Lucibell

Gaz has been hoarding Soap’s phone for the better part of an hour, now, liberally swiping left and right on others’ accounts as per routine when neither of them have anything to do. Only this time he’s essentially just been swiping left for a variety of reasons that are mostly beyond Soap.

“I don’t like how he’s holding his phone.”

“Then swipe left,” is usually Soap’s unhelpful and unheeded input.

“Already did,” is what Gaz will say.

Soap sighs as Gaz continues browsing. Normally it’s more fun for Soap than what it’s been that day, but something about the current selection feels… lacklustre. There hasn’t been much of anything funny or fascinating to pique his interest, so Gaz’s say has remained precedent.

It usually does. Just more so today, which Soap is completely fine with—at most he might chat with someone that matches with him (or, again, Gaz might chat with someone under the guise of being John, 28), and otherwise he’ll do absolutely nothing.

Until he hears Gaz suck in a sharp breath beside him. Which could be either a very good or very bad sign.

But by the way Gaz tenses, finger hovering over the screen like he’s afraid he’ll be electrocuted if he does anything, Soap takes it as a very bad thing.

Soap finally looks back at the screen after having been off in his own head for the past fifteen minutes.

At first glance, there isn’t anything that Soap sees that makes him think Gaz’s reaction was warranted. Then, and unfortunately, he starts connecting the different things he’s seeing across the profile—the glaring Simon, 32, the cheesy bio classified underneath it.

And the photos. God, the photos. Soap would hate himself for his immediate recognition coming from a set of bare, scarred and broad shoulders if he didn’t have the excuse of being familiar with the identifiable tattoo that stretches up Simon, 32’s forearm.

Gaz turns to Soap. “You don’t think…?”

“If I’m being honest, Gaz,” Soap says slowly, “I dinnae want to think about this at all.”

Gaz’s thumb inches closer to the screen, and Soap’s heart stops when he sees the hint of a mischievous grin begin to form on his fellow sergeant’s face.

“So then you wouldn’t mind if I…?”

“Gaz,” Soap warns.

“What? It’s probably just an old profile like yours. And besides,” Gaz huffs, and Soap really does not like where this is going, “aren’t you at least a little curious to see what happens? Given your…”

Soap scoffs. “No, because nothing will happen. So hand over my—“

He makes to grab for his phone but is unsuccessful when Gaz, with stupidly lightning reflexes, stretches his arm out of Soap’s reach, and, very much to Soap’s dismay, presses down his thumb and swipes right on their lieutenant’s profile.

“See? What’s the worst that could—oh.”

It’s glaring, that horrible, awful, eyesore of a pop-up that reads It’s a match!

Soap thinks he might die. This is when and where he lays to rest permanently. Because what the fuck?

Gaz winces, sheepishly handing the phone back to Soap. “That is… this is a good thing, innit? Means he likes you back, right? Right?”

Soap doesn’t take it right away, instead shrinking in on himself, desperately scrubbing at his face with the heels of his palms as if it’d erase the last minute of his life. As if it’d erase his entire existence. Because even if they matched—a fact in and of itself that Soap is still having a tough time processing—Soap will eventually have to face Ghost knowing that they had, whether or not the man has checked his own notifications, and that idea alone is mortifying.

Soap is going to kill Gaz.

“This is what I get for not listening to my Mam about goin’ to mass,” Soap groans, plucking the phone from Gaz’s hold. The first picture on Ghost’s profile stares back at him—a goddamn mirror selfie angled in a way that hides his face, but definitely not the definition of his arms thanks to lighting and a muscle tee Soap would have never thought his lieutenant to own—and he doesn’t so much as hesitate to exit out of the notification so he can forget this all happened as soon as possible.

Which would be never, in all honesty, but Soap’s an optimist.

Most days.

“You think I could get a transfer before I have to see him again?”

Gaz quirks an eyebrow. “A transfer by this afternoon? Ain’t gonna happen, mate. Not even the higher-ups could manage that.”

Soap frowns. “This after—what are you talking about?”

Gaz makes an affronted sound. “What am I…? Training, you idiot,” he snaps, smacking Soap upside the head. “You’re on duty with him later. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“‘Course not.” Soap pauses. He tries to smile but all that forms is a grimace. “If I asked you to fill in for me…“

“Absolutely not,” Gaz says. “You’re facing this yourself, mate. Today. And then maybe after you and Ghost can snog, or something.”

Soap jabs his elbow into Gaz’s side. “You act like this isn’t your fault.”

“But it’s a yes to the snogging?”

As much as Soap might like to entertain the thought any other time, he just groans as he stands from the ratty couch kept in the common room with nothing more than the intention to hide away until facing his inevitable doom.

It’s great, the things he’s feeling at the moment. So great.

And of course that feeling stays all throughout what seems like no time at all before Soap is procrastinating his way to training, an extra weight on his shoulders and far too many thoughts swirling around his head that all cease the second he makes eye contact with Ghost.

