Mythical Misery

“No,” he said, letting the word hang in the air before he flicked the visor down over Soap’s face, muffling his spew of curses.

“Yer such a fuckin’ wanker,” Soap muttered as he swung his leg over the back of the bike, lifting his hips to settle in behind Ghost. Both men were broad, built solidly from years of grueling training, and the bike gave a soft creak beneath their combined weight. He gripped Ghost’s waist as they rocked back into place. He felt Ghost shift a little, stabilizing the bike as he glanced over his shoulder, expression unreadable behind the helmet but with a tilt of his head that said, You ready, Sergeant?

Soap just gave him a tight squeeze, and they lurched forward, the engine’s roar vibrating between his knees. They pulled out onto the road, the rumble of the bike and the wind whipping around them drowning out the rest of the world. It was nearly three in the morning, and the streets were quiet, deserted save for the occasional glint of headlights far in the distance. The passing streetlights casting hazy orange halos over the pavement, forming long shadows across the road.

The cool late-summer air slid against them as they rode, and Soap leaned in, inhaling the faint scent of Ghost’s leather jacket mingled with the night air. He let his hands rest just a little looser on Ghost’s waist, fingers brushing over the curve of his hips as they picked up speed. An absurd idea struck him in that moment, and a grin slowly crept onto his face.

Just as they reached a long stretch of open road, Soap’s voice crackled through the comms in their helmets. “Ye know… we don’t have to report to base tomorrow. All night to ourselves.” His hands shifted, sliding over Ghost’s front and brushing against his abdomen. Just light enough to test him.

There was a long pause, and then Ghost’s voice came back, sounding far too casual for Soap’s liking. “That so? Didn’t realize.”

“Oh, piss off.” Soap let his head fall forward, the helmet bumping against Ghost’s back as he grinned. “Ye’ve been starin’ at my arse all night long like ye didn’t have it all planned out.”

“Whatever ya say, Johnny,” Ghost replied smoothly.

Soap clenched his jaw, leaning back a little as he narrowed his eyes at the back of Ghost’s helmet. If Ghost was going to be a stubborn bastard, Soap wasn’t against having to push harder.

“I think we might switch things up tonight.” Soap’s hands drifted lower as he spoke, his tone edged with that hint of menace that never failed to get Ghost’s attention. He gripped Ghost’s hip firmly, letting his fingers dig in just enough that he could feel the muscles tense under his hand.

“And what exactly were ya thinkin’, Sergeant?” Ghost asked, voice as cold and unbothered as ever, even as he flipped the turn signal on. The little blinking sound punctuated his words, an almost taunting rhythm to match Soap’s increasing frustration. 

Soap leaned forward, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Ghost’s back, close enough that his lips would’ve been just by his ear without the helmets. “I’m thinkin’ it’s time I take care of my Lieutenant, good an’ proper. Really is a damn shame, an arse like that goin’ to waste,” Soap replied, his voice low and teasing. 

That got him. Ghost let out a low, breathy laugh. “Keep dreamin’, MacTavish.” 

“Prick,” Soap muttered, sliding his hand from Ghost’s hip toward his belt buckle, fingers brushing against the cool metal. Ghost’s hand shot down at the action, grabbing his wrist, the grip unyielding. 

“What do ya think you’re doin’?” Ghost demanded, his tone rougher now, a hint of warning laced through it.

“I’m gettin’ real tired of ye callin’ all the shots tonight,” Soap murmured, leaning in, voice practically a growl in Ghost’s comms. “We’re ‘bout twelve minutes from home. Think ye can last that long? Or do I finally get my way with ye?” 

Ghost’s shoulders tensed, his grip on the handlebars tightening. “You’re bloody mental, Johnny. Tryin’ to get me to crash?,” he asked, but there was a strain there, an almost imperceptible tightness in his voice that sent a thrill down Soap’s spine.

“Don’t tell me Mr. In Control can’t compose himself now,” Soap taunted, lips quirking into a smug smile as he felt Ghost shift, his breathing just a touch unsteady as Soap massaged him over his boxers.

With a low grunt, Ghost flicked on the turn signal again, merging down an exit ramp. The streetlights casting flickering shadows over them. At least they were off the main road now, winding through the quieter, narrow streets where the speed was slower.

“If ya make us crash, I’ll kill ya,” Ghost warned, voice deadly serious.

“Oh, not before I get what I want.” Soap’s hand slipped under Ghost’s waistband, fingers cold against warm skin. He relished the way Ghost stiffened underneath his chest, his breath catching for a split second before he regained his composure. There it was. That crack in the calm facade. He just needed to keep pulling on that string and he’d have the man under him and begging in less than an hour. 

Soap kept his hand moving, fingers working with the skill and precision of a man obsessed. The thought of getting back home and burying himself in a writhing Ghost nearly had him blowing a load in his own pants. It had been a solid five minutes, and Soap knew Ghost was close to unraveling, his breaths audible even through the comms, each rough exhale mixed with barely stifled curses.

Every time Soap’s hand reached the sensitive head of Ghost’s cock, the man’s body responded, muscles tensing, hips shifting minutely as he tried to keep his focus on the road. His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden crackle of Ghost’s voice in his ear.

“Oh… fuckin’ hell,” Ghost managed.

Soap glanced over his shoulder, eyes catching sight of what had Ghost’s attention. His grin widened as he spotted the car pulling onto their street ahead of them, headlights illuminating the distinctive blue and yellow checkered pattern of a patrol cruiser. Ghost was on edge, already halfway to his limit, and now with the presence of a cop… Soap felt a thrill shoot through him, pure adrenaline mixing with a touch of something else, something darker.

He renewed his efforts, his hand moving faster, his grip firmer. “Guess we’ve got a friend joining us, eh?” he murmured through the comms, practically vibrating with amusement. Ghost hissed in response, unable to suppress the shudder that ran through him as Soap picked up his pace.

“Bloody hell, Johnny… you’re gonna start a fuckin’ fire if ya keep that up,” Ghost grit out, his voice almost a growl.

“Oh, hush,” Soap murmured, his tone playful, teasing. “Just makin’ sure yer ready for our little audience. Don’t ye want to give ‘em a good show?” He felt Ghost’s glare even without seeing it.

“You’re insane,” Ghost grunted, but there was no mistaking the way his breath hitched. Soap could practically taste the tension radiating from him.

“Ye love it,” Soap shot back, punctuating his words with a firm, teasing squeeze. Without warning, he moved his free hand over Ghost’s, reaching for the throttle, twisting it to pick up speed. He wouldn’t have dared try a move so risky if he didn’t trust Ghost to keep them steady, but tonight he was feeling bold, feeling reckless. 

“Slow the fuck down,” Ghost snapped, but Soap only chuckled, reveling in the way Ghost’s cock twitched, leaking precum onto his fist as they inched closer to the cop car ahead. Ghost was close—so close that Soap could practically feel it, and as the yellow traffic light came into view, Soap knew it was now or never. They came to a halt at the painted line on the road, pulling up beside the patrol car as the light turned red.

Through the comms, Ghost’s voice cut in, low and laced with barely contained panic. “Don’t ya dare think about movin’ your hand,” he growled.

Soap bit back a laugh, holding his body still, acting every bit the composed passenger even as he felt Ghost’s whole body locked tight like he was made of stone. But Soap didn’t let up, his hand continuing its steady work, every slight, subtle motion sending a shiver through Ghost that he was struggling to suppress.

The thrill of it was intoxicating—the danger of getting caught, the sight of the constable just feet away, completely unaware of what was happening inches from him. Ghost’s fear, the rare and delicious kind, was practically tangible, and Soap drank it in, savoring every second. Ghost and fear weren’t words that belonged together, not usually, and yet here he was, trying and failing to maintain control, every breath a struggle for composure. 

“Yer enjoying this, aren’t ye?” Soap’s voice was a low whisper, teasing and dark as he kept his grip firm, fingers working the sensitive head of Ghost’s cock. Ghost’s grunts and muffled curses filtered through the comms as an answer, music to Soap’s ears, and he felt a surge of satisfaction.

“Come on, big boy, just let go for me,” he whispered, his tone gentle, coaxing. “Let me take care of ye for once.”

“Shut the fuck up, Johnny,” Ghost growled back, his voice frayed, almost desperate, and Soap knew he’d finally broken through.

“Come on, Lt.,” Soap pleaded, his voice filled with a wicked promise. “Come for me.”

It took only a few more pumps before he felt Ghost freeze up, his cock twitching uncontrollably in Soap’s hand, and then the man broke, shuddering violently as his orgasm crashed over him. Breathy curses filled the comms, his voice raw and barely coherent as he came, spilling over Soap’s fist, leaving a sticky mess on the gas tank.

And just as Ghost was catching his breath, the cop glanced over, his eyes flicking from the gas tank to the two men, lingering for a split second on Soap’s hand before his gaze darted up, confusion dawning on his face. 

For a moment, all three of them froze—Ghost still in the throes of his release, Soap grinning like the Cheshire Cat, and the poor officer, wide-eyed and utterly flustered as he registered what was unfolding before him.

The cop sputtered, clearly at a loss for words, his hand already moving to unbuckle his seatbelt. Ghost didn’t waste a second. He twisted the throttle, the light turning green just as he sped forward, leaving the copper behind them. Soap barely had time to react, leaning back, quickly flipping the license plate up with one hand, blocking it from any cameras or dash cams.

They roared down their street, taking a sharp turn into the quiet neighborhood. Ghost cut the lights, pulling into the driveway of their rental and parking the bike behind a wooden fence. The moment they stopped, Soap burst into laughter, the sound loud and uncontrolled, echoing in the silent night as he threw his head back. 

Ghost shoved his helmet off, his face red, breathing still heavy as he glared at Soap with a mix of exasperation and something close to murderous intent. Without a word, he grabbed Soap by the front of his sweatshirt, yanking him up and pushing him roughly against the wall of the house, his eyes dark with fury.

“Ya think that was funny, do ya?” Ghost’s voice was a low, dangerous sound, his grip tight as he glared at Soap.

Soap’s laughter hadn’t quite died down, even as Ghost smacked the side of his helmet, his face inches from his own. “Aw, come on, Lt.,” Soap managed, grinning wide. “It was a brilliant idea. Admit it, you loved it when I made ye fall apa—.”

“That’ll do, Sergeant,” Ghost snapped, his voice gruff, barely keeping his composure. “Get in the fuckin’ house.”

Still chuckling, Soap shuffled toward the side door, his amusement finally settling as he reached the threshold. He cast a glance over his shoulder, his grin turning sly as he met Ghost’s intense stare. “Don’t be too long now, Lt.,” he drawled, letting his eyes drift down with an appreciative smirk. “I’ve got a date with that sweet arse of yers.”

Ghost let out a long sigh as he set his helmet down running a hand over his face, his shoulders sagging as the tension finally released. Soap watched him for a moment, the quiet satisfaction settling over him, feeling every inch the victor as he opened the door and slipped inside.

Ghost shook his head, watching him disappear into the house. He let out a rough, tired chuckle, muttering to himself as he followed. 

“Bloody hell… fuck me.”

— — — 

Ghost locked up his bike, turning to the house with a low exhale, anticipation simmering  beneath his practiced calm. Leave it to Soap to have him feel like he was flipped upside down. The street outside was silent; the dark windows and the soft rustle of trees were the only company as he stepped inside. Tossing his jacket onto the bench, he called out for Johnny. No response. The quiet stretched, heavy and unusual, and Ghost stilled, listening. 

He toed off his boots before he took a few slow steps down the hall, each one echoing softly in the silent house. Maybe Soap was in the shower. Just as he turned to head toward the master bath, his vision went black, something soft wrapping around his eyes. Instinct took over—his hands shot up, his body primed to break whatever bastard had dared ambush him. But then the sound of Soap’s familiar, cocky voice filtered through the tension in his chest. 

“Easy there, Lt. It’s just me,” Soap murmured softly. 

The iron grip in Ghost’s muscles softened slightly, but annoyance prickled up his spine at the man’s antics. “What the hell are ya doin’, Johnny?” he growled, stiffening as Soap’s hands tightened the knot at the back of his head, making sure the blindfold was secure.

“Just havin’ my way with ye, sir,” Soap replied, an edge of amusement in his voice. 

Before Ghost could respond, he felt a firm shove from behind, sending him forward a few steps. His foot caught the corner of the doorframe with a dull thud which had him glaring in Soap’s direction through the fabric. 

A low chuckle sounded behind him, close enough that Ghost could feel the warmth of Soap’s breath against his neck. “Aw, come on, I’ll make it feel better, Si,” Soap taunted, his words sliding over Ghost’s irritation and morphing it into something else entirely. 

Grudgingly, Ghost let Soap guide him further into the bedroom, each step feeling heavier, every shift sharpening the building tension. The floor beneath his feet shifted to a thick rug, and he knew he was standing at the edge of the bed now. He could feel Soap flitting about around him, leaving Ghost suspended in anticipation, his senses tuned to every tiny sound. The creak of the bed, the soft rustle of fabric, the nearly inaudible thud as Soap set something down nearby. 

Ghost’s skin prickled as Soap’s hands finally settled on his waist, strong and steady, pulling him close. Ghost allowed himself a moment to sink into the touch, feeling that uncharacteristic vulnerability settle deep in his gut. It had taken time—longer than he cared to admit—to reach this place with Soap, to trust him enough to allow himself to let go. Despite being a complete doorknob, Soap understood the severity of Ghost letting him in and the trust he put in his sergeant wholeheartedly. 

Soap’s voice broke through his thoughts, low and intimate by his ear. “Ye ready, Simon?”Ghost took a slow, deliberate breath, his hand briefly brushing Soap’s, fingers pressing for a moment in silent affirmation. “Aye,” he replied, his voice hushed and weighted.

A chaste kiss landed on his neck, soft but lingering, the warmth of it grounding him, and then Soap was gone. Before he could brace himself, Soap grabbed his shoulders, turning him around and pushing him back with more force than he had expected. He fell onto the bed, the mattress creaking as their combined weights settled and Soap loomed over him. That familiar sense of anxiety started to build as Ghost waited for Soap’s next move. 

He can hear Soap’s hand as it brushed past his head, reaching for something lying on the bed next to him. Ghost can’t help but flinch at the cold bite of metal as it wrapped around his left wrist. Handcuffs. 

Soap’s face was close, his breath ghosting over Ghost’s skin, his voice a low murmur that seemed to thread through the quiet room and wrap around Ghost and his thudding heartbeat.

“Yer all mine tonight, Simon,” Soap whispered, a smile in his tone. “I can do whatever I want to ye… and ye’ll thank me for it, won’t ye?” 

The soft click of the cuff around Ghost’s wrist had him shivering. His breathing hitched, his senses heightened by the blindfold, every shift in the bed magnified, every touch amplified. 

“Yes,” he murmured, the word barely leaving his lips before Soap tightened his grip, reaching for Ghost’s other hand.

“Yes, what?” Soap’s voice took on a firm edge, and Ghost felt the chain of the cuffs loop around the headboard, effectively locking him in place.

“Yes, sir,” he gritted out, his jaw tightening at the pressure of the cuffs. 

There was a satisfied hum from Soap, a silent acknowledgment of Ghost’s submission, and then his lips were on him, light and teasing and frustratingly not enough. Ghost knows Soap was going to drag this out all night long, milk it for all he can while he has the chance. Ghost groaned as Soap pushed his hips down onto his, his legs spreading instinctively to allow his sergeant more access. He opened to Soap’s kiss, allowing himself to melt into the contact, the blindfold making the sensation sharper, more vivid. His body leaned up to deepen the kiss, to chase the heat of Soap’s mouth.

Soap continued his movements, the friction of Ghost’s jeans rubbing against his cock had it gradually coming back to life after their little joy ride not even thirty minutes ago. Soap let out a low groan as he pulled away for them to catch their breath, swollen lips hovering over Ghosts. Soap pulled back, his hands tracing down Ghost’s chest, fingers splaying over his abs, teasing the sensitive skin under his shirt.

"God, ye torture me, Simon,” he rumbled out, the sounds of their eager breaths the only noise throughout the dark room. A shiver ran through Ghost, his body arching slightly to meet Soap’s, grunting as the other pressed him back down with all his weight. He was completely at Soap’s mercy, and as much as he hated giving up control, he couldn’t deny the raw thrill of it. 

"Always denyin’ what's rightfully mine." He doesn't wait for a response, capturing Ghost's mouth like it belonged to him, biting and nipping as his hands roamed the body beneath him.

Ghost needed out of his clothes. Now. 

Soap took his, excruciatingly, sweet time as he worked Ghost up just by rubbing and grinding alone. Ignoring any efforts on Ghost’s end to move things along. Bastard. He eventually took mercy as his hands slipped to the hem of his shirt, lifting it slowly, the fabric dragging against his skin as his fingers traced the lines of his abs. 

Soap’s mouth descended on him, lips tracing over his jaw and down his neck, stopping to nip at the pulse racing there. His tongue quickly followed as it danced over his Adam’s apple. Each touch felt like fire, every mark left a brand that Ghost could feel searing into his skin. His chest heaved, his hands straining slightly against the cuffs as Soap’s lips trailed lower, latching onto a sensitive spot just above his collarbone where the fabric of his shirt had bunched up. Ghost felt the edge of his teeth and let out a sharp gasp, the pleasure mixed with a sting that sent another thrill down his spine.

"How attached are ye to this shirt?" He asked with a smirk that Ghost could perfectly imagine. 

"Not very,” Ghost replied. 

“Perfect,” Soap states. 

