an elbow. He was wearing an older skull mask, design chipping off around his eyes, and MacTavish noted, with endearment that physically ached, the way the sun had made his cheeks pinker, exactly as in the dream— Ghost smiled, still holding a spatula, the hoodie rucked up to his elbows despite the fact his gloves were still on.

“Where have you got eggs from, then?” He asked, scrubbing at his eyes again— Ghost beamed wider, and clapped Roach on the back hard enough to make him stumble.

“Our resident infiltration expert stole from a farm!”

“I didn’t— I didn’t steal,” Roach corrected hurriedly, “there was just— a chicken farm, a mike west of here— I left some over for the farmers, it’s not like—!”

“There’s another S word for you,” Ghost cut across him happily, “steal. Shame thief doesn’t start with S, huh?”

“I’m not a thief!”

“Mm—” Sandman, from somewhere besides MacTavish, stirred— “why’s Roach yelling about being a thief, sir?”

“I’m not a thief!” Roach bellowed defensively— several people blinked themselves awake at the sudden volume, and Meat flopped over.

“You kill people for a living,” Ghost pointed out, crossing his arms, “stealing is where you draw the line?”

“Why am I smelling eggs?” Archer asked, wiping his hair out of his face. “Oh— for fuck’s sake, Adams, is that you?”

“Why would it be me?” Adams grumbled, “Royce is right there!”

“It’s never Royce,” Sandman told him. “Royce smells like an English garden.”

“It’s my aftershave,” Royce agreed sagely, before blinking up at the ceiling. “Oh, I smell eggs, too.”

“Ghost’s making everyone scrambled eggs!” Roach declared, with all the indignation of a child tattling on another.

Meat finally snorted awake, to nine pairs of surprised looks, all at Ghost.

“You want an S word, Bug?” Ghost glared venomously at Roach, rounding on him. “Suicidal. Because that’s what you must be.”

“He’s holding a spatula,” Roach added into the silence, despite the way his hands flew up in surrender and he took a step back over Decker, “I’m not lying.”

In the kitchen, the eggs kept spitting in the pan. MacTavish shot Ghost a look, which he returned with a glare— apparently cautious, Roach took another little step back.

It was Meat who broke the silence, sitting up.

“You’re making us breakfast, Ghost?” He asked, grinning.

“Making myself breakfast,” Ghost snapped back. “The rest of you get my leftovers.”

“No, he’s not!”

“Shut it.”

“He got bread for toast,” Roach added, lifting his hands higher in surrender. “I didn’t rob anyone!”

“You’ve only worked here for what— year, year and a half?” Sandman sat up too, scratching at his stubble— “and it only took that long for you to finally soften up on us?”

The spatula was thrown at his head with deadly accuracy, and only missed because of the speed at which Sandman ducked.

“Oi!”

“I’m eating your breakfast,” Ghost snarled, ignoring the barely stifled laughter around the room.

“No!”

“I’m eating your breakfast too,” he added, jabbing a finger towards Roach.

“You can’t eat six eggs in one sitting,” Roach replied, bewildered.

“Try me.”

“I’m smelling burning eggs now,” Archer provided, flopping back down on his sleeping bag. Ghost shot Roach a pointed glare, and with a little sigh, Roach stepped carefully over five sets of legs to take the spatula off Sandman, who snatched it from the ground to hand to him.

“All of you need to wake up before they’re done, or I’m binning them all,” Ghost glowered at them all, before turning on his heel and stalking to the kitchen. He disappeared through the door, before sticking his head out to scowl at Roach—

“And the kitchen’s off-limits for you now.”

“What— I stole eggs for you!”

“You’re getting the burned ones,” Ghost shot back, before disappearing back into the kitchen. MacTavish yawned again, and shot a sidelong look at Sandman—

“He’s a sweetheart, really.”

“Through and through,” Sandman agreed, rolling his eyes as he got up, Roach taking a defeated seat on the sofa. “Come on sir, ranks say you get the bathroom first. Maybe exfil’ll take us out this shithole before Ghost has to start cooking us dinner, too.”

Getting the bathroom first meant that he was out of it first, and had to push past Roach, standing in the doorway, to get through to the kitchen.

“Spatula!”

“No. Piss off.”

“Saucepan?”

“I’ll lob it at your head, Roach, don’t test me.”

“Come on,” Roach was beginning to sound a little desperate, and stepped to one side to let MacTavish through— “Ghost, it’s got to be something— give me a hint!”

“You want the answer, Bug?” Ghost, standing over the stovetop, turned over his shoulder to glare. “Stab wound.”

“What— what?” Roach blinked, bewildered— “But there aren’t any stab wounds near us!”

“Not yet,” Ghost agreed, eyes narrowed. “You’re on the right track, though.”

Half for Roach’s sake, and half because it was really too early for it, MacTavish closed the door on Roach before he could splutter out a reply.

“You ever get worried that you threaten people too much, they won’t take you seriously?”

“Roach knows I’m not kidding,” Ghost muttered, turning back to the stove to angrily poke at the eggs.

[i ended up abandoning this, half because i felt the dream thing was overused and half because i couldn’t figure out how i wanted it to end - i think it was just more devastating pining. the dreams thing got worked into my most recent work, the cooking eggs w roach thing got put into ‘spilled all over me’, and i’m still looking for an excuse to write more tf141 stuff cause i love them :3 but i don’t think i’ll finish it]