A pissy Ghost.

“You’re late,” the lieutenant says.

“Sorry, sir,” Soap mutters. He keeps his gaze anywhere but on Ghost. “Got… caught up.”

Ghost grunts. “Right.”

The silence that follows is characteristic on Ghost’s end. Soap, however, can’t bring himself to say anything without the fear of it somehow leading to asking Ghost if he’s been on his phone at all since that morning without reason to justify the question.

But obviously Ghost picks up on his nerves, and given the man’s irritatingly blunt nature, it’s no surprise he’s confronting Soap about it the moment the recruits are busy and out of earshot.

“You tense, sergeant?” Ghost says. Never a question with him; always an accusation.

“No,” Soap lies. He can’t look over to his colleague without that stupid picture appearing in his mind. “Just…”

“Tense?” Ghost repeats.

Soap sighs. Concedes, “Aye. Tense.”

When Ghost says nothing, Soap finally risks a glance at his lieutenant only to be met with Ghost’s own gaze—too intense, too piercing. Soap hadn’t known brown eyes could look so cold until Ghost.

Soap can’t help but feel as if Ghost already knows. Because in all honesty, he probably does, and there had never been any use in trying to maintain what little remains of Soap’s own dignity.

If he had had any to begin with.

Ghost tilts his head. Scrutinizes Soap further with those eternally analytic pupils of his. “And for what reason, sergeant?”

Soap is going to throttle his superior officer. He’s going to wring the man’s neck, get discharged, and never have to worry about this ever again. Because Ghost is taunting him, clearly, and how unfair is that?

“I think you know, sir,” Soap grumbles through grit teeth, because he supposes he may as well face this head-on now as much as he fears the moment it’s said aloud.

But to his surprise, Ghost actually falls back just a bit, shifting his weight between feet in that awkward, stilted way he rarely does.

Like a kid caught with their hand shoved in the cookie jar.

“Well, don’t dwell on it too much, Johnny,” Ghost finally says—the words are quieter, softer this time. “Was an accident.”

Soap curses the crumbling feeling of hope in his chest that maybe, best case scenario, this whole incident would lead to a confession. But of course not—Ghost swiping right on Soap was an accident.

“Ah. Well.” Soap clears his throat, shying away from what’s become a much kinder gaze, “So was—for me too. Gaz had my phone.”

Ghost hums. Some look glasses over his eyes before he turns from Soap and marches away to continue barking orders at the rookies. Soap doesn’t know if it’s any better than having them both linger in a suffocating awkwardness.

An accident. Right. Why did Soap think it could ever be anything else?

The remainder of training is torturous, with the way Ghost doesn’t utter a word to Soap beyond anything work-related, or some professional-opinion bullshit—all the while was an accident rattles around Soap’s head as the day progresses at a snail’s pace.

He can’t decide if it all being an accident makes the situation any better. He can’t decide on a lot of things today.

And clearly, for Ghost, it doesn’t matter either way.

Soap is going to kill someone. He just hasn’t figured out who yet.

*

“He said it was an accident.”

Gaz hardly looks up from his tray as Soap slumps into a seat across from him. The mess hall is filled with the hushed buzz of chatter, sporadic and spaced out about the room. The open, public environment is the only reason he feels safe enough talking about it—it’s the only place he isn’t concerned about having Ghost suddenly appear in that eerie, ghostlike way of his.

“Told me not to worry about it,” Soap continues, “as if he hadn’t been making me more worried with his weird interrogation.”

“Remind me why you like him like him again,” Gaz mutters before shoving another forkful of food in his mouth. He chews and swallows unreasonably quickly. “Starting to seem like you don’t actually have feelings for him, mate.”

Soap huffs. “Only because it’s obvious the bastard doesnae feel the same. What’s the point, Gaz?”

Gaz stares at him. Blinks once, twice. “I don’t know,” he says. “You tell me.”

Soap groans loudly, sinking low in his seat. He wishes just one person could give him a straight answer to resolve this entire thing. A be-all-end-all solution to put him out of his misery—because even if Ghost says it was an accident, it still happened, and it still means Ghost is active on his own Tinder to some horrifying-to-think-about extent.

And Soap is horrified to think about it. Not to mention terribly conscious of the fact.

“That’s not even the worst part,” Soap grouses. Admits, “I just told him it was a mistake for me too.”

Soap has endured many looks from many people, and he doesn’t think anything compares to the incredulity on Gaz’s face at that moment.

“You know, I felt bad for getting you into this up until you said that,” Gaz tells him. “But hearing that shit is just unbelievable. You hear yourself, right?”

“Every fucking day,” Soap sighs. He buries his face in his hands, shoulders bunched as he grumbles nonsense into his palms. “What do I even do now?”

“Nothing,” Gaz says, then pauses, shrugs his shoulders. “Or tell him the truth. Maybe he also lied.”