Before Ghost could respond, the man gripped the neckline of his shirt, pulling with strength that had Ghost feeling dizzy. The distinct sound of fabric ripping, the cool air hitting his chest as Soap tore his shirt had him melting into the bed. Ghost’s breath stilled, his body tingling under Soap’s hungry gaze.

Soap continued his journey with no more obstacles in the way, working his way down Ghost’s chest while taking a detour to pay special attention to his nipples. The scent of Soap surrounded him, earthy and warm, laced with the musk that was so intoxicatingly him it sent a rush of heat to his skin. His tongue circled Ghost’s nipple before sucking the bud between his teeth, biting gently enough to have him arching his back at the sting. Soap continued to push Ghost down into the mattress every time he squirmed beneath him, torn between wanting to escape and needing more. 

“Ye like my mouth on ye Simon?” Soap asked, voice rough as his mouth continued across Ghost’s chest and moved onto his other nipple, assaulting it just the same. 

 “Yes,” Ghost hissed, his voice ragged. His muscles tensed as Soap bit down lightly, each scrape of his teeth followed by the soothing touch of his tongue igniting Ghost’s skin. 

Soap’s grin was practically audible as he replied, “So do I.” He dragged his mouth lower, tracing the defined ridges of Ghost’s abs, his hands sliding down his flank, thumbs teasing along the waistband of his jeans. Ghost knew the man’s goal was to work him up so much he would beg, but the stubborn bastard in him wasn’t going to break so early on. He wouldn’t give Soap the satisfaction.

Ghost’s stomach con-caved with each deep breath as Soap’s lips continued their affront to his torso. Tongue outlining Ghost’s Adonis belt as he jerkily pulled off the confining jeans along with his boxers. The cool air on his heated skin had Ghost audibly groaning. His cock was already at half mast and well on its way to being painfully hard. 

Soap nips his way down till he’s leaving marks on Ghost’s inner thighs, the skin sensitive and pale, letting the burst blood vessels paint across them. Ghost held back the slight tremble of his body as Soap’s warm breath danced across him, so close to his erection while ignoring it. 

“Ye want somethin’, Lt.?” Soap asked, arousal practically dripping from his voice. 

“Johnny…” Ghost warned as he tugged on the cuffs. 

Soap’s hands began to slide down the sides of his thighs, gripping them hard as he licked a hot stripe up Ghost’s cock, leaving the other man gasping. 

“Thought I told ye to call me Sir,” Soap scolded. 

It takes everything in Ghost not to scoff at Soap’s demand. His entire body resists the idea of referring to his subordinate as Sir, which is exactly why Soap finds it so hot. He already did it once tonight, but the younger man just couldn’t be satisfied with a one-off. 

Soap sighed at Ghost’s silence, mocking disappointment a juxtaposition to the wicked grin spread across his face. “Since ye clearly don’t know how to act right now, I’m just gonnae have to take somethin’ else, Simon.”

Ghost’s brows furrowed under the blindfold at the man’s words. His mind raced through what he could mean as he felt the bed dip as Soap leaned off of it. He must have found what he was looking for as he quickly re-settled between Ghost’s spread thighs. 

“Should’ve just listened to me, Ghostie,” Soap smugly stated. 

His confusion quickly dissipated as he felt the familiar foam slide over his ears. Ghost nearly laughed at Soap’s shitty pun. He was now handcuffed, blindfolded, and deaf thanks to the noise-cancelling ear muffs Soap dug out of his sniper bag. They weren’t one hundred percent soundproof, but were enough to block out the sounds of one man in a quiet house. That was now practically two and a half senses Soap had taken away from him, never allowing him to know his next move. 

With a few more teasing touches, Ghost felt the bed jostle as Soap shimmied his way down. His heart thumped in anticipation at whatever Soap was going to do next. His hands slid under him, lifting him with a firm grip on his ass, spreading his cheeks open. 

‘Fuck me’ is all Ghost can think before he feels Soap’s face pressing into his ass. He’s not sure if the strangled noise managed to make its way out of his throat as Soap buries himself. His hips lifted as Soap circled over the ring of muscles with his tongue, flitting over it gently before diving in. Soap sucked, kissed, and everything in between that had Ghost’s eyes rolling behind the blindfold. 

He gasped, hands clenching to fists above the cuffs as he writhed beneath Soap’s unrelenting tongue. He desperately wanted to run his hands through that stupid mohawk he had come to love over time. It doesn’t take long before Ghost can feel himself relaxing for him, opening up from how badly he needs the other man inside him. His cock was now at full mast, red and leaking where it lay against his stomach. 

Ghost tried to hold in the whine as Soap pulled back, unable to make out the muffled words he was speaking to him. It was probably for the best. Soap had a way of saying the most obscene things just to see the embarrassed flush rise to Ghost’s pale face. 

He groaned as he felt Soap’s hands bracket his torso, his face lowering over his. Soap took Ghost’s mouth into his with no hesitation, biting his lips and sinking his tongue between them. It was sloppy, on purpose, Soap giving him all of his mouth that was just buried in Ghost’s ass while not giving a single fuck. 

Ghost’s breath came in sharp, shallow pulls as he tried to regain control, his heels digging into the mattress in a futile attempt to ground himself. He could feel Soap where he sat on Ghost’s stomach, the fact that he was still fully clothed was not lost on him. He didn’t know what the man was doing, he couldn’t feel him moving around, just perched on top of him like they had all the time in the world. He could’ve been taking photos of him for all he knew and the idea sent a confusing surge of heat through his body.

It was a few more seconds of waiting before Ghost jerked, the feeling of fingers brushing against his hole. They clearly had lube on them, Soap spreading it around before he slipped a finger in, testing. At least the teasing bastard had the decency to warm it up in his hands first. Although it was a valiant effort from his tongue, Ghost still wasn’t stretched enough to take on someone of Soap’s size. 

He rolled his hips in a poor attempt to take Soap in further, egging him on to add another finger already. A barely whispered, “Come on, Johnny,” left his lips. The headphones were a blessing at this point; he was too mortified to listen to his own resolve crumbling from another man’s fingers alone. 

Soap drank in his pleas, swallowing Ghost’s moan with his lips as he slid another finger in next to his middle finger. He slowly pumped them in and out until his first knuckle reached the entrance, scissoring his fingers open to stretch the relaxed muscles. The friction of Soap’s pants rubbing against the back of his thighs as he pumped his fingers into Ghost had him letting out punched-out moans against his will. Ghost was ready and Soap came to the same conclusion as he pulled his fingers out, the sudden emptiness making his stomach cramp up as he reflexively clenched.  

He sensed Soap moving above him, unbuckling his pants and pulling himself free. God did Ghost want to see him. As much as Soap loved seeing Ghost needy, nothing compared to the eager devotion that could shine across Soap’s face. 

Ghost sucked in a breath of air as he felt Soap slide his hands up the back of his thighs, gripping onto the back of his knees as he slowly pushed them in the direction of Ghost’s face. He was nearly folded in half before he felt something prodding at his hole, bracing himself as Soap distracted him with his mouth on his neck. 

Ghost could feel the barely-held-back frenzy building under Soap’s skin as he gently entered him. Inch by inch he carved his way into him, never too fast as if he was made of porcelain. Despite all the assurances he could ever give, Soap was always careful not to hurt Simon in the beginning. Never wanting to overwhelm and break all the trust he worked so hard for. Ghost could admire him for that, mainly because the gentle-natured man lasted about thirty seconds before he was pounding him into the mattress. 

True to his nature, Soap slowly began to build up his rhythm as he bottomed out and pulled back, getting Ghost used to the intrusion. The push and pull had a moan from deep within his throat dragged out of him, prompting Ghost to bite his lip to shut himself up. He bit so hard he could feel his lip split beneath his canine, the rush of metal flooding his mouth. Soap sought it out like a shark, lurching forward to lick and suck until there were no traces of it left. 

Soap's grip on Ghost's jaw tightened, angling his face up with a forceful tenderness that had Ghost's mind spinning. The blindfold rendered him sightless, but the way Soap held him made him feel utterly exposed. Ghost could only imagine what he looked like—his face flushed, his lips parted and wet, and streaks of blood smeared across his face that had him feeling feral. 

Soap’s hips snapped against him with a rhythm that was as relentless as it was intoxicating. Each thrust sent a jolt of pleasure rocketing through Ghost’s body, leaving him struggling for air and desperate. The cuffs above his head rattled uselessly as he pulled against them again and again, ignoring the fiery protest of his raw wrists. He knew they were likely on their way to bleeding now, the skin nearly broken, but the pain barely registered over the all-consuming need to touch Soap. He wanted to bury his fingers in Soap’s hair, rake them down his back, and hold him close until there wasn’t an inch between them. 

A particularly hard thrust had knocked the air out of Ghost’s lungs and had him arching involuntarily. He could still barely  make out Soap’s voice, talking him through it despite not being able to hear him. Ghost groaned in response, the sound vibrating through his chest, equal parts frustration and surrender. The noise in the room was obscene—the wet, slick sounds of their bodies meeting, the creak of the bed frame under their combined weight, and the dull thunk of the headboard slamming repeatedly against the wall. Ghost almost told Soap to slow down or their landlord was going to keep their deposit when they saw the hole he was aiming to make in the wall.

“Johnny,” he rasped, his voice shredded and raw. He turned his head toward the feel of Soap’s ragged breathing, wanting—needing—more.

His words were only met by soft lips ghosting over his cheeks. Ghost growled low in his throat, but the frustrated plea he meant to spit out melted into a broken gasp as Soap adjusted his angle, driving deeper and hitting the spot that turned his mind to static. He bucked against the mattress, his body acting on instinct as stars burst behind his blindfolded vision. He could tell by Soap’s frantic thrusts he was reaching his end soon as well. 

"Johnny... let me see ya," Ghost had whined.

Soap's rhythm faltered for a fraction of a second at Ghost's words, the desperation in his voice. He had gotten exactly what he wanted. 

"Fuckin' hell, Simon," Soap growled, his voice thick with both strain and affection. His hand, already slick with sweat and Ghost’s arousal from where it pooled on his lower stomach, wrapped itself firmly around Ghost’s cock, drawing out a moan that echoed around them. With his other hand, Soap tugged at the knot of the blindfold, ripping it away along with the headphones that had muffled the world beyond Ghost’s pounding heartbeat. 

The moment the fabric fell away, Ghost gasped, the sudden influx of light and sound hitting him like a shockwave. His wide eyes blinked rapidly, adjusting to the dim glow of the room as the steady creak of the bed and the slap of skin against skin flooded his senses. The first thing he saw was Soap's face—flushed, damp with sweat, and utterly satisfied. Those dark blue eyes burned with an unrelenting fire, locked on Ghost with an intensity that had his heart stuttering. 

The sight was too much. Combined with the feeling of Soap’s hand pumping his cock in perfect rhythm with his thrusts, Ghost felt like he was teetering on the edge of oblivion. He choked on a moan, his body arching up into Soap’s touch as his wrists pulled fruitlessly against the cuffs. The helplessness, the sheer overwhelm of it all, mixed with the raw passion in Soap’s gaze, was more than he could bear. Maybe the blindfold was actually a mercy. 

“Christ, Simon,” Soap groaned, his voice hitching with his own rising desperation. His thrusts grew more erratic, each one deeper, harder, as if he were trying to fuse them together entirely. "Ye look... God, ye look so fuckin’ perfect like this. All mine, yeah?” 

Ghost could only nod frantically, his ability to form words completely obliterated. His breath hitched as Soap leaned down, his hand still working Ghost's cock in tandem with the roll of his hips. Their foreheads pressed together, their sweat mingling while Soap’s breath fanned over Ghost’s lips, hot and uneven. 

“Johnny,” Ghost gasped, his voice trembling as his body tensed. He was so close, the heat coiling tighter and tighter in his core. “I—fuck, I’m—”

“I know. That’s it," Soap purred, leaning down until his breath ghosted over Ghost's ear. He shifted his grip on Ghost’s cock, his thumb swiping over the sensitive head in a way that had Ghost crying out, the sound raw and unrestrained. “Come on, Simon. Let me hear ye, yeah? I want to hear how much ye fuckin’ need me.” 

Ghost wanted to snap back, to tell Soap to shut the hell up, but the only sound that came out was a guttural groan that bordered on a whimper. It was humiliating, how easily Soap unraveled him, but the humiliation was just another thread in the web of trapping him under Soap’s control. 

“Fuck me, Lieutenant. Make me come, Sir,” Ghost whispered into Soap’s ears. His final act of submission, calling Soap by his own rank had the last tethers in the man’s brain snapping. 

“Oh, fuck…,” Soap gasped out. It took only three more thrusts before Ghost’s body seized, every muscle locking as his release hit him with the force of a tidal wave. He came hard, his vision whiting out for a moment as pleasure ripped through him, hot and all-consuming. Soap's name fell from his lips in a broken groan, his release spilling over Soap's hand and streaking across their stomachs. 

The sight of Ghost falling apart beneath him was Soap's undoing. With a hoarse shout, his hips stuttered, and he buried himself deep one last time as his own release crashed over him. He trembled above Ghost, his breath ragged and uneven, before collapsing onto him, their slick, sweaty bodies pressed together in the aftermath. 

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were their labored breaths and the faint creak of the mattress as they shifted against each other. Soap finally raised his head, his hand coming up to brush damp hair away from Ghost’s forehead. His lips quirked into a small, satisfied smile as he took in the utterly wrecked man beneath him.

"Ye good, love?" he murmured, his voice soft and affectionate now, a stark contrast to the commanding tone from earlier.

Ghost let out a breathless chuckle, his arms tugging at the cuffs still secured to the headboard. "Would be better if I wasn’t still chained up, ya bastard.”

But Goat’s mind lingered on something. Soap had gone dark during the extraction, his comms dead until they’d regrouped at the exfil point. He let the silence stretch between them for a moment longer, watching the sergeant from the corner of his eye before speaking. 

“What happened on the mission?”

Soap, already a couple of drinks in, gave him a puzzled look. “What do ye mean?”

“Ya went dark after ya set the charges. Comms were off ’til ya got to exfil.” Ghost’s tone was calm, but there was a weight behind it that had Soap on edge now.

Soap blinked, clearly caught off guard. He opened his mouth before closing it once again as his scotch-soaked brain tried to find the words. Running his hand through his mohawk, he turned back to him with a shrug. “Must’ve been an equipment malfunction. I’ll take my radio to tech in the mornin’, get it checked out.”

Ghost narrowed his eyes, though his expression remained hidden. He didn’t believe him, not fully at least. Soap’s tone was too casual, too rehearsed, but Ghost knew better than to push. If Soap was lying, he’d figure it out eventually. Backing the man in a corner was just gonna have him lashing out and turning on the defensive. 

“Right,” was all he said, letting the matter drop for now. But his mind wouldn’t stop running over it. Soap didn’t lie to him. Not his sergeant. 

Their drinks finally came, and both men headed back to the corner booth where Price and Gaz were already seated. The minutes passed, the men taking turns to take the piss out of each other and finally relax after a grueling two weeks of recon. Ghost stayed mostly quiet, content to observe. But his focus kept drifting back to Soap, to that nagging feeling something wasn’t right. 

As the laughter filled the booth, Ghost absently reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his old zippo lighter. The cool metal had become a comfort of late, something to ground him when his thoughts spiraled. He flipped it open, the quiet click soothing, his thumb flicking the wheel to produce a small, steady flame. He didn’t smoke as much as he used to, one every now and then after a particularly stressful mission, but the ritual had become second nature, a habit more than anything else. 

He wasn’t the only one watching the flame. 

Across the table, Soap’s gaze had zeroed in on his lighter, eyes fixated in a way Ghost hadn’t seen before. At least now that he was actively looking for something. It was like the man’s breath hitched every time the flame flickered to life, his focus unnaturally sharp on the glowing ember. Gaz said something to Soap, drawing him away, but Ghost noticed the slight shift in his body language, the way his fingers twitched around his glass as if resisting the urge to reach out. 

Ghost’s brow furrowed beneath his mask, and a slow realization crept up on him. He flicked the zippo shut, a quiet clink, and slid it back into his pocket, mind already working overtime. Soap hadn’t taken his eyes off that lighter the entire time. The sudden bang of the alley door slamming open as the bartender returned from his break had his thoughts returning to reality. The action sending a gust of cool Autumn air through the bar, snuffing out the hollowed candle on the table. 

Call it divine intervention, but it gave Ghost the perfect chance to test his theory. With a quiet metallic clink, he flicked his zippo open again, and Soap’s attention snapped back to him like a well-trained dog. Ghost lit the candle in silence, his eyes sharp as he observed every twitch in Soap’s expression.

The man didn’t even blink, his gaze locked on the small flame as if mesmerized, a faint tremor running through him. When Ghost leaned back in his seat, still watching him, he noticed the subtle shift in Soap’s posture— the tension in his frame, the way he readjusted himself.

It hit Ghost like a freight train.

Fucking pyrophiliac. 

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but then his thoughts snapped back to the mission and everything he knew about the man. The pieces clicked into place, and his blood ran hot with anger. Soap had turned off his comms not because of an equipment malfunction or to take a piss or any other sorry excuse, but because he’d detonated the charges, and…

The fucker got off on it. 

Ghost’s grip tightened around the lighter, his jaw clenching beneath the mask. How the fuck had he not figured it out sooner? He remembered desperately shouting Soap’s name over the comms, only to be met with silence— his mind spiraling into the worst possibilities. The fear had consumed him until he spotted that familiar mop of hair leaning against the wall at exfil, and finally, he could breathe again. And all of that because the so-called demolitions expert was getting his rocks off?

Soap flinched when Ghost snapped the zippo shut a little too harshly, the sound sharp and deliberate. Ghost pocketed the lighter and slid out of the booth, the leather cushion creaking under his weight. His movements were calm and measured as his eyes remained locked on Soap. He pinned the man where he sat like a helpless insect, watching every nervous shift, every flicker of unease that crossed his face. He knew Ghost was angry, but not what for. 

“I’m goin’ for a smoke,” Ghost said flatly, the words heavy with something unsaid, a warning hidden beneath the surface laid there for only Soap to pick up on. 

Price looked up from his drink, grumbling about the mountain of paperwork still waiting for him back at base. “Aye, best be heading back soon before it starts raining,” he muttered, gathering his things. Gaz downed the last of his pint, shaking his head as he mentioned early morning drills.

Soap slid out of the booth after them, clearly rattled but keeping quiet as Price and Gaz said their goodbyes. He lingered, letting the others leave as if waiting for some kind of cue. Ghost didn’t give him one—he just stood there, silent and still, his presence as oppressive as the storm rolling in outside.

When the others were finally out of earshot, Ghost turned to Soap, his voice cutting through the space between them like a knife. “Ya care to join me, Johnny?”

Soap hesitated only for a second, knowing full well it wasn’t a question. He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor before giving a reluctant nod. “Aye,” he muttered, his voice stripped of its usual cocky edge, though he made one last desperate attempt to play it cool. His posture had gone rigid like he was walking into something he wasn’t prepared for, but without a word of protest, he followed Ghost out the back door.

The alleyway was damp and shadowed, the smell of rain lingering in the air. Ghost lit his cigarette, the flicker of his zippo casting long shadows on the brick walls where it illuminated his mask. Still silent, he exhaled a plume of smoke into the air, his eyes trained on his sergeant. 

Soap shifted uncomfortably, glancing around like he was trying to find something, anything, to break the silence. But Ghost could feel the weight of his nerves, the way he kept stealing glances at the lighter still in Ghost’s hand.

After a moment, Ghost finally spoke, his voice low and edged with cold amusement. “So… ya wanna tell me what really happened back there?”

Soap froze, caught like a deer in the headlights, and for the first time in a long while, Ghost saw him stripped of his bravado. 

Soap leaned against the cold brick wall, his hands stuffed in his pockets, trying to appear casual as he spoke. “I already told ye, I dunno what happened to my comms,” he muttered, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. 

Ghost took a slow drag from his cigarette, as he looked up at the sky. He nodded slightly, but there was something cold, calculating in his gaze when he turned back toward his sergeant. In the blink of an eye, the space between them vanished. Ghost had Soap pinned against the brick wall, his forearm pressed hard against Soap’s throat. 

“Fuck—” Soap barely had time to react, the force of the shove knocking the breath out of him. Anger flared instantly, his voice rising in protest. “What the fuck are ye doin’?” His hands instinctively gripped Ghost’s arm, trying to push him off, his fiery temper returning in full force. This wasn’t the hesitant, unsure man from earlier. This was his sergeant— his Johnny — coming back with a bite. 

But Ghost wasn’t fazed. He stared down at Soap, his eyes dark, the harsh grip tightening. With his free hand, he pulled out the zippo and flicked it open, the flame crackling to life mere inches from Soap’s face. The heat licked at his skin, the flames dancing dangerously close. Ghost cocked his head to the side, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“No?” Ghost’s voice was low, taunting. “It didn’t have anything to do with your little secret?” His tone dripped with amusement, each word pressing heavier than the arm keeping Soap pinned in place.

Soap’s eyes were drawn to the flame, his breath quickening despite himself. It took every ounce of willpower to tear his gaze away from the fire threatening to singe his eyelashes. He locked eyes with Ghost, his expression hardening as anger flashed beneath the surface. “I don’t know what the fuck yer talkin’ about,” he bit out, his voice sharp with defiance.

Ghost chuckled darkly, the sound a sharp contrast to the tension in the air. It wasn’t just a laugh—it was a taunt, a challenge. “Don’t play dumb with me, Johnny.” Boldened by Soap’s stubbornness and his own growing irritation, Ghost decided to escalate the situation. He took a long drag from his cigarette, then leaned closer, blowing the smoke directly into Soap’s face, his breath hot against the sergeant’s skin.

As the smoke swirled between them, Ghost’s voice dropped to a whisper that sent a chill down Soap’s spine. “I think ya know exactly what I’m talkin’ about, Johnny.” His free hand drifted down, brushing over the front of Soap’s jeans. 

Soap cursed under his breath at the sudden touch, his body betraying him with a shudder of heat and adrenaline. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, fury warring with the embarrassment that was already flooding his face. His voice was tight, the words forced through gritted teeth. “Ghost, what the fuck—“

But there was no denying what Ghost felt beneath his hand, and Soap’s body betrayed his mind. The tension in the air crackled as Ghost leaned in closer, his lips brushing Soap’s ear, his words mocking and satisfied. 

“Always knew ya were a firebug, MacTavish.”

Ghost didn’t give Soap much time to react. He watched the man weakly stammer a defense, “I… I didn’t—”

But before Soap could finish, Ghost’s hand closed, grabbing him harshly by the front of his jeans. The pressure made Soap’s breath catch, the words dying in his throat. Ghost’s voice was low, laced with cold disdain. “I think I’m done listenin’ to your lies, Sergeant.”

Soap’s resolve crumbled as the truth bore down on him. “I’m sorry…” he muttered, his voice barely audible under the strain of Ghost’s grip.

Ghost clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Twelve minutes, Johnny. Twelve fuckin’ minutes I didn’t know if ya were alive because you’re so pathetic ya couldn’t keep it in your pants till we got back to base.”

Without warning, Ghost yanked open the button on Soap’s jeans, the metallic sound of the zipper being dragged down echoing in the tight alleyway. Soap’s hands reflexively clawed at Ghost’s forearm, trying to find purchase, but there was no real resistance. If he wanted, he could’ve fought back, but the lack of effort only stoked the fire in Ghost’s eyes egging him on. 

Ghost spat out the remnants of his cigarette onto the dirty ground, grinding the embers beneath his boot. His hand paused at the waistband of Soap’s boxers, his voice quiet but commanding. “Grab my pack from my pocket.”

Soap blinked, caught off guard. “What?” His confusion was met with a sudden, painful yank on his mohawk, slamming him back against the wall.

“Grab me a cigarette, and light it, Johnny,” Ghost growled.

Soap hesitated, a mix of fear and anticipation flickering in his eyes before he shakily reached into Ghost’s jacket pocket. His fingers fumbled as they retrieved the small white box. He shook one free and held it up to Ghost’s mouth, his hand slightly trembling as Ghost’s lips closed around it.

“Light it,” Ghost ordered, his voice muffled by the cigarette between his teeth. 

Soap reached into his other pocket, pulling out the familiar zippo. His hands were a bit more steady as he brought the lighter up, the flame flickering to life, illuminating Ghost’s face in the dim alley. At that exact moment, Ghost slipped his hand under Soap’s boxers, gripping him firmly. The touch burned like an iron brand against Soap’s skin in the cold night air.

Soap tried to steady his breathing, his body betraying him once again as a puff of smoke from Ghost’s cigarette had him blinking through watering eyes. Ghost exhaled slowly, his gaze predatory. “Twelve minutes ‘til this cigarette goes out. Twelve minutes ya gotta last.”

Soap’s eyes widened in horror. “Ye can’t be serious, Lt. I’ll barely last three.”

Ghost’s hand tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, their faces only inches apart. “Ya need some fuckin’ endurance trainin’, MacTavish. Now start countin’. Miss a minute, and I’ve got a whole pack left.”

Soap groaned a pitiful sound that only made Ghost’s smirk grow. The groan turned into a whimper as Ghost’s hand began moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Soap tried to focus, forcing himself to count the seconds, but it was torture—the unforgiving touch, the sting of smoke in his throat, the weight of his lieutenant’s gaze.

It became a battle, Soap struggling to school his reactions while Ghost taunted him between each minute mark. “Seventh minute,” Soap gasped out, his voice strained. His eyes flicked downward as Ghost casually flipped the zippo open again, the small flame dancing between them, a constant reminder of what had Soap unraveling.

“Is this what does it for ya, Johnny?” Ghost’s voice was low and mocking. Soap could only nod, his teeth sinking into his lip to keep from moaning, every stroke of Ghost’s hand driving him closer to the edge. It wasn’t lost on him that they were technically in public, anyone strolling by could see them and it only made him harder.

Ghost’s cruelty knew no bounds, working Soap up only to pull back at the last second, teasing him until he was nothing more than a shaking mess. Something about seeing one of the strongest soldiers he knew falling about from merely his hand had his own pants turning uncomfortably tight. “You’ve always been this fucked in the head, Sergeant?” Ghost murmured, a wicked twist of his wrist making Soap choke on the air fighting its way into his lungs.

“A-aye…” Soap breathed, barely able to get the word out before he remembered to call out the eighth minute.

The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity. Soap’s body trembled, overwhelmed by the relentless torment Ghost was putting him through. “Fuck… you,” he managed to grind out between gasps, his voice hoarse and desperate.

Ghost’s grip on him tightened sharply, eliciting another whimper from Soap. His tone was cutting, full of amusement. “Now I’m pretty sure the only one who’s justified in being pissed off here is me, Johnny. You’re the one who couldn’t contain himself, and now you’re complainin’ when I take care of ya? Ungrateful slag.”

Soap bit down hard on his lip till it broke skin, his mind spinning, barely able to keep track of the countdown. Ghost’s hand never let up, and Soap’s body was betraying him in every way possible, completely under his lieutenant’s control. The flame flickered dangerously close between them, both their breaths threatening to snuff it out, but neither daring to move away.

The eleventh-minute left Soap barely holding on, his body trembling, a trail of sweat running down his neck as he struggled to breathe. His lips parted, eyes locked on Ghost’s, and the words spilled out, raw and desperate. “Burn me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the conviction behind it unmistakable. Ghost’s eyes bore into him, unreadable. Soap’s heart pounded in his chest, but he couldn’t stop. “Please… burn me,” he begged, sounding so desperate it made his stomach twist with both need and shame.

Ghost’s hand paused, the zippo still burning brightly between them. His eyes narrowed, studying Soap as if deciding whether to indulge him. Then, in a swift motion, he closed the lighter with a soft click and slipped it back into his pocket.

Soap whined at the sudden absence, his frustration palpable, but Ghost’s lips curled in a quiet, taunting hush. “Not yet,” Ghost said, his tone dripping with cold authority he reserved for in the field. “Not until you’re completely mine.”

Soap swallowed down the disappointment, forcing himself to call out the final countdown, his voice shaking. “Twelve…”

Ghost didn’t hesitate. His hand sped up, the relentless strokes drawing Soap to the edge of madness, leaving him hanging in a torturous limbo of pleasure and pain. Soap’s mouth fell open, ready to moan or cuss the man out, but Ghost surged forward, capturing his lips in a brutal, possessive kiss. The world narrowed to nothing but the taste of smoke, heat, and the burning press of Ghost’s mouth on his.

Ghost pushed his dying cigarette between Soap’s lips with his tongue, the glowing bud scorching Soap’s tongue, a small, searing pain that had him flinching. Soap whimpered into the kiss, moans swallowed by Ghost as his body finally surrendered, shaking as he came apart in Ghost’s hand, unable to hold back any longer.

Ghost didn’t let up. His strokes continued, tipping Soap into overstimulation, the pleasure too much, edging on painful as the man’s body twitched helplessly in Ghost’s grip. It wasn’t until Soap spat the cigarette stump out onto the ground that Ghost finally pulled away, leaving Soap trembling and half-broken, gasping for air.

Ghost’s fingers gripped Soap’s jaw roughly, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Show me,” he demanded.

Soap’s eyes, glassy and tear-filled, met Ghost’s as he obediently stuck out his tongue. Ghost’s gaze dropped to the blistering burn left by the cigarette bud, the skin red and angry. It would be a bitch to deal with for two weeks but it wouldn’t leave any permanent scarring. His thumb brushed over the spot, pressing down deliberately. Soap flinched, hissing in pain as he tried to pull back, but Ghost held him in place, a satisfied, dark gleam in his eyes.

Ghost’s voice was a low, dangerous growl. “Next time ya do somethin’ that reckless,” he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Soap’s ear, “I’ll drag ya into the captain’s office and dole out your punishment while he watches just how much of a fuckin’ whore his Sergeant really is.”

Soap shuddered, the threat sinking into his bones as Ghost pulled away, his eyes raking over him one last time, taking in the disheveled, debauched state he’d left him in—pants undone, the aftermath of their encounter staining his shirt.

Ghost swung the back door open, the sounds of the bar spilling out into the quiet alleyway. “Clean yourself up and get back before curfew.”

Ghost wouldn’t deny it, he acted without any sense when it came to the shorter man. One look at that stupid fucking mohawk and he was seconds away from putting his face through the ice. And to make things better, the other man knew it. Soap would never shut up, always running that mouth until Ghost finally snapped and saw red. It was never a matter of if, only when.

When Ghost had first heard that Soap would be joining the team, he nearly turned down the offer. But the news that John Price would be head coach had changed his mind. His regular season coach had a way of calming the storm, putting him in his place when he was one snarky comment away from ripping the Scot’s head off. If Price was here, he could find a way to manage somehow. He wasn’t going to let that bastard ruin this opportunity for him. 

It was a miracle they somehow managed to get through the preliminaries and quarterfinals without a murder charge. The knockout stage was coming to an end with the semifinals tomorrow meaning they either lose and get a shot at bronze, or win and get to advance to the finals. 

The only way he had made it this far was due to him avoiding Soap like the plague for his own mental sanity. Price had paired Ghost with his regular season teammate Roach to room with, providing somewhat of a semblance of normalcy. Roach was Ghost’s goalie and one of three selected for the Olympic team this year. It helped knowing he had someone in his corner while playing with a bunch of men who were typically his opponents. 

Ghost spent most of his time in the gym or his room, venturing out only to get food. Soap had surprisingly managed to leave him be off the ice, likely because Price had threatened to tear him a new one if he and Ghost couldn’t keep it together. That was until he decided to interrupt his once peaceful dinner. 

The sound of Soap’s laughter echoed through the cafeteria, grating on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He was standing around a few of their teammates and that one snowboarder Garrick who always followed him around. 

As Ghost’s glare intensified, he felt Roach’s elbow nudge him in the ribs. 

“Ignore him,” Roach muttered, not even looking up from his meal. “He’s not worth it, so stop getting your panties in a twist and eat your dinner.”

Ghost grunted in response, tearing his gaze away from Soap and focusing on his own plate. God, he was infuriating. He may have been able to give credit where it was due, but that didn’t stop him from always showboating and bragging. Ghost thanked the heavens above that they were in different draft years, he wouldn’t have been able to handle it if Soap had been number one instead. He’d never hear the end of it. 

“Yeah well, tell him to shut the fuck up. Some people are trying to enjoy their meal,” he grumbled out before taking another bite. It was a shock the fork didn’t break with how tight his jaw was clenched. 

With a sudden burst of laughter that had both men’s attention drifting back to the opposite end of the table, Ghost watched as Soap and the Garrick guy portrayed some lewd acts much to everyone’s delight but his own. That’s it. He wasn’t going to sit around for this. 

Roach rolled his eyes as Ghost stood up and gathered his tray, waving off his comment that he’d see him back in their room later tonight. He needed to blow off some steam so he headed straight to the gym reserved for the hockey players. 

Ghost pushed through the doors, basking in the fading sounds of clinking utensils and hum of conversation the further he walked. Further away from him.  

Price may have been clear: they needed to work together if they were going to bring home the gold. But the task seemed impossible when the person you were supposed to rely on was the same one who had spent years making your professional life miserable. 

Ghost pushed through his workout, the rhythmic sound of his feet pounding against the treadmill a steady, grounding force. The gym was practically empty, just how he liked it. He only planned on doing some light cardio, not wanting to get sore before the game tomorrow. 

It hadn’t been thirty minutes before the door clicked open, breaking the solitude. Ghost didn’t bother looking up at first, hoping whoever it was would take the hint and leave him be. But when the sound of footsteps grew closer, he couldn’t ignore it any longer. He quickly glanced toward the door, his heart sinking in the process.

Of course. 

It had to be Soap. 

The Scot strolled in, a grin already plastered across his face. That cocky, infuriating grin that Ghost knew all too well. Soap’s eyes scanned the room, lighting up as they locked onto Ghost. Fuck. He made a beeline for the treadmill next to Ghost, his every step oozing with that infuriating confidence despite the death glare Ghost was sending his way. 

Ghost’s hands tightened around the treadmill handles, his knuckles turning white as Soap approached. The silent dare hung in the air between them as Ghost took a drink from his water bottle, waiting for the Scot to say something. So much for getting away from him. 

“Fancy seein’ ye here, Simon,” Soap drawled, his voice thick with amusement as he stopped beside Ghost’s treadmill, casually leaning against it like they were old friends. 

Ghost clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep running, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “Mactavish.”

Soap’s grin widened at the curt reply. “What, no witty comeback? Don’t tell me I’ve finally worn ye out.”

Ghost didn’t respond, his breath coming in controlled, even bursts. Every word out of Soap’s mouth made his muscles twitch with the urge to throw a punch in that stupidly perfect smile, but he kept himself in check. Price’s warnings echoed his mind, he couldn’t afford any slip-ups no matter how much the other man taunted him. 

But Soap was relentless. “Ye know, I was thinkin’… maybe we should work out together. Team bonding, yeah? I promise I won’t make ye look too bad.”

Ghost finally turned his head at that, fixing Soap with a glare that could cut through steel. “I’m not interested. Now fuck off, MacTavish.”

Soap raised his hands in mock surrender, but the playful spark in his eyes never dimmed. “Suit yourself. Just try not to break the treadmill, yeah? Don’t want ye too knackered for the game tomorrow.”

Ghost bit back a retort, instead focusing on the numbers ticking up on the treadmill’s display. Each step felt heavier than the last, the proximity of Soap throwing off his concentration. 

Soap lingered a moment longer, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing, before finally backing off. He moved to the weights, still within Ghost’s line of sight, his movements casual and unhurried. 

Ghost focused on his workout, trying to drown out the sound of Soap’s presence with the steady rhythm of his breathing and the clanking of weights. But the blessed silence between them was short-lived.

“So, what’s got ye in such a hurry?” Soap asked, breaking the quiet as he worked through a set of curls. His tone was casual, but Ghost could hear the genuine curiosity beneath it. “Ye bolted out of the cafeteria like yer arse was on fire.”

Ghost didn’t look over, keep his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him. He almost ignored him, desperate to just finish his workout but he knew the man wouldn’t relent. The silent treatment never worked on Soap. 

“Didn’t feel like sitting around and watching you and that Garrick guy dry hump each other while I ate,” he replied coolly, the words slipping out with a hint of irritation.

Soap’s laughter was instant, a loud, unabashed sound that filled the gym. He set the weights down and leaned against the rack, his grin wide as ever. “Didn’t know ye were such a prude, Ghostie.”

Ghost finally turned his head, leveling Soap with a deadpan stare. “I’m not. It’s just seeing you in those situations that makes me lose my appetite.” 

Soap chuckled, clearly amused by the retort. “Ye wound me Ghostie,” he stated with hands mockingly clasped to his chest. “Well, I can’t say I blame ye for that. But come on, yer actin’ like you’ve never seen a bit of friendly banter before.” 

Ghost shook his head, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “There’s a difference between banter and whatever the hell that was.”

Soap shrugged, still smiling. “Maybe, but at least ye got a free show out of it. Guess ye owe me one for that?”

Ghost let out a huff, slowing down the treadmill as he prepared to end his run. “The only thing I owe ya is a punch to the face if ya don’t leave me the fuck alone.”

Soap raised an eyebrow, that playful glint still in his eyes. “Now, now, no need to get violent, Simon. We’re on the same team, remember?”

Ghost stepped off the treadmill, grabbing a towel to wipe down his face. “I’m trying to forget.”

“Good luck with that, Ghostie,” Soap called out to him, a hint of laughter still in his voice despite being threatened. Everything was always a joke to him. 

Ghost was fucking sick of it. 

Tomorrow’s game was too important. They needed everyone on the ice, not stuck in the penalty box because Soap couldn’t keep his mouth shut or resist starting something. 

Without a word, Ghost walked over to the bench, standing over Soap as he began his reps. Soap’s eyes flicked up at him, curiosity and a hint of unease crossing his face as Ghost loomed above him. 

“Don’t be a shithead tomorrow,” Ghost said flatly, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t ruin it for everyone else. The team needs you on the ice, not the penalty box.”

Soap hesitated for a moment, mid-rep, before managing a smile, though Ghost could see the flicker of nervousness in his eyes. “Was that a compliment, Simon?”

Ghost didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned down, his hands pressing against the bar, adding just enough pressure to make Soap’s muscles strain under the added weight. The bar dipped closer to Soap’s chest, and Ghost watched as the smirk faded slightly from Soap’s face. 

“Like when people call ye a good boy, Johnny?” Ghost murmured, the words slipping out before he even had time to think them through.

The effect was immediate. Soap’s eyes widened in shock, his grip faltering slightly on the bar. For a split second, the ever-confident John MacTavish was at a loss for words. 

Satisfied, Ghost released the bar, stepping back as Soap quickly pushed it up and racked it, his breaths coming faster than before. Ghost didn’t bother sticking around to see the aftermath. He was tired, worn out from the day and from dealing with Soap’s antics. All he wanted was to get some rest and be ready for the game tomorrow. 

As Ghost walked away, he could feel Soap’s eyes burning into his back, the shock still palpable in the air. But Ghost didn’t care. He had said what needed to be said, and for once, he felt like he had the upper hand. 

And that was enough. 

— — —

The locker room was a cacophony of noise and energy, the air thick with the scent of sweat they were all nose blind to. Ghost leaned against the cool metal of his temporary locker, it felt good against his heated skin. He let the noise wash over him as he unlaced and peeled off his skates. The team had pulled off a win by the skin of their teeth, clinching the game 3-2 with a last-minute goal that had the entire bench erupting in cheers. Ghost could still feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins despite his exhausted body.

He was stripped down to his black base layers now, the tight fabric clinging to his sweaty body. The material felt almost suffocating, but he didn’t mind. It was a familiar sensation after a game like that, a strange way of reminding him of the effort he had put in. He could already feel a nasty bruise forming on his side from one particularly rough slam against the glass during the second period. 

As Ghost scanned the room, his gaze landed on Soap’s cubby station across the way. He was standing in front of two seated players, shirtless except for his compression leggings, his body still glistening with sweat. He was in his element, laughing and joking around with that arrogant attitude that only seemed to be enhanced by the recent win. Ghost mentally prepared himself before strolling over there. The other player’s attention suddenly shifted towards him as he stepped up behind the Scot, giving way to his presence. 

Soap turned around, his smile faltering slightly as he found himself face-to-face with Ghost. But the cockiness quickly returned, his smile growing as he straightened up, meeting Ghost’s gaze as head-on as he could manage. 

“What’s this, Ghostie? Come to congratulate me?” Soap’s tone was light and flippant.

Ghost crossed his arms, his expression impassive as he stared down at the man. “Ya played well out there,” he conceded, the words grudging but sincere. It wasn’t easy for Ghost to offer praise, especially to an asshole like Soap, but he couldn’t deny that the man had held his own in the game and given them the last-minute goal they needed. 

Soap’s smirk turned into a full-blown grin. “Aye, I did, didn’t I? Didn’t know you were such a fan of my work.” His eyes gleamed with a teasing edge that Ghost had become familiar with. God, he regretted this already. 

Ghost narrowed his eyes, refusing to rise to the bait. “Let’s not get too carried away MacTavish,” he warned. “Ya still racked up two penalties. Could’ve cost us the game if ya weren’t careful” 

“Minor infractions,” Soap shot back, leaning in just a little closer, his voice dropping an octave. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

“Still two more than we needed,” Ghost countered, his tone sharp. “Don’t get all cocky now.”

“Why are ye on my case, Simon?” Soap questioned. “Ye should worry about yerself. Not my fault ye can’t keep yer eyes off me when I’m on the ice. It’s normal to wanna watch the best.” 

There was a beat of silence, the locker room’s noise fading into the background as Ghost locked eyes with Soap. Both men were always on alert around the other, always waiting for the inevitable fight to begin. But before he could figure out what to say, Soap chuckled, breaking the tension. 

Ghost felt that familiar flicker of heat creep up the back of his neck, but he forced himself to stay cool. “Keep dreaming, MacTavish,” he muttered, turning to grab his towel. 

Soap’s laughter trailed after him as they headed to the communal showers, but it wasn’t his usual cocky, grating sound. There was something lighter in it, almost playful. Ghost tried to shake off the unsettling feeling in his gut. He could handle the annoying, antagonistic, egotistical Soap—that was familiar territory. But this version of Soap? This was something new, and Ghost didn’t like it. He didn’t like friendly Soap, being friends with Soap. 

The steam filled the shower area, the hot water soothing Ghost’s sore muscles. He deliberately chose a spot near the wall, hoping for some space, but of course, Soap took the one right next to him. Ghost said nothing, too tired to start an argument.

Yet, as they showered, the tension between them from earlier lingered, and it wasn’t the usual animosity Ghost was accustomed to. It was different, and that unfamiliarity was starting to piss him off so he did what he always did and tried to ignore the other man. 

It didn’t help when his eyes unconsciously glanced over as he turned around, just for a second, catching a glimpse of the water sliding over Soap’s sculpted body. He quickly looked away, telling himself that it was nothing more than a casual look. It was far from the first time he had seen a naked teammate and wouldn’t be his last. While Ghost was in his own head, trying desperately to act nonchalant he didn’t even realize that Soap had been subtly glancing his way as well. 

“Simon, hurry the hell up!” Roach’s voice cut through the sound of the heavy streams, jolting Ghost out of his thoughts. He turned to see Roach standing by the entrance to the showers, towel slung over his shoulder, looking impatient. “Let’s go get food before all the good stuff’s gone.”

Ghost finished rinsing off and turned off the water, grabbing his towel. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he muttered. Neither man said a word as Ghost padded his way out of the showers. 

As they made their way into the cafeteria, the locker room’s atmosphere had clearly transferred to the dining area. The guys were still riding the high from their win, their voices loud and boisterous as they rehashed the game and talked strategies for the final. 

Ghost and Roach found a quiet table toward the back, both of them content to sit and eat in relative peace. Or at least, that was the plan. 

They’d barely started eating when Soap appeared, dragging Kyle Garrick along with him. Without asking, he plopped down across from Ghost, flashing him that stupid, smug grin. 

“Mind if we join ye?”

Ghost glanced up, a faint frown pulling at his lips. The fucker wouldn’t leave him alone. “You’re already sitting, aren’t ya?”

“Couldn’t stay away from ye, Ghostie,” Soap teased, winking in a way that had Ghost’s grip on his fork tightening slightly.

Roach rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything, digging into his food with a resigned sigh as he already knew how this was gonna end. Gaz, on the other hand, seemed to find the whole situation amusing, shooting Soap a grin as they all settled into a tense silence. 

It didn’t last long.

“So, Simon,” Soap started, leaning forward on his elbows, “Ye ever think about what ye’ll do when we win the gold? Bet ye’ll be all stoic and shit, trying not to smile like always.”

Ghost shot him a sidelong glance. “Ya think we’re guaranteed to win, huh? Thought I told ya not to get cocky.”

Soap’s smile only widened. “Just confident, mate. There’s a difference.”

Gaz chuckled, but before Ghost could respond, Soap’s attention shifted. He turned to his friend, the grin on his face taking on a different quality—one that Ghost could only describe as flirtatious. “Ye guys should really watch Gaz’s half-pipe run from earlier today. Silver in the bag, it was bloody impressive.”

Roach congratulated Gaz while Ghost continued eating his food. He was being a petty asshole right now but he didn’t really care. 

“Must feel good,” Soap continued, leaning closer to Gaz, “knowing you’ve got a medal hanging around yer neck. Hell, maybe I’ll switch sports, see if I can give ye a run for yer money.”

Gaz laughed at that, shaking his head. “Stick to hockey, mate. Don’t think you’ve got the balance for the half-pipe.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Soap said teasingly. “I’ve got pretty good balance for my size.”

Ghost’s chest tightened inexplicably, an odd discomfort settling in his stomach as Soap continued to flirt with Gaz. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why it bothered him, but the longer it went on, the more irritated he felt. He focused on his food, trying to drown out whatever the hell was happening right in front of him. 

“Oh I’m sure your size helps ya out in a lot of things,” Gaz responded. 

That’s it. Ghost finally pushed his plate away, the food suddenly unappetizing. “I’m tired,” he muttered, standing up. “I’m gonna head back to the room,” he said, aimed towards Roach. 

Soap’s teasing expression faltered, confusion flickering in his eyes as he watched Ghost leave. “What’s his problem?” Soap asked, trying to sound indifferent, but there was an edge to his voice that gave him away.

Roach shrugged, completely over their shit. “It’s been a long day, he needs his beauty sleep.”

But Soap wasn’t convinced. Something was off. Was he that upset he sat down at his table, or that he brought Gaz over to the table with him? He wasn’t even trying to piss the man off this time so what the fuck had made him so angry?

— — — 

Ghost was seething. His rage boiled over as he stormed his way back to the locker room for the final intermission. His eyes locked onto Soap, not thinking twice before shoving his way through the crowded hallway. He ignored the shouts of the other men, grabbing Soap by the back of his jersey and slamming him against the wall in one swift motion. 

The impact had Soap wincing, even through all his padding. The bloody nose he received earlier in the game still dripped down his face despite the haphazard tape trying to keep it under control. Another player had high-sticked him which set Soap spiraling the rest of the period. 

“Ya fuckin’ idiot!” Ghost hissed out. 

Soap tried to pull away, but Ghost wasn’t having it. “Ya let them get under your skin and play ya like a fuckin’ fiddle MacTavish!” Ghost’s grip tightened as he cursed out.

Soap, true to form, deflected with his usual attitude, shrugging off Ghost’s words. “What’s yer problem, Simon? I was just —’’

“Just being a fuckin’ liability!” Ghost’s voice rose, his grip on Soap’s jersey tightening. “Ya let them get to ya! They taunted ya, and ya snapped! Then your team paid for it. This isn’t the fuckin’ Soap show, be a team player!”

Soap’s eyes narrowed, that cocky defiance flickering in his gaze turning into his own shade of anger at Ghost’s words. “Team player? That’s rich coming from ye. Where the fuck were ye when I was gettin’ slammed over and over!”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t me slamming ya!” Ghost shouted back in frustration. 

Before Soap could retort to that, Price and Roach rushed over, shoving themselves between the two men. 

“Enough!” Price barked, his tone brooking no argument. “Both of ya, cool it!”

Ghost released Soap with a final shove, his hands trembling with barely suppressed fury. He stalked over to his spot in the locker room, trying to regain some semblance of control. The game was tied 3-3, and the tension was palpable as they had been neck and neck the entire time. Ghost couldn’t believe how reckless Soap had been, letting the other team’s attempts get under his skin.  

While Ghost had been grinding his teeth through the mumbled shit-talking during face-offs, Soap had let his emotions explode on the ice, spending the last five minutes of the period in the penalty box for a major infraction. He was one overzealous body check away from getting pulled from the game entirely. The rest of the team had been forced to scramble, covering for him, only to have the other team score a last-minute goal.

Ghost had seen red since then, his mind a whirlwind of anger and utter confusion. Soap was obnoxious, a showoff sure, but he wasn’t stupid. He was a damn good defenseman, and wouldn’t have made the Olympic team if otherwise. So why the hell was he acting so irrational and childish during the biggest game of his life? He’d be lucky if Price even let him back out on the ice for the final period. 

The locker room was filled with a tense silence, thick enough to cut with a knife. Price stood in the center, his expression dark as he fixed both Ghost and Soap with a glare that could make a lesser man crumble. 

“What the hell was that out there?” Price's voice was low but filled with controlled fury. 

“Ya think this is some backyard brawl?” he continued. “We’re here to win a gold medal, not indulge in petty vendettas!”

“Who do ya think scored the leading goal out there? It’s not my fault they keep targeting me!” Soap interrupted.

“Boy, you better sit down and keep that mouth of yours closed,” Price warned. 

Ghost sat on the bench, his head bowed, seething quietly as Roach placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him down. But the rage still simmered beneath the surface, a mix of frustration and guilt gnawing at him. He knew Price was right—this wasn’t the time to lose his cool, but damn it, Soap had been reckless. And now, everything hung by a thread.

“Get your heads out of your arses and back in the game,” Price continued, pacing back and forth. “We’ve got one period left. Ya need to focus, not on each other, but on that puck.” 

The rest of the break was spent in silence. Everyone chose to stay quiet as Price went over strategies and the uneasy energy lingered. Ghost did his best to pay attention but he found himself glancing towards Soap every once in a while to make sure he was listening. Thank god the fucker was, otherwise, Ghost would have sacked him right then and there.

As the break ended, the team stood and headed out onto the ice. They were smart enough to give their captain and Soap a wide berth. Ghost felt that tinge of guilt shooting through his body. He never wanted his shit with Soap to get in the way of the other men’s chances. Price didn’t deserve to deal with it either.

The crowd’s roar was a distant hum in Ghost’s ears, his focus narrowing on trying to not spiral. The final period kicked off as the puck hit the ice, and Ghost couldn’t help but keep an eye on Soap throughout. They both hated each other with everything they had, but something shifted as the game went on. 

Ghost noticed that the Scot was actually trying his damnedest to stay cool under the constant attacks. Despite repeated body checks that had him slamming against the glass, Soap didn’t lash out. He gritted his teeth and shook it off, ignoring the taunts thrown his way. 

Something in Ghost cracked at that sight. Soap was trying—really trying—not to let his emotions get the better of him. And for some reason that he couldn’t fathom, it had Ghost angry for him instead of at him. 

During the next face-off, Ghost locked eyes with the one player who had been gunning for Soap all game. Magnussen. He’d recognized the man early on, recalling that he and Soap had once played on the same team a few years ago. Whatever had happened between them was now being laid out on the ice and it was pissing Ghost off. The moment the puck dropped, Ghost charged forward, slamming the guy to the ice with a force that rattled through his own bones.

Soap’s stunned expression was just a flash in Ghost’s peripheral vision before he went right back to the game, pretending like nothing happened. The minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow, and the score remained tied. Roach was a force to be reckoned with, holding the line with a ferocity that had the entire team and crowd rallying behind him. Despite his efforts, Ghost knew his friend. He was getting tired and they needed this to end soon because he wasn’t going to last much longer at this level. 

The buzzer finally blared, signaling the end of the regulation period. 

Fuck.  

The sound echoed through the arena, the only thing Ghost could hear as he skated to the bench. Overtime. This was it. Everything came down to the next twenty minutes or until whoever scored first. 

Price was quick to make his decision. “Ghost, Soap, Brady - you’re up.”

Ghost hesitated, just for a moment, before nodding. It was the right choice on Price’s end, the three of them had been the main scorers for the past week. As Soap skated over to him, his expression was uncharacteristically serious, all traces of his usual attitude gone. It had warning bells going off in Ghost’s head.

“Truce?” Soap asked quietly, extending his forearm out in front of him. He almost had a meekness about him that had Ghost trying to suppress a grin. 

Of all the things he was expecting the man to say, that was not one of them. Ghost stared at it for a moment before raising his own forearm and tapping it against Soap’s. “Truce.”

They took their positions, and from the moment the puck dropped, it was a brutal battle. Neither trio let up, both were determined to leave it all on the ice. The clock ticked down and unlike the previous period, it seemed to fly by. Ghost and Soap moved in sync, pushing each other to the limit, feeding off each other's energy. They played like men possessed.

But the tension spiked again when Magnussen - who had high-sticked Soap earlier -  skated past, whispering insults right in Soap’s ear, ensuring the referees wouldn’t hear. Ghost caught the look in Soap’s eyes, saw the struggle to keep it together, to not snap.

Something swelled in Ghost’s chest—anger, determination, maybe something else he didn’t want to name. 

Two minutes remaining. 

As he gained control of the puck, he faked a charge at the goalie, drawing the defense toward him. In that split second, he saw Soap skating up beside him, in perfect position. Without hesitation, Ghost passed the puck.

One minute remaining. 

Soap didn’t miss a beat. He took the shot, the puck slyly slipping through the goalie’s legs and into the net.

For a moment, the world went silent. All Ghost could hear was the sound of the puck hitting the net, echoing through the rush of blood in his ears. 

They won. They won the fucking gold medal.

The arena exploded in cheers, the sound finally breaking through to Ghost as he turned to face Soap. Their eyes met, and for the first time, there was no animosity between them, just pure, unfiltered elation.

— — — 

The day of the medal ceremony had passed in a whirlwind of celebration and chaos. Ghost had gone through the motions—smiling for the cameras, shaking hands, and enduring the endless rounds of interviews and press events. He even managed a genuine smile or two, knowing his brother and family were watching back home, proud of what he’d accomplished. Soap’s energy and peacocking made up for his lack of excitement anyway. But as the adrenaline wore off and the exhaustion set in, all Ghost wanted was to retreat to his room and disappear for the night.

He had kept his distance from Soap throughout the day, giving the man a wide berth. The last thing he wanted was to ruin the good mood of the team by stirring up their usual shit. They made it through the game without killing each other and even managed to win together, but Ghost wasn’t ready to test how long that truce would actually last. 

He managed to sneak away after the last photo call of the day, grabbing a few snacks from the dining hall as his mind was already focused on packing and getting some much-needed sleep. But as he left the cafeteria doors and stepped into the hallway, something made him slow his pace. Leaning against the corner wall a couple of feet away was Soap, arms crossed, his posture tense. In front of him, one arm outstretched, stood Magnussen, boxing him in against the wall. His body language was too close, too invasive. Ghost’s instincts went on high alert, his body bristled as he assessed the situation. Price would skin them alive if they got in a fight with the other athletes in the village.

The conversation between the two didn’t seem overly hostile, but Soap’s expression was unsettling. The blank stare on his face reminded Ghost too much of the look Soap had worn during the game when he’d been trying to keep it together on the ice. Something about it made Ghost’s skin crawl, that tightness in his chest returning. 

Ghost couldn’t suppress the slight flinch when he felt hands on his shoulders, turning sharply only to see Roach standing behind him. He hadn’t even heard the man approach while being preoccupied with watching Soap like a total creep. 

“Hey, you okay?” Roach asked, a hint of concern in his voice. “We’re grabbing some dinner. You in?”

Ghost shook his head, his gaze drifting back to Soap and Magnussen. “Nah, I’m beat. Think I’ll head up and start packing.”

Roach followed his gaze, his brows furrowing. “What’s Soap doing with that prick?” 

Ghost shrugged, though his stomach still churned with unease. “No idea.”

Roach didn’t press further, giving Ghost a nod before heading back toward the cafeteria. Ghost lingered for a few more seconds before he turned and headed back to his room, missing the brief glance Soap shot his way after noticing the man. If he got into it with Magnussen, that was on Soap and didn’t concern Ghost in the slightest.

Nearly twenty minutes had passed with Ghost in his room, folding the last of his clothes into his bag, when a knock echoed through the quiet space. He sighed, setting down the sweatpants he’d been holding. He hadn’t had any visitors all week, so he could only assume it was Roach. 

He opened the door with a roll of his eyes. “How the fuck did ya lose your keycard again?”

But it wasn’t Roach standing there. It was Soap, grinning like he hadn’t a care in the world. But Ghost wasn’t impressed. Something ugly and unsettling was bubbling up inside him instead. Soap was acting all causal after just having a conversation with the man who had been trying to put him in the hospital for a week.

Ghost narrowed his eyes, his voice low and edged with something dark. “What do you want?”

“Well, aren’t ye a ray of sunshine tonight,” Soap quipped, leaning casually against the doorframe. “The lads are headin’ out to celebrate, thought I’d invite our resident shut-in to join the fun.”

Ghost’s jaw tightened. “Not interested,” he replied curtly, turning back towards his room.

Soap’s grin faltered, confusion flickering across his face. “Oi, what’s with the attitude? I thought we were good now, or at least better. What’s got ye all pissy?”

Ghost didn’t look back as he continued folding the clothes he had tossed on the bed. “I’m fine.”

Soap wasn’t buying it. He stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him. “The fuck ye are. Yer pissed about something. Yer practically vibratin’ with it.”

“Drop it, Soap,” Ghost warned, his voice dangerous.

But Soap, being Soap, couldn’t let it go. He stepped up right next to Ghost nearly suffocating the man. “Nah, I’m not leavin’ until ye tell me what crawled up yer arse. We just won the bloody gold, mate! Why the fuck are ye being a little bitch?”

Ghost’s patience snapped. In one fluid motion, he turned and grabbed Soap by the throat, shoving him hard against the wall. Soap’s eyes widened, but he didn’t resist. He stared at Ghost with a mix of surprise and something else he didn’t want to acknowledge for his own sanity. 

“Ya need to learn when to quit, MacTavish,” Ghost hissed, squeezing Soap’s throat for emphasis. “And maybe ya should think twice before cozying up to the man who’s been gunning for ya all week. Have some fuckin’ self-respect.” 

Soap blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Who? Magnussen? What are ye—” he paused, realization dawning on him. A slow smile spread across his face, despite the situation. “Oh, I see what’s goin’ on here.”

“Enlighten me,” Ghost growled. His anger only intensifying at the sight of Soap’s smug grin. 

Soap chuckled, the sound strained but amused. “Magnussen and I… we used to fool around back when we were on the same team, and that’s putting it lightly. Didn’t end well since he was under the impression exclusivity only applied to me. I told him to fuck off and he made my life a livin’ hell after that. Guess they were right when they said don’t shag yer coworkers.”

Ghost’s grip loosened slightly, mind reeling at the admission. “And what’s that got to do with me? I don’t care where ya stick your prick.”

Soap’s voice softened, his tone flippant as he shrugged. “He’s been makin’ comments all week, never could get over the fact I left him. Likes to tell me how my ‘new boyfriend’ —” he said the word with a mocking lilt, “— couldn’t satisfy me like he used to.”

Ghost felt a flush of heat rise to his face, and he told himself it was just the anger, nothing more. “So, what? He thinks I’m your new boy toy or whatever? Why the hell would he think that?”

Soap’s smile grew, a teasing glint in his eyes. ‘Ye know, I’ve always been into the ones that play hard to get and our rivalry isn’t exactly private. And let’s face it, yer not as subtle as ye think, Ghostie. I can see where he connected the dots.” 

Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are ya talkin’ about?”

Soap’s grin widened. “It didn’t click right away but now I can see it. I think ye do care where my prick ends up. You’ve been actin’ like a right jealous bastard for the past week.  First with Gaz, and now with Magnussen. Why don’t ye just admit it?” 

“Admit what?” Ghost demanded, his heart pounding in his chest. His pitiful attempt of denial was pointless against the Scot.  

Soap leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “That ye want to fuck me so bad it makes ye look stupid.”

Ghost’s breath caught in his chest. His grip on Soap’s throat tightened, but the man didn’t flinch, his eyes locked on Ghost’s, daring him to respond. 

“You’re fuckin’ insane, MacTavish.”

He shrugged once more as he attempted to pull away and take a step toward the door. “Guess I’ll go see what Magnussen is doin’ since I’m so wro—”

But Soap didn’t get to finish his sentence. Before he could think it through, before he could talk himself out of it, Ghost’s lips crashed against Soap’s in a rough, bruising kiss. It was more anger than anything else, a raw, violent need to shut Soap up, to wipe that smirk off his face. 

But as their mouths moved together, it became something else. The tension that had been simmering between them for so long ignited, exploding into a fire neither of them could control. Ghost’s hand slid up from Soap’s throat to cup the back of his head, fingers tangling in his stupid mohawk as he deepened the kiss, pouring all his frustration, all his confusion, into it.

Soap responded with just as much intensity, his hands gripping Ghost’s sides, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The kiss was a battle for dominance, neither willing to back down, neither willing to let the other have the last word. 

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard. Hot and ragged on one another’s skin. Ghost’s eyes were dark, pupils blown and filled with a storm of emotions he wasn’t ready to face, but one thing was clear—there was no way they could come back from this. No way to uncross the line they just plummeted over head first. 

“Still think I’m insane?” Soap whispered, his voice hoarse. The teasing edge to his words remained despite the breathlessness.

Ghost’s response was a low growl as he pulled Soap back in, kissing him again, harder this time. He didn’t shy away when he felt Soap’s wandering hands, slowly inching their way down to the waistband of his joggers. His own hands had fallen to rest upon Soap’s hips at some point, occasionally lifting to splay up and down his abs. Relishing in the shivers it caused as he needed to touch every inch of the man’s skin. 

He hissed as he felt Soap grip him through his boxers and grind his palm. He was slightly pent up; spending a week sleeping five feet away from Roach hadn’t left him many options to take care of himself. Part of him wanted to take it slow, ease into it, and give each other time to adjust. But when Soap let a low moan escape his throat after touching him, it took every ounce of fleeting self-control Ghost had to not throw him on the bed and take him right then. 

That moan pissed Ghost off while turning him on altogether; every little feeling he felt toward Soap was conflicted with an opposing emotion. He wanted him so badly while wanting to put his face through the wall for making him want him that badly. What the fuck were they doing?

“Fuck,” Ghost groaned out, a mix of annoyance and desperation coating his voice. He loathed how out of control he felt at that moment, especially when it was John fuckin’ MacTavish who had the advantage. He pushed off of Soap’s chest giving himself some room to breathe, his lungs burning at the sudden intake of oxygen. Soap saw what must have been a flash of uncertainty in his eyes as he interrupted Ghost’s inner turmoil.

“Don’t tell me yer getting cold feet now? I can leave if ye want. Walk out that door and leave ye all alone to wank one out as ye think of me,” he goaded, leaning up to whisper directly in Ghost’s ear. “Or do ye wanna get out of yer head and be a good boy for me so I can take care of ye?” 

Ghost swallowed at that, even though all the moisture in his mouth had evaporated in a second. His lips parted to reply, but it was as if his brain had gone offline; he couldn’t string a sentence together to save his life. The glare he had trained on Soap didn’t deter him from what he wanted though. 

He grabbed the two pant strings of Ghost’s joggers and pulled him in where their foreheads now rested against each other. Ghost couldn’t help but shake his head, a whispered, “I hate you,” was all he could manage in the end. 

Soap grinned as his hand dove under Ghost’s waistband once again, only this time he included the boxers. “I know.”

Soap’s touch felt like a brand upon his skin. Ghost’s hips reflexively jerked back, but the man’s tight grip kept him in place. The slight burn of friction caused by dry skin was a welcome one. He started to slowly jerk him off, picking up the pace every few movements just to slow back down again. The bastard always keeping Ghost on edge while making sure he wasn’t able to cross it. He almost let a moan slip out when Soap leaned in and started sucking right on his pulse point. The repercussions of letting Soap mark up his neck were so far from his mind as he focused on the way the man flicked his wrist. 

Soap’s mouth moved in an upward pattern, eventually kissing his way back up to meet Ghost’s lips once again. He must have deemed Ghost ready as he pulled back, his gaze burning into Ghost’s skull as he searched for any uncertainty. With only desire remaining, Soap slid his thumbs under the waistband of Ghost’s pants and underwear, pulling them with him as he fell to his knees. 

He had that devilish look in his eyes as he leaned forward with no hesitation. He licked a stripe from the base to the tip of Ghost’s cock, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Ghost couldn’t contain the full body tremble as Soap’s tongue swirled his head once before he took the entirety of him down in one go. 

“Fuck, Johnny,” he hissed out.

Soap responded with a smirk as he pulled back, giving a few pumps before returning to his mouth. 

Ghost watched as Soap moved his head back and forth, taking him impossibly deeper each time. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. It felt too intimate to rest them on Soap’s head despite his dick currently halfway down the man’s throat. He settled on leaning them against the wall, the position completely blocking Soap in and angling himself even further till the other man gagged. That was a sound he could get used to. 

Ghost took in the man kneeling before him. Had he always felt like this? He never thought his emotions surpassed hatred when it came to Soap. But now that he was actually looking at him and he wasn’t running his mouth, he couldn’t deny anymore that there was something else there no matter how fucked up it was. It might have always been there. 

His gaze drifted to the bridge of Soap’s nose where it repeatedly brushed against his pelvis. The wound was still red and fresh where he had been hit by Magnussen. Ghost scowled the longer he stared. That ugly feeling inside him reared up again at the thought of that fucker making him bleed. Hell, maybe Soap was right. Maybe Ghost was jealous and his head was too far up his own ass to see it. 

He hadn’t even registered that his anger had escaped from inside his mind until he heard Soap — more like felt — groan around his cock. His eyes focused and he realized his hand had unconsciously moved to the man’s hair, gripping his mohawk tightly as he ground Soap’s face closer to deepthroat him. Of course he liked his hair pulled. No sane person would willingly choose that haircut unless the sole purpose was to bring attention to it like a neon sign that said ‘PULL ME.’

Ghost picked up his pace as he gave in and let his anger wash over him. What once was a blowjob had now turned into Ghost flat-out face-fucking Soap. Each slam of his hips had Soap choking on a gag, his hands desperately finding purchase on Ghost’s thighs. His throat reflexively swallowed around the tip of Ghost’s cock, the constriction having him see stars. 

The force of his thrusts had managed to jostle the medical tape on Soap’s nose at some point. The wound reopened as streams of hot blood ran down his face, mixing with the spit on his chin and dripping onto the floor between his knees.

The way he looked like a fucking painting right then had Ghost entranced. His eyes watery and blissed out just from getting his throat fucked, face flushed from the lack of oxygen and strain, and now the lower half of his face was streaked in red. Ghost could feel his own cock twitch where it rested on Soap’s tongue as he watched one particular drop run down and land where he and Soap’s lips met.

Fuck me.

He practically growled as he pulled out of Soap’s throat, using the other man’s surprise as a window to grab ahold of him and throw him on the bed. He opted for Roach’s as his own was currently covered in clothes and his suitcase. What the man didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

Ghost climbed on top of Soap, one hand splayed beside his head while the other pinned him to the mattress by his mohawk. Their combined weight pushed the limits of the fragile cardboard bed struggling to hold them up. Before Soap could make some smart-ass remark he leaned forward to take his mouth again in a feral kiss. He pulled the man’s lower lip between his teeth and bit down until his tongue was flooded with the taste of metal. 

He swallowed Soap’s curses and moans the same as he did his blood. His own fucked up attempt to wash away what was left behind by Magnussen with his own claim. If anyone was making John MacTavish bleed, it was going to be him alone. 

Ghost moved from Soap’s lips to the edge of his jawline, making his way down his neck while leaving behind a trail of bloody prints in his wake. While Soap was lost in the haze of pleasure, Ghost took the opportunity to slide his hand under the man’s shirt and pull it off. Soap gasped as he moved from his neck to his chest, paying extra attention to each nipple as he ran his tongue over them before dragging them between his teeth. Ghost wanted to leave his mark upon the man’s skin, and make sure he was reminded of this for weeks to come.

He hooked his fingers in Soap’s waistband, lifting the man’s lower half up as he pulled them off in one glide. He sat back to admire the man splayed out before him. Soap’s chest was slightly heaving as Ghost’s eyes danced across every inch of his skin, narrowing in on his newly exposed jockstrap straining against his hard cock. 

“Ya always wear that, ya slag?” he asked before leaning down to hover over the man. 

“Never had any complaints before,” Soap stated casually while looking into Ghost’s eyes, fully aware of the button he pushed.

Ghost’s jaw clenched as he dipped down to speak directly in his ear, “You should pick your words more wisely, Johnny.” 

That was all the warning he gave before he gripped onto the strap wrapped around Soap’s hip with both hands and pulled. The resounding tear of elastic in the otherwise quiet room was deafening. Ghost tossed the sad lump of fabric to the floor as Soap looked at him with bewilderment. 

“Yer buyin’ me a new fuckin’ pair ye bastard,” was all he said before grabbing the back of Ghost’s neck and pulling him into a heated kiss. Ghost greedily swallowed Soap’s moan as he took him in hand and started pumping him at a quick pace. He was still rock-hard himself and knew he wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer. But there was something so addicting about making the man under him fall apart with nothing but his hand that had Ghost chasing that rush and ignoring his own needs. 

He wanted to ruin Johnny. Ruin him for anyone that came after, and the memory of anyone who came before. That cloud of possessive need fogging up his brain had him missing the words leaving Soap’s mouth when he pulled away. 

“What?”

“I said lube, where’s yer lube?” Soap repeated breathlessly.

 Shit. “I don’t have any.”

Soap raised himself onto his elbows at that. “What do ye mean ye don’t have any?”

“I didn’t bring any. Some of us actually came here to do a job and not shag half the village,” Ghost pointedly stated.

“Oh my god, yer such a fuckin’ prude,” he groaned out in frustration.

“The bloody hell I am, your dick is literally in my hand right now.”

Ghost wasn’t expecting Soap to laugh at that. Their usual banter had the familiar flame of irritation flaring up inside him. God did he want to wipe that stupid smile off his face. The mineral oil he used to prevent his blades from rusting sitting in his gear bag probably wasn’t skin-safe. 

He panned to Roach’s toiletry bag sitting on the floor by his bed. That thought didn’t last long; there was no way he was about to risk his life using the man’s ridiculously priced moisturizer he had special ordered each month as makeshift lube. He was out of options and Soap’s incessant whining to hurry up was really starting to piss him off. Spit it was. He was lucky he was even giving the man that much. 

Soap let out a less than dignified yelp as Ghost suddenly flipped him over, stuffing a pillow beneath his hips and stomach. He maneuvered the man like a rag doll until he was in the position he wanted. He harshly slapped Soap’s ass when he tried to sit back up. It was as if every fiber of the Scot’s being was wired to be difficult and not follow orders. 

“Lay the fuck down, MacTavish,” Ghost warned. 

That was all the grace he was willing to give before his hands fell on Soap’s ass, thumbs spreading him open before he brought his face closer and dove in. He held on tightly as Soap bucked his hips forward, trying to escape Ghost’s invading mouth and tongue. The man only managed to get a few inches before Ghost pulled him back down once again, his hands tangling in the sheets as he cursed out. 

His moans were half-muffled as his face rubbed into Roach’s pillow. The once pristine white cotton now stained blood red and damp where he bit into it. Ghost wasn’t giving him a second of reprieve. Soap’s senses were overwhelmed by either the mouth at his rear or the hands that had moved back to his front to fondle and tease once again. 

Soap turned his head to the side to make sure Ghost heard him after one particular movement of his tongue almost had him losing it. “Fuck, Simon… I’m ready. I’m not gonnae last much longer so get the fuck in me,” he groaned out. 

If Ghost was a stronger man, he would’ve kept going just for the sake of torturing Soap and making him beg more. But in the end, he wasn’t a stronger man. Far from it. He needed in the Scot just as much as he wanted it. For once, the two were on the same page. 

He leaned back on his knees, lining himself up slowly. Soap didn’t let him get far enough into the preparation to add his fingers, but he was the one who claimed he was ready. If it hurt, that was on him and Ghost would gladly remind the cocky bastard of the fact. 

With a deep breath to try and gather some semblance of control, Ghost started to press forward using only a mix of spit and blood, precum, and a prayer to pave his way. He couldn’t contain the strained, “Fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” as the man’s tight heat engulfing Ghost’s cock made it nearly impossible to enter. “Relax before ya snap my prick in half,” he scolded. 

“If I could I would, It’d go a lot faster using it as a dildo than whatever the hell pace yer goin’ at,” he quipped back. 

Ghost glared at the small portion of the man’s face he could see resting on the pillow. He was such a fucking asshole, Ghost didn’t know if this was even worth it anymore. Yes, it was. 

He held onto Soap’s hips as he retreated the few inches he had managed to trek. Fuckin’ asshole. He slammed into the man in one harsh thrust, sheathing himself entirely despite the resistance. 

“Motherfu—!” Soap’s scream was quickly snuffed out as Ghost shoved his face into the pillow. He leaned down till his body draped over Soap’s, heavy and slick with sweat. “Ah ah, we have neighbors, Johnny,” he whispered in his ear before licking up the shell and biting down hard when he reached the top. Soap tried to flinch away from the sting, but the way he clamped down on Ghost’s dick gave him away. 

Ghost pulled back, leaving a trail of hickeys and bite marks down Soap’s neck and back in his wake. It was his own fault for having such a large canvas to work with, practically begging to be marked up. He returned to moving in and out of Soap, each thrust easier than the last. He had to reprimand him with a few slaps to his ass whenever a particular moan got too loud. It was only partly an excuse, he was actually worried about the paper-thin walls and that one of his teammates would complain to Price, or even worse— tell the whole team he had a ‘special visitor.’

Soap managed to lift himself up on shaky arms and knees, deciding he was no longer a passive member in this ordeal. He placed one arm on Ghost’s hip, the other sliding behind his neck and gripping onto the sweat-slicked hair. The new position had Ghost angling himself upwards, reaching further and deeper. He tried to stifle his own moans and grunts by latching onto Soap’s newly accessible throat, attacking it as he pounded into the man. 

“Quiet, MacTavish,” he groaned into his ear after one particularly harsh thrust had Soap crying out.

Soap leaned back, arching his back impossibly more as he rested his head on Ghost’s shoulder. The new angle had him pounding into that bundle of nerves inside the man repeatedly. Soap responded by cursing Ghost’s name so loudly that it practically reverberated through the whole village. He had to of done it on purpose just to piss him off. And it worked. 

Ghost grunted as he slammed into the man at a punishing pace. “Do ya ever shut the fuck up?” He didn’t give him much time to respond as he momentarily paused to lean over and grab something off the shared dresser between the two beds. Soap was off balance and overwhelmed, he didn’t quite register what Ghost was doing before something was being shoved in his mouth. It took him a second to figure out what it was. It was thin and slippery like silk, pulled tight where Ghost gripped it at the back of his head, keeping his tongue flat in his mouth so he couldn’t speak properly. 

Ghost just grinned as he continued to fuck the man below him, ignoring his muffled shouts and attempts at cursing him out when he realized what he was gagging him with. 

His gold medal dangled back and forth between Soap’s shoulder blades as the neck strap finally shut the man up.

The small victory wore off quickly, replaced by short breaths and electricity shooting up his spine in warning. He was getting close. It was a miracle he had even lasted this long. By the way Soap squeezed him every time he hit his prostate and let out a punched-out moan, he wasn’t too far behind himself. Ghost let the one hand that was gripping the medal keep them balanced as he reached around and started jerking Soap off with his other. His pace didn’t falter as he chased both of their releases. Sweat dripped down his nose and landed in the small space between them, right on the bloody marks he left trailing down Soap’s spine. The sight alone almost had him tipping over the edge, picking up speed right before disaster struck.

A slight crack was all the warning they got before the bed gave way and sent them tumbling to the floor. They both groaned at the impact, Soap more so as he bore the brunt of the fall. He should have stopped and made sure the man was okay, but that stubborn and selfish need inside him had him picking his movements back up without so much as a stutter. 

It only took a few more thrusts before that burning feeling deep in his stomach returned. He switched to a slow and deep rather than fast and shallow rhythm before ultimately falling over the edge. His hips stuttered as he pumped into Soap slowly, basking in the way the man had a death grip on him while practically milking him dry. 

When the fuzziness in his brain slowly retreated, he glanced down to where he was still inside the man. He took his time pulling out, unabashedly watching his own spend drip out of Soap. His returning moans had Ghost snapping out of his own reverie. He flipped the man over and resumed a quick pace as he jerked him off, giving extra attention to the head using his wrist. 

“Hand or mouth?,” he asked before ripping the now spit-soaked and blood-stained ribbon out of Soap’s mouth. 

“Mouth, fuckin’ mouth,” he breathed out.

Ghost didn’t hesitate, shimmying down the collapsed bed till his face hovered over Soap’s painfully hard dick. It only took about three strategic swallows before Soap was cursing and following him over the edge. His whole body trembled with the force of his orgasm. His massive thighs nearly crushed Ghost’s skull where he remained between them to swallow down all that Soap had to offer. It was only when the bastard swatted his face away from the overstimulation did he decide to pull off and attack his lips instead. 

When the exhaustion finally won out, Ghost rolled over to lay next to him. Shoulders touching as they both desperately sucked air into their heaving chests. He internally winced as he registered the amount of bodily fluids that covered them where they lay. Ghost had never felt so disgusting but so blissful at the same time in his life. 

The blissful silence didn’t last long as Soap turned to look at Ghost, that stupid shit-eating grin plastered onto his face. “Next time, don’t forget the lube.”

“Next time?” Ghost questioned with a raise of a dark blond brow. 

The Scot’s responding smile had him looking like a psychopath while covered in blood. “Ye didn’t think ye were gettin’ away without me havin’ a turn with yer arse now did ye?” he replied with a kiss to Ghost’s nose. 

Before Ghost could crush any of Soap’s hope that was going to happen anytime soon, their heads both flicked to the deafening whir of an electric gear unlocking the room door. They both sat up, desperately clinging to the massacred white sheet draped across their lap. 

It was as if they were two deers in the headlights as Roach stood in the threshold, sliding his keycard back into his pocket before freezing mid-step when he finally looked up. Neither of them dared to say anything as the man scanned over what was once his bed, now crumpled onto the floor along with his blood-stained sheets. If Soap wasn’t sitting up, Ghost wouldn’t put it past Roach to conclude he had finally snapped and murdered the man once and for all. When he scanned over their naked bodies, that’s when the final nail went into the coffin. They were so dead. 

His eyes went wide, pleading, as he looked at Gaz for a lifeline. His friend had the same expression reflecting back at him, unsure what to do either. Without any help from Gaz  Soap turned around.

His eyes met a broad chest clasped in a black leather vest, decorated with various patches of brands and sponsors he had never heard of. He slowly lifted his gaze to the man’s face, or at least what was showing of it. The lower half was covered in a black bandana with a skull design painted onto it.

It was real dusty and the man was clearly one of the riders competing, so Soap didn’t think twice about it. Hell, he wished he had one right now to hide his own embarrassment that was surely written all over his face.

The only thing he could make out underneath the stadium lights were amber eyes and blond lashes that matched his mop of sweat-clumped hair that stuck to his forehead. Those eyes that pinned Soap to where he stood and felt like burning flames licking at his skin.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, his voice coming out dry and crackly despite his efforts. “Sorry mate, didn’t mean to offend anyone,” he tossed out in an attempt of easement.

He grabbed the hat off his head, stretching out his hand and offering it back to its rightful owner. The man didn’t remove his gaze from Soap once as he took his hat back. 

Soap was all too aware he had been holding his breath during the whole interaction. He was hoping the man wasn’t offended by Soap touching his property. A fight was the last thing he needed right now, especially three beers into his night. His internal panicking was interrupted by the stranger’s gruff voice.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell ya not to go ‘round touching things that don’t belong to ya?” Soap took a reflexive step back when the man took a step forward. 

He could still see Gaz out of the corner of his eye, which helped a little knowing he wasn’t alone if things went to shite. Although, he would feel really bad if he made Gaz get into an altercation and ruin their night out due to him being an idiot. 

Soap laughed nervously. “Always seemed to have a problem with authority and rules.”

That had the other raising a brow. “That right?”

There were alarm bells ringing in Soap’s head. The adrenaline pumping through his veins should have been warning enough but he never claimed to be smart. The man glanced over Soap top to bottom, as if he was assessing him. The undivided attention had goosebumps breaking out over Soap’s skin. 

He leaned in closer, invading the already non existent space between them. 

“Do ya know what the hat rule is, mate?” he asked with a smirk, like he already knew Soap didn’t.

“Uh, n-no.” Soap felt like a bumbling idiot. 

The man simply nodded at the answer he was already expecting. He lowered himself until he was looking over Soap’s left shoulder, speaking directly into his ear.

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.” 

Soap could feel the heat flood his face like a dam opening. 

Oh fuck.

It was as if Soap’s mind, mouth, and pretty much whole body went offline. He couldn’t seem to get anything to work after the other man’s words had registered. Well, except maybe one body part, that seemed to be working just fine.

After standing frozen like an idiot once again for too long, he somehow managed to stoke the last dying embers of a functioning brain cell and took control over his body once again.

With a nervous laugh he took a staggered step back, his arms outstretched in a placating way. The man wasn’t angry, but fucking hell was he intimidating and Soap needed some space to breath especially after that comment. 

“Oh, well that’s.. uh.. ye know, we really should be getting back to our seats,” he spewed out while grabbing Gaz by the shoulder. Soap didn’t wait for the man to say anything else, leaving him to stand and watch as he scurried away like a coward. 

He made a beeline for their section in the stands, subtly adjusting his now uncomfortably tight pants. He glared at Gaz when he made a comment at his flustered appearance, doing his best to block out his incessant teasing. He felt like he was fifteen years old again, popping boners when the wind blew just a little too strongly.

The announcer came back on over the intercom speakers, introducing the next round of riders as they finally reached their seats. Soap did his best to try and focus on the riders in the dirt down below, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of that man’s breath on his neck, the way his voice was that deep even at a whisper, the way his eyes made his skin feel like it was lit aflame.

And as if God was playing a cruel trick on him, his gaze was drawn to the rider getting ready to mount the bull in queue. It was him. 

He couldn’t make out too many details from this far up, but he was able to spot that familiar mask on the jumbo screen hanging in the center of the arena. The man had his hat on this time. The same hat that Soap had just been wearing. He couldn’t deny it, the man looked good in it. 

The announcer chimed in, getting the crowd going. Gaz leaned over, hitting Soap’s shoulder as he whispered, “There’s your man.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the slight upturn of the corner of his mouth at his friend’s words. Soap glanced back up to the screen, eyes scanning until he found what he was looking for in big, bold letters. 

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

Simon. Fuck. Even his name was hot. 

He looked back down to the roping box, the bull that - Simon? Ghost? - was about to ride. It was fucking massive. He could see it already bucking and ramming the sides of the fence from up in the stands and on the screen, clearly pissed off. 

The anticipation in the arena was electric, the crowd buzzing with excitement as Ghost settled himself on the bull. While the men around him steadied him with their hands,  Soap’s heart pounded in his chest. He didn’t even know the man but his stomach was twisting into knots. 

He watched as Ghost adjusted his grip on the bull rope and flexed his hand, his muscles tensing under the strain displayed on the big screen.

Soap’s breath stuttered as the gate flew open, the bull exploding out into the arena twisting and bucking with raw power. Ghost moved with fluid precision; the man’s arm raised into the air, his waist snapping back and forth in perfect sync with the bull’s wild movements. Soap couldn’t tear his eyes away, completely captivated by the sight.

The crowd roared around him, cheering and shouting their encouragement as Ghost held on. Soap found himself leaning forward in his seat, his breath caught in his lungs. He silently willed Simon to stay on just a few seconds longer.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the ride. Ghost leaped off the bull, landing as gracefully as one could while running from a crazed animal with horns. Soap’s heart was still pounding as he watched Ghost run back toward the gate, somehow still maintaining his casual demeanor as he climbed over. 

He watched as the rider disappeared behind the gate and out of sight. Gaz elbowed him playfully, a knowing grin on his face. “Go congratulate your cowboy, he just one first place,” he said, his voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd.

Soap whipped his head to the scoreboard, eyes scanning before he saw Ghost’s name jump to the top as his points were entered. He couldn’t help the stupid smile spreading across his face. 

“Ye sure you’ll be alright?” he asked, already standing up. Gaz scoffed, “Get the fuck outta here Soap.”

Soap put his hands together in a mock prayer. “Thank you, Garrick.”

He turned around and nearly sprinted down the stairs, cursing the crowds blocking his way. He had to make it down there before the rider left.

Soap finally managed to make it down to the ground floor, booking it to the area cornered off for the riders and their crew. He got farther than he thought he would before security stopped him, asking for his pass that he clearly didn’t have. 

He tried a handful of excuses but there wasn’t any reasoning with the man. He was about to ask if he could at least pass on a message for him before he felt someone brush up against his back. 

“He’s with me.” 

Soap swallowed. That low, gravelly voice back in his ear. Right where he wanted it.

The security guard stood there a moment before he nodded at Ghost and walked away, as if Soap wasn’t even there. 

It took a herculean effort for Soap to turn around. He was very close to losing his nerve and chickening out of this whole ordeal. Hell, he didn’t know this man. What was he doing? 

“Now, what are ya doing all the way over here. Breaking more of those rules, I see,” he said forcing Soap to take a step backwards. 

Soap cleared his throat, voice coming out surprisingly steady. “Well, I figured I would congratulate the winner.”

“That so?” he asked with a tilt to his head.

Soap took a step forward in a random burst of boldness. Now or never. 

“Aye, I also think I owe ye a debt,” he punctuated by grabbing the hat off the man’s head and placing it upon his own.

Soap wasn’t sure if it was the passing headlights from the sea of cars and trailers behind them, but he swore Ghost’s eyes flashed at his words. He leaned down in a mirror image of their earlier interaction, a strained “Follow me,” was spoken in his ear.

Soap let out a deep breath as he watched the man walk away. Not ashamed to admit he enjoyed watching him as he did so. Fuck. This was happening. 

They walked through a dirt and gravel lot off to the side of the arena. Soap observed the ranchers loading the livestock back into trailers under the parking lot lights as they passed through.

They ended up on the outer edge of the lot, the closest light post was a few cars down so it wasn’t overly bright where they were. Soap nearly missed it when Ghost turned a corner around a large parked trailer. 

He followed suit, unable to stop the embarrassing yelp that left his mouth as he was thrown against the side of said trailer. All thoughts of cursing the man out disappeared when Ghost’s lips were crashing against his. The initial impact had him grunting, the sounds immediately swallowed by Ghost’s domineering mouth. 

Soap couldn’t breathe, and normally he wouldn’t have any complaints about the matter given the situation, but he was starting to get lightheaded. He reached his hands up, gripping onto that leather vest and regretfully pushed the man off of him. He gasped at the separation, greedily filling his lungs at the first opportunity.

“Air, air is good,” he wheezed out.

The bastard huffed a laughed right in Soap’s face. Between the night sky and Soap’s racing mind, he hadn’t quite registered that Ghost had taken off the bandana from earlier. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, just barely making out the details of the face currently six inches from his own. 

He was fucking beautiful. 

Soap didn’t need sunlight to come to that conclusion. He had strong features; a Roman nose that had clearly been broken one too many times and never healed quite right, full lips that had a small scar running across the bottom as if it had been split in a fist fight and never got the proper stitches. He had another scar going from his chin to his neck, the moonlight illuminating the silvery healed skin that was no doubt part of an impressive collection. 

Soap couldn’t help the heat rushing to his face when he realized how blatantly he’d been checking out the other man. To his credit, Ghost just stood there; not saying a word while letting him have his fill. 

His attention drifted back to reality when a wave of lights and shadows danced across their faces as a car drove by. Soap unconsciously grabbed onto Ghost’s vest, pulling him onto himself while trying to melt into the trailer out of fear of getting caught. 

“Relax,” Ghost whispered. 

His mouth moved down to Soap’s jaw, kissing his way across his flushed skin until he reached his ear. Soap couldn’t help the full body shutter that racked through him as the man licked up the shell of his ear before biting down on the tender cartilage.

He turned his face slightly to the right in a poor attempt at stifling his moan in Ghost’s shoulder as the other slotted his knee right between his legs. 

Fuck. He hadn’t realized just how hard he was before Ghost started grinding against him.

The friction was almost unbearable, just the right amount of pain to still be pleasurable but still not enough. “More,” he groaned out. All reservations about sounding too desperate were out the door, he needed this man. Now.

Ghost turned his head to stare directly at Soap with a smirk plastered on that stupidly handsome face. 

“Needy little thing, aren’t ya?” he teased. 

He didn’t even give Soap time to defend himself before he was reaching down to undo his belt buckle and slide his hand down Soap’s boxers. 

“Fuuuck,” Soap hissed out as Ghost gripped his cock with those rough and calloused hands. Every twist of the man’s wrist had a jolt of pleasure shooting up Soap’s spine. His hand had felt like a branding iron, scorching to the touch and Soap had no complaints over the claim.

He was full on panting now. The only air he could manage to get was what Ghost allowed him when his lips granted reprieve. 

Soap was gradually nearing his breaking point. He normally would have been embarrassed for not lasting longer, but he decided to give himself a break when he’d been sporting a semi nearly the entire second half of the event. No thanks to the bastard who currently had his tongue shoved down his throat. 

Soap hadn’t even realized the involuntary bucking of his hips, his body’s feeble attempt to get off. The shallow thrusts got quicker, insinuating his building release. Just as Soap was about to reach that blissful moment he had been craving all night, Ghost snatched his hand away and removed them from Soap’s pants entirely.

“Oh, you fuckin’ bastard,” Soap spat out at the other man. 

Ghost stood straight before clicking his tongue. “We have a debt that needs paid now don’t we, darling?” he cooed at Soap who did his best to not let the pet name affect him too much.

Soap groaned in frustration. “Then hurry the fuck up cause I’m not gonna last much longer, ya fucker,” he growled out.

Ghost shook his head at him. “Ya sure do have a mouth on ya,” he stated.

“Aye, ye can do something about it next time.” Soap didn’t really care that he just left an opening for this to occur again, mind too preoccupied on the fact his balls felt like they were about to explode. 

Ghost had that smug look back on face as he reached into his pocket for something. He pulled out a set of black keys and pressed a button, the black truck behind him flashing its lights twice before he put them back. 

“Are ye kidding me? Your car was here the whole time?,” Soap whined. 

“Sounds an awful lot like complaining, mate. Not a fan of being watched, are ya?” Ghost taunted. The way he talked to Soap like he was a child was some fucked up mix of extremely hot and infuriating. 

Soap glared at the man. “Get the fuck in the back seat. Now.” 

Despite Ghost narrowing his eyes, Soap didn’t leave any room for argument and the other man complied with no further complaints. 

Ghost climbed into the back of the truck, spreading out across the seats with his hands resting behind his head as he looked at Soap. Well, didn’t he just look like the cat who got the cream. 

God, he was fucking hot.

Soap climbed in after him without another word. With the door closed, the lights in the truck went out and the space was filled with darkness once again. Soap was straddling the man’s massive thighs, nearly hanging off the edge. It was cramped, barely any room to move but he would make it work. Had to make it work. 

“Just gonna sit there and look pretty, darling?,” Ghost snarked, breaking the silence. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Soap replied with no real heat. He reached out to undo Ghost’s belt, hoping the way his throat bobbed at the clear outline in the man’s pants wasn’t visible in the moonlight. Good lord he was massive. That earlier apprehension started to slowly creep back in and wash away his false confidence. 

Ghost made another one of those clicking sounds with his tongue that had Soap freezing his movements. When he looked up into the man’s eyes, he couldn’t help the way his stomach flipped. Ghost had a way of looking at him that sent every warning bell and nerve in his body off like a crack of lightning. Like a predator finally catching his prey after having it in its sights for too long.

“Get undressed,” Ghost demanded.

Normally, Soap would put up a fight just to be an ass, but he didn’t have much fight left in him at this point. He was so on edge, so close to finally getting off he was honestly scared what he would do just to make it happen. With nothing more than a roll of his eyes in complaint, he started undoing the buttons of his shirt. It was only a matter of minutes before Soap was spread across the man’s lap in the back seat, completely naked. 

He felt like his brain was melting. There shouldn’t have been something so hot about the fact he was completely naked and bare while Ghost hadn’t even removed so much as his hat during all this. He could feel the rough denim on the sensitive skin of his thighs, the cold buckle from the man’s belt when he leaned forward just an inch. Soap wasn’t even ashamed when he realized he had been slowly grinding himself against the man, anything to ease his burning desire.  

Ghost finally spoke up, but Soap didn’t even stop his movements. “What’s your name?” he asked with that low and rough voice. Soap’s own ego was slightly stroked, he could hear the strain in the man’s voice despite the calm demeanor he was trying to convey. 

“John, but most people call me Soap,” he breathed out. He was two seconds away from ripping the clothes off this man himself.

“Soap? What kind of nickname is that?”

“Says the man called Ghost?” he quipped back.

“Alright, I’ll give ya that one. Why don’t you go on and get yourself ready for me, darling?,” he asked, but they both knew it was another command.

Soap couldn’t help the pointed stare he threw at the man. “Ye gonna make me do all the work, is that it?”

Ghost’s lopsided smile was answer enough. “I’m not the one who picked up the hat, Johnny.”

Johnny.

Fuck, why was that so hot to hear coming from his mouth? He really needed to get this thing moving.

Soap held his fingers out in front of the man’s mouth. When all he got was a questioning look in response, he rolled his eyes and pushed them against his lips. “Suck,” was all he said, patience wearing thin now.

Ghost opened his mouth slowly, letting Soap glide his fingers over his tongue. They were probably dirty as hell, covered in germs and popcorn butter but he didn’t really care at this point. The bastard would live. 

He was mesmerized as he watched Ghost work his tongue across his fingers. His mouth was hot, but nothing compared to the flames dancing across his skin as Ghost never lost eye contact during the whole ordeal. He could probably cum from this alone.

Before that thought became reality, Soap pulled his hand back. Watching the string of spit connecting his fingers to Ghost’s mouth glisten in the moonlight. 

He cursed lowly as he gripped himself in one hand, rising slightly before reaching around. He entered himself without a fuss, moaning at the friction as he slid his fingers in further. It burned a little, Ghost’s spit only helping ease the way so much. He preened like a peacock when he felt, more like heard, the other man’s sharp inhale below him. 

He started moving with a little more urgency at that, opening himself up while rocking his body back and forth. He wasn’t overly moaning like a whore, but he wasn’t exactly trying to hold back anything either. Quite enjoying the sharp little intakes of air and jerky movements of the man beneath him. He managed to get up to three fingers before he found that particular spot inside him. This time, his moans might have been a little porn starry. Ghost finally lifted his hands at that, gripping onto Soap’s hips like he was his lifeline. 

Soap wasn’t having any of that. He swatted the man’s hands away, pushing down on his chest with the hand not currently inside him when Ghost tried to protest. “No touching,” he scolded, taking great pleasure in the frustrated look on his face. 

Ghost grunted in response, like a damn toddler who didn’t get his way. “Awww,” Soap cooed at him, “Needy little thing, aren’t ye?” he said, throwing the other man’s words against him.

Ghost narrowed his eyes at that, but didn’t complain any further. “Funny.”

“I’d like to think so,” Soap replied. 

This time, when he went to undo Ghost’s belt, he wasn’t met with any resistance. With quick movements, he had Ghost pulled out in no time. Fucking hell. Massive was an understatement. It took everything in Soap to school his emotions. He wasn’t letting this bastard know how intimidated and equally impressed he was. He must have done a shit job cause Ghost had that satisfied, smug look back on his face. He could probably read minds for all he knew.

Soap gave a few quick pumps to Ghost’s cock before he lined himself up. He froze just as the other man was about to enter him. 

“The hat,” he said. It took a while before Ghost could tear his eyes away from where Soap hovered over his cock, the words finally registering before he reached up and placed his hat on Soap’s sweat-slicked mohawk. 

They were both burning up, feeling like a damn sauna in the backseat of the truck. The windows had fogged up a while ago as they swapped air in the small space, thankfully providing a thin form of privacy. 

Soap smiled as he adjusted the hat with one hand, the other still lining Ghost up as he slowly lowered himself down. 

Fuck.

They both moaned in chorus as Soap’s still too-tight heat enveloped Ghost’s cock. He sunk lower and lower at a glacial pace, letting gravity do the work and take some of the strain off his shaky legs.

He bottomed out eventually, resting on Ghost’s hips as he caught his breath. Ghost was panting below him, chest heaving as his body was strung tight with tension. Soap knew the man was dying to take control. Too fucking bad.

When Soap’s world wasn’t spinning anymore, he lifted himself back up before repeating the process all over again while setting a steady pace. He wasn’t going very fast, but he didn’t really need to. Ghost was so big that he reached all the spots he needed him too, the stretch and burn sending bolts shooting up his spine was enough for him.

He gripped tightly onto Ghost’s leather vest with his right hand, his own make shift bull rope as his left held onto the black hat resting on his head. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Ghost, but he still had to lean and bend at a weird angle to fit in the cramped space. He started to pick up a little speed, his movements mimicking Ghost’s from when he rode the bull earlier. Soap snapped his own hips back and forth, occasionally grinding down in a circular motion that had Ghost groaning unabashedly. 

He wasn’t normally one to be overly cocky, but he basked in the satisfaction of ruining this man. That calm and collected demeanor washed away by the panting, barely held back animal beneath him. Hell, he was equally just as ruined. He couldn’t contain the little punched out moans that escaped every time Ghost hit his prostate on each rock backward. He wouldn’t last a minute longer and judging by the shaking man before him, he wasn’t the only one. 

“S-Simon, pleaaase,” Soap groaned out between moans. He tried to convey everything he was thinking and wanted in that one word. Ghost being the mind reader he was picked up on it without dropping a beat. Like he was waiting for it.

He immediately grabbed onto Soap’s hips with enough force to bruise. Fuck, Soap wished they would. With one last glance at the man below him, Soap closed his eyes as Ghost started jackhammering into him. The car was a symphony of curses, moans, and grunts. Neither man holding back now. Soap removed his hand from the hat and pushed it against the ceiling, trying desperately to find purchase and not fall over. The rough movements had the sweat from his forehead running down his face, beads dropping onto Ghost’s chest off his nose and chin. He couldn’t find a single fiber of his being that cared.

His end was nearing and he wasn’t going to deny it this time. “Fuuuck, don’t s-stop,” he moaned as Ghost abused his prostate at the angle they were in. If Ghost decided now was a good time to tease the man, Soap would probably end up committing murder.

He could tell Ghost was almost at his breaking point as well. The man’s thrusts started to become wild, losing all sense of coordination as he chased his release. Soap screamed out when Ghost lifted his hand off his hip and grabbed his cock, pumping it in an off beat against his thrusts, never allowing Soap a second of reprieve from overwhelming sensation. 

“Go on, cum for me, Johnny,” he rasped out. Who was Soap to deny him?

Soap’s whole body seized as Ghost slammed into that bundle of nerves harder than he’d done all night. It felt like lightning was shooting through his body as his vision whited out. He didn’t even feel bad that he made a mess all over Ghost’s vest, too blissed out to even care. Ghost lasted around three and a half thrusts more before he was following Soap over the edge as well, cursing his name as he did. It was the best thing Soap had ever heard in his life. He responded with a groan as he felt Ghost empty out inside him. The feeling making his own spent cock twitch in response. Round two was not an option currently on the table. Soap felt like rolling over on the floor right there and taking a twenty hour nap after this. He didn’t think Ghost would mind very much.

They sat there for a few minutes, chests heaving and skin sweaty where they were still connected. Soap started looking around, his eyes scanning the man’s truck before he found what he was looking for in the center console. He popped the lid off and held it between his teeth as he unzipped Ghost’s soiled vest and unbuttoned his shirt. He ignored the curious eyes watching his movements. With the man’s chest now bear, Soap moved the marker to scribble out his number in his chicken scratch. He pulled back, looking down at his work with a satisfied expression as he capped the marker and tossed it over his shoulder. 

“Give me a call next time you’re in town, cowboy,” he said as he slowly raised himself off of Ghost’s softening cock. 

He wasn’t sure if the man had even heard him. His attention drawn to where he pulled out of Soap, his cum slowly starting to drip down his thighs. It was gonna be an uncomfortable ride home. He glanced around and grabbed his discarded clothes, doing his best to put them back on in the limited space. Ghost just sat there watching him, lounging across his backseat without a care in the world. 

Soap finally managed to put his shoes back on, pulling out his phone and ordering an Uber ride. He turned down Ghost’s offer to drive him home, he needed to get away from the man so his brain wasn’t mush anymore. With one last glance around, he leaned over Ghost on his knees. 

“Ye know, I like this hat. I think it’s mine now,” he stated.

“That so?” Ghost asked as he looked up at Soap.

“Yeah, it’s mine. Ye know what that means?” 

“What?” Ghost responded, genuinely curious. 

Soap lifted up the hat before lowering down, placing it back onto Ghost’s head as he whispered low in his ear. “Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.”

Soap didn’t say anything else as he exited the vehicle. The smile was uncontrollable as he walked across the gravel lot back to the car pick up zone.

He lay there for a moment, letting the grogginess fade before finally swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His body protested the sudden movement. He pushed through the discomfort and padded his way to the kitchen. The sight of the empty Lucozade bottle on the counter brought a wave of nausea alongside some of Soap’s hazy memories in flashes. As his coffee brewed, Soap’s mind tried to drift back to his conversation with Ghost, cringing at the memory of him barely being able to walk out by himself near the end. He distantly remembers the terms of their agreement, though not quite confident in his account of events after they left the club. 

He slowly dragged his hands down his face, his mortification gratefully interrupted by the buzzing of his phone on the counter. Soap sent up a silent prayer of thanks to drunk him for remembering to plug in his phone when he got home last night, or technically that morning. He was relieved when he saw it was only Gaz texting him.

Gaz: Mate, you alive?

Soap: Barely 

What’s up?

Gaz: Just checking in, heard you had a rough night from a certain someone lol

Soap groaned as he read the words. Fantastic. Appreciate it Ghost, really. 

Soap: haha.

Fuck ye and yer psycho boss 

Gaz: Don’t be like that mate

           Tacos at Luna’s?

           If you're still alive by then

Soap: Sure

             12 alright?

Gaz: Yea that’s fine

Soap set his phone down on the counter and took a deep breath trying to shake off the lingering headache. He took a sip of still-too-hot coffee and nearly moaned out loud at the warmth. After scrolling on his phone for about half an hour, he rinsed out his mug and popped a few more aspirin. He still had a couple hours left before he needed to hop in the shower, settling on laying in bed to fill the time. 

— — — 

It didn’t take long for Gaz to find Soap in the outdoor seating area. Not many people were wearing sunglasses with their heads down, looking like death incarnate. 

Gaz sat down on the wood-splintered bench, laughing, clearly enjoying the miserable state his friend was in. “Look like you got fucked sideways, mate,” he teased. 

Soap groaned, glancing up at Gaz. “Aye, by three doubles of Scotch. She’s a real gentle lover,” he snarked back.

“What made you think that was a bright idea?” Gaz asked as he looked over the menu, a smile still plastered on his face. 

“Well, it was needed for dealin’ with that man,” Soap defended.

“Who, Ghost? Aw, come on, he isn’t that bad. As long as you don’t piss him off,” Gaz offered as he waved over the waitress. 

“Hi, can we get three of the crispy pork bellies and three of the barbecue carnitas with no coleslaw, please? Thanks.” He turned back to Soap as the waitress walked away. 

“Ye know it gets me goin’ when ye take charge like that.”

“Don’t try and change the subject with that mouth of yours,” Gaz smirked.

“Aye, well, I’m not sure how successful I was in that department. I think I may have called him Ghostie at one point.” Soap winced as his headache threatened to flare back up from Gaz’s obnoxiously loud laughter.

“Yeah, fuckin’ right. At best, you’d be pissin’ outta tube if you called him that.”

“Oi, I might have been sloshed, but even I couldn’t make that up.” 

Gaz laughed lightly as he looked at Soap’s earnest face. “Alright mate, Ghost must be going to therapy or something to let that slide.”

“Aye, I’m sure he’s one to talk out his feelings,” Soap quipped. 

Gaz’s face slowly fell into a more serious expression at Soap’s comment. “Look, I know he’s an asshole and a dangerous one at that, but he’s there for the people he cares about.”

Soap took in his friend’s words, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. “How did ye guys meet anyway?” 

Gaz leaned back with a sigh, searching for the right starting point. “It was maybe two or three years ago. I was working a security detail for some shady German businessman. A real piece of work, but I needed the money so I took the job anyway. I don’t know what happened, but one night everything just went to shite. His operation got compromised on his end, and we were under attack. Outnumbered and outgunned.”

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the arrival of their food. The waitress placed the plates in front of them with a smile and a not-so-subtle wink thrown at Gaz. Soap nearly rolled his eyes at the stupid grin plastered on his friend’s face as she walked away. Gaz shouted his thanks before turning back to Soap and his intense glare. 

“What?” he innocently asked. 

“Then what happened, loverboy?” Soap asked, trying to get back on topic.

“Then Ghost showed up,” Gaz continued. “He and his crew, they stormed the place. Took out my client’s men like they were nothing. I was trapped in the building's server room, tryin’ to salvage any sensitive data that I could when Ghost found me.”

Soap leaned in closer, ignoring the food in front of him. He wasn’t sure if it was the hangover or the casual way Gaz talked about Ghost murdering people that had his stomach in knots. “What did he do?”

Gaz’s eyes flickered with a mix of emotions Soap couldn’t read. “I honestly thought he was going to kill me. Instead, he just ignored me while he looked over my software with his gun trained on me. I like to think he was impressed with my work since I’m still breathing. After he downloaded everything he needed on a hard drive he finally turned his attention back on me and said, ‘You’re not worthy of my bullet.’” Soap couldn’t help but laugh at Gaz’s over-the-top, gruff Manchester accent that wasn’t too far off. 

“I think it was the prick’s twisted attempt at a compliment but then he offered me a choice; I could walk away and forget what happened, or I could work for him.”

“Wait, he would have just… let ye go?” Soap asked, incredulous. 

“I don’t know if he was lying but, there was something about him that reassured me I guess? So, I took his offer. Figured working for someone like him for a steady paycheck was better than ending up on the wrong side of a bullet elsewhere,” Gaz stated before biting into one of their tacos. 

Soap mulled over Gaz’s words, trying to see Ghost in a slightly different light. Apparently, the man had a habit of handing out resumes. Soap thought back on their first conversation in his office; Ghost wasn’t lying when he said he gives everyone a choice, as long as they make the decision he wants. “I still don’t like the fucker.”

Gaz chuckled, the serious mood lifting slightly. “He’s still a cold bastard, no doubt about that. But there’s a reason people like him end up where they do. He’s a survivor, and he helps those he deems are worth it. That’s enough for me.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m gonnae start trusting the man,” Soap said, taking a sip of water.

“And I wouldn’t expect you to,” Gaz replied. “Just… keep an open mind. He’s got his reasons, even if you don’t always see them or understand.” 

Soap nodded, still trying to wrap his head around everything. “Last question about the man. What exactly is it that ye guys do? I know it’s illegal shite, but what specifically?” Soap asked. 

Gaz leaned back in his chair at the question. “What happened to plausible deniability?”

Soap scowled at his friend’s annoyingly good memory. “Oh piss off, and just tell me.”

“Think of it this way: Ghost is like the concierge for Manchester’s less civilized population. You wanna set up shop, take out a rival player, or buy or sell drugs and weapons? You go through Ghost. He’s the mediator for all the other pieces of shite and the sole reason they haven’t all killed each other. Nothing happens in the North West without Ghost’s say-so,” Gaz explained. 

“So, he’s a glorified babysitter for Manchester’s criminal underworld?” Soap simplified, raising an eyebrow. 

Gaz huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“But how the bloody hell has he not been caught yet? Or someone turnin’ him in?” Soap pressed. 

“Well, your boy here is good at his job,” Gaz said, gesturing to himself. “I make sure nothing traces back to him, digitally at least. All of his businesses are technically legal, and if they’re used for washing money, it’s never a large enough amount to get flagged. He doesn’t like to shite where he eats. And as for why no one’s turned him in, there’s a certain level of mutual destruction at play. Ghost doesn’t pick sides. The only reason his role works is because he stays neutral and everyone else respects that. That’s the beauty of it. Ghost holds all the power. His hands stay clean by knowing why everyone else's are dirty.”

Soap leaned back from the wooden table. He didn’t respond. Didn’t know how to, honestly. The casual revelation of Ghost’s ruthless efficiency and the intricate web of power he maintained was terrifying. Gaz just admitted to joining Ghost after witnessing him murder people and somehow it had him feeling like the crazy one for not being okay with it. He didn’t want to get into another argument over morality, especially not while nursing a hangover and in public. Soap also wasn’t in the position to cast judgment when he worked for Ghost now as well. He was already exhausted and somehow this conversation left him feeling even more drained. 

The two men ate their lunch in comfortable silence before Gaz interrupted. “Heard Rebecca was coming to town Friday. Need me to pick her up?”

“No it’s fine, was just gonnae borrow Price’s Rover,” Soap said, shoving the last bite of a taco into his mouth. He quickly chewed the oversized bite before speaking again. “Actually, can ye do me a favor and drop me off somewhere after this?” 

“Yeah, sure. Did you not drive here?” Gaz asked as he wiped his mouth and threw his crumpled napkin onto his now-empty plate. 

“No, took the tram. I left the bike at the parking deck across from Oak Tree last night. Wasn’t in the best state to be driving.”

“Wait, is that why Ghost texted Roach during our job?” Gaz asked. 

“Aye, but ye guys were busy, so Ghost ended up playin’ chauffeur despite my protests.”

Gaz threw his head back, laughing. “No way you had Ghost playing mother hen and taking care of your drunk arse.”

“He just dropped me off, ye wanker. Well… I did have him stop and get me some cat food and a drink on the way home,” Soap admitted. 

Gaz blinked at Soap. “Mate, I don’t think in fifty years I’d have the balls to ask Ghost to grab me some cat food.”

Soap smiled at that. “Ye know I don’t have a filter when I drink. I also take great pleasure in the fact that I annoyed the crap out o’ him last night.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he had a blast,” Gaz said as the waitress came by to set down the check. He handed her his card before she even took a step away. 

“I’ll be right back with that,” she said before walking away. Soap nearly smacked Gaz as he blatantly watched her. The man tended to fancy anything that walked on two legs.  

Soap finished cleaning up his area before she returned. She set down the check and Gaz’s card before giving him a million-dollar smile. “Thanks, darling,” Gaz offered. It was like Soap wasn’t even there. 

Soap groaned as Gaz waggled his eyebrows and waved the piece of paper with a phone number scribbled across it. “Oh, fuck off.”

— — — 

“One scratch or ding and you’re in the bottom of a lake in the countryside where no one will ever find you,” Price threatened, hovering the keys above Soap’s outstretched palm. 

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, Price,” Soap whined, rolling his eyes.

“You put the wrong petrol in it or return it with an empty tank, I’m shaving the mohawk,” Price continued, narrowing his eyes. 

“Well now yer just being cruel, old man,” Soap retorted with a smirk. 

Price grunted, finally dropping the keys into Soap’s waiting palm, albeit reluctantly.

Soap tossed the keys into the air before catching them with a childish grin. “No trust in me, I swear.” He walked over to the waiting Rover, hopping inside and giving Price a cheeky wave as he started the engine. Just to be a little prick, Soap peeled out of Price’s gravel driveway, the tires kicking up a spray of loose stones in his wake. He laughed as he saw Price, red-faced and cursing, in the rearview mirror. Worth it.

The Friday morning traffic wasn’t as bad as Soap had anticipated. With some time to spare, he swung by his favorite café for coffee. He got his usual dark roast with a little cream and one of Becs’ sugary drinks. He was extra cautious on his way to the train station, avoiding every pothole and bump in his path. God forbid he spilled something in Price’s car. 

He pulled the Rover into the decently busy lot, aiming for a more visible spot so he’d be easier to find in the sea of cars. With about fifteen minutes to kill before Becs’ train arrived from Leeds, he chose to pass the time by scrolling aimlessly through his phone. 

In his boredom, Soap couldn’t help his wandering thoughts about Ghost, despite his efforts not to. The lack of communication was gnawing at him. While it likely meant no one was dying, the anticipation was slowly driving him insane. Every ring or buzz from his phone had his heart stuttering, waiting for his own demented bat signal to spring into action. 

After this Sunday, Soap’s schedule was stacked: multiple twelve-hour shifts, two on-call night shifts, and he had to put in hours with a new clinic Price was heading. If Ghost needed him, they were both screwed. The thought just added a new layer of dread to his ever-growing anxiety. He tried his best to push it out of his mind. This weekend was for spending time with his sister and he wasn’t letting that prick ruin it for him. 

A flash of wild auburn hair caught Soap’s attention out of the corner of his eye. He hopped out of the car and practically ran to hug Becs, wrapping her up in his arms and nearly squeezing the life out of her. 

“Oh, I’ve missed ye, little mouse.”

“Let me fuckin’ breathe, ye brute. Yer gonnae pop my chebs squeezing that hard!” She wheezed out. 

Soap sat her down, laughing. He loved how strong his sister’s accent still was. It felt like home. After years of living in England, he had to admit his own had become watered down. His father was probably rolling in his grave, seeing his own son sound more and more like an Englishman each day. It did tend to slip out more when he was with his family or inebriated at least.

“How was the ride?” he asked. 

“It was fine until the old geezer next tae me decided tae take off his gutties and bless the cart wi’ his natural perfume. I swear it was worse than yer old rugby boots.”

Soap whistled as he reached down and grabbed Becs’ bags for her. “Must have been rough, then.” They walked over to the car, Soap placing her bags in the backseat before climbing back in himself. 

“Ye finally get rid o’ the motorcycle? Mum will be pleased,” Becs teased.

“Yeah, right. Ye can thank Price for not having to be my backpack for the weekend,” Soap responded. 

He started the car back up and handed Becs her drink. “Here, got ye one o’ yer coffee-flavored milkshake things.”

“It’s called a Frappuccino, ye old man,” Becs pointedly stated before taking a sip.

“I’m not even thirty yet and nothin’ with whipped cream on it should be considered coffee,” he argued as they pulled out onto the street. 

“Old man,” she sang as they headed to his flat. 

— — — 

“Whisp!” Becs shouted as she entered the flat, running inside as Soap trailed behind with her bags. 

“Nah, it’s fine, I got it,” he shouted back, kicking his door closed. 

“She’s still a wee thing, are ye sure yer feedin' her enough?” Becs asked as she nuzzled the kitten.

“Bloody hell, that’s all she does is eat. She should be obese by now,” Soap replied. 

“I’ve missed ye, Whispy. Is the old grump treatin' ye well?” she cooed in that obnoxious baby voice Soap would deny ever using himself. 

Soap scoffed as he grabbed a drink from his fridge. “She’s living it up like a king here for fuck’s sake. Ye think I’m dealing with yer wrath if she wasn’t?” 

Becs ignored Soap’s whining, all her attention on the white fur-ball currently climbing her shoulders. 

“Ye owe me a new pair of scrubs by the way. My pants look like a fuckin’ cheese grater thanks to her,” Soap grumbled, taking a sip of his drink. His attention suddenly shifted to the buzzing in his pocket. He pulled out his phone to see a message from Price asking if his car was okay. 

“Price is ridiculous, can’t even go two hours without checkin’ in on his car.” 

Becs set down Whisp before sitting at the counter and taking Soap’s drink from him. “What do ye expect? I wouldnae shite for a week if I knew ye were driving around in ma car.”

“I’m not a bad driver!” Soap defended. 

“Whatever. Am I gonnae see Price today?” Becs asked.

“Nah, we’re goin’ over to his for dinner on Sunday though. He might swing by the party Saturday, but I doubt it.”

“Speakin’ o’ the party, ah need tae go shopping for a costume. Since I’m yer date, should our outfits match?”

“We don’t have to match, don’t want anyone thinking yer my girlfriend.”

“Please, like anyone would believe I’m with yer old arse,” Becs snickered.

“Oi, I’m only twenty-seven! Stop actin’ like I’m a middle-aged hag with no prospects,” Soap retorted, snatching his drink back from her. 

“Go freshen up or whatever ye gotta do, and we’ll leave in like ten minutes. There’s a store downtown that sells old theater costumes I thought we could try,” Soap stated as he tossed his now empty bottle into the trash. 

“Alright,” Becs said as she hopped down from the stool and grabbed her bags. A gleeful, “Yer payin’ for it,” was tossed out as she entered the bathroom. 

God help me. 

— — — 

Soap stood in front of the vintage, floor-length mirror of the little shop with a grimace plastered on his face. “I look like fuckin’ Peppa Pig,” he muttered.

Becs nearly doubled over with laughter, ignoring the glare thrown her way by the elderly woman engrossed in her crossword behind the counter. 

“Aye, but a very handsome Peppa Pig,” she teased. 

Soap turned to face her, his expression a mix of annoyance and amusement. “Stop fuckin’ around and actually help me pick a real contender.” He grabbed the hat off the mannequin next to him and threw it at her after catching her mocking him in the mirror. “The party is tomorrow, and I have nothin'. Horangi banned sexy doctor costumes, so if I can’t find anything here, I’m screwed.”

Becs caught the hat and tossed it back with a smirk. “Fine, fine. Let me look around a bit,” she said, pushing herself off the velvet couch outside the changing rooms. 

Soap quickly removed the pink monstrosity Becs had jokingly suggested before heading down the aisle on the opposite end of the store. He idly sifted through the costumes hanging on one of many racks, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of options. Farah had warned him not to wear anything too slutty when they were hashing out ideas. The bore. He could reign it in if he had to, especially with his sister as his plus one. But he didn’t want to look like a nun, particularly in case the new guy Brandon from radiology was going to attend. He and Farah had a going wager on which way the man swung. Soap swore the man just needed to see him in his kilt, he’d know for sure then despite Farah’s doubts.

As he continued to scroll through the costumes, he paused when his fingers brushed against a skeleton costume. The costume itself was beautiful, thick black velvet with thousands of beads embroidered and weaved into it to make out the bones. His mind instantly thought of Ghost, and he wasn’t exactly sure why. After staring at it some more, his fingers absentmindedly running over the beaded textures, he finally recalled why. That first night, when Ghost had been bleeding out on his dining table, he had been wearing a pair of black gloves with a skeleton design spread across each finger. Soap wasn’t even aware he noticed them until now, the chaos of that night pushing the observation to the back of his mind. He’d seen the man wear gloves since then, but never that pair again.

“What’re ye thinkin’ about?” Soap jumped as Becs interrupted his thoughts.

“Nothing, just scanning this rack,” Soap replied, hoping his voice sounded casual. He didn’t know why, but he felt guilty for thinking about Ghost as if he was doing something wrong. 

Becs raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further. “Alright, well, ah found a few. Want tae try them on?” she asked while holding up a handful of hangers.

They spent the next half hour trying on various costumes, each more ridiculous than the last. A rugged pirate costume that Soap had to admit, he didn’t look half bad in. An American football player costume that was just a little too bulky to move around in comfortably. A western cowboy get up that he couldn’t help but send a snap of to Farah. In the end, Soap finally settled on one that just happened to show a bit more skin than the others. 

“Of course, ye’d pick the one wi’ the most skin showin’,” Becs quipped, crossing her arms and smirking from her seat on the couch. 

“Don’t know what yer talkin’ about,” Soap played dumb, flashing a grin as he adjusted a strap on his chest. 

“Slag,” she teased, laughing. 

“Oi, It would be a crime not to show off these legs,” he replied. 

They gathered up their costumes, Becs having found hers pretty much as soon as they walked into the shop, and headed to the checkout counter. The old lady behind the desk gave them an unimpressed look. Soap felt a bit self-conscious under her scrutinizing gaze, like when he used to be scolded by the old women in his hometown church. Becs on the other hand just rolled her eyes and grabbed the bags off the counter.

They stepped out onto the sidewalk, the cool evening air hitting them. “Ready to grab some dinner?” Soap asked. 

“Aye, I’m starvin’. What’re ye in the mood for?” Becs asked, linking her arm through his. 

“How about that Italian place we had last time?” Soap suggested, already heading toward the car. 

“Sounds perfect,” Becs agreed, falling into step beside him. 

With just having missed rush hour, the drive to the restaurant was relatively short. They joked about the death stare the old bird had given them.  

“Ye think she’s alright? She looked ready tae keel over when ye tried on that last outfit,” Becs laughed, shaking her head.

“Ach, she’s probably seen worse.”

“I’ll pull around the block for parking,” Soap said as they neared the restaurant. 

As they pulled around the corner for Soap to drop her off, his heart skipped a beat when he spotted a familiar black Audi parked outside. Ghost’s Audi. Soap stared at it, trying to convince himself that it was just a coincidence. It could easily just be the exact make and model, it wasn’t an overly unique car to begin with. He was being ridiculous. Still, he couldn’t take the risk. Sure, Ghost probably already knew what his sister looked like, but Soap didn’t want any part in putting her near the man. 

“What’s wrong?” Becs asked, noticing