Soap frowns, brows furrowing deeply behind the cover of his hands. The idea never occurred to him, because what would be the likelihood of Ghost ever lying about something as trivial as this? Near zero, Soap would think.

But the idea gives him just a piece of that crumbling hope back. And so does the tone of Gaz’s voice that hints he may know more about something than he lets on.

He always seems to. Soap doesn’t know whether or not he should be thankful.

Before he can decide, however, Gaz is continuing with his ever-so-sage counselling, “If you’re going with the latter, you’d better start looking for him now. ‘Cause if he was lying, he will be avoiding you at all costs.”

Soap huffs, finally letting his arms drop back to his sides as he begins to get up. Once standing, he says to Gaz, “I hate that you’re right.”

Gaz snorts. “Usually am.”

Despite his eye roll, Soap does plan on heeding his advice instead of arguing that no, Gaz is definitely not usually right. Because he isn’t. So what if he’s just on the nose today?

Soap sets off on his search.

*

It takes well over an hour to locate Ghost, after checking all of his usual spots and hiding places several times over, and asking just about everyone he saw if they knew about the lieutenant’s whereabouts.

The answer, of course, is always no idea, but it was worth a shot anyway—only considering he still manages to find Ghost on his own in the end.

Elusive bastard. Soap thinks if the disappearing act is kept up, he might start to be inclined to agree that Gaz was onto something about Ghost’s own dishonesty.

Maybe it’s a little unethical to be confronting him right out of the showers, though.

It’s a surprise Ghost doesn’t appear to be immediately alerted of Soap’s presence with the loud thud of the door swinging shut, his back remaining turned to Soap all the while the sergeant works up the courage to clear his throat.

And maybe admire the planes of his lieutenant’s back just a moment. He’s pulled on everything but a shirt already—even one of his gaiters has made it on before the hoodie that lies in a heap on a bench beside him as he dries his hair.

Again, though, Soap is more focused on the muscles that had him recognizing Ghost in those photos earlier that day.

“Can I help you, Soap?” Ghost grunts. He drops the towel he’d been using for his hair next to the hoodie he shortly pulls over his head—Soap is only allowed a brief glimpse at damp, tousled, blond hair before a hood is obscuring it.

Soap isn’t sure why he thought Ghost hadn’t noticed him enter.

“You lied to me before,” Soap says. He may as well bite the bullet now—to drag this out any longer than a day seems childish, really. He’s old enough to know that, but stupid enough to have let Gaz have access to his phone, and to still have a Tinder account in the first place.

Ghost tenses. His back stays to Soap as he freezes, and just barely Soap is able to make out the sharp intake of breath.

“Thought I told you not to dwell.”

Soap shrugs, though Ghost can’t see it. “You tell me a lot of things, sir.”

Ghost seems to consider this in the minute rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes, in the echo of a distant, residual dripping and an overhead fan.

He finally ducks his head, the sound of fabric shifting as he shoves his hands deep into his hoodie pockets. “Maybe I did lie. Maybe I didn’t. S’pose it doesn’t matter either way, does it, Johnny?”

“Why not?” Soap cocks his head. “I mean, Gaz did have my phone, but he had a point about getting my head out of my arse.”

Ghost turns, then, eyes narrowed at Soap with something akin to skepticism. “And what point is that?”

And for what reason, sergeant?

“That I needed to grow a pair and tell you how I feel,” Soap confesses. “To just use this whole thing as an excuse to do that.”

Ghost blinks, those stupidly brown doe eyes of his widening. “Is that what this is?”

Soap chews the inside of his cheek. “If you were lying.” He attempts something playful, but it falls flat. Meek.

There’s still so much distance between them. Too much. And with the way Soap’s heart currently swells with hope, he’s praying that changes soon.

He just has to wait on Ghost.

“I didn’t think anything would happen,” Ghost says.

“Neither did Gaz,” Soap replies. “But I could forgive him.”

“Only if I was lying?”

Soap nods.

“Then you’re a better friend than I’d be, Johnny.”

It’s enough of a confession for Soap. It’s likely the closest thing he’d ever get to one from Ghost.

And that’s alright. Because it’s the best thing to be getting out of what (admittedly) mild fiasco he’d gotten into.

“I’m only so willing because it ended me here,” Soap says. He stalls a moment, almost unashamed in the way he properly looks Ghost over. “And I’d really like to compare those pictures to real life, if I’m honest.”

Ghost huffs. He grabs his towel and slings it over his shoulder before he’s moving toward the exit just behind Soap. Soap’s heart jumps as he gets closer, closing that distance, until Ghost is leaning down to Soap’s ear and murmuring, “I can make that happen.”

The lieutenant teases Soap’s hand, pretending to grab at it but stopping at a mere brush of fingers before he disappears out the door and leaves Soap to stand alone, dumbfounded.

But only for a moment. Because goddamnit if he isn’t immediately trailing Ghost to his quarters after that.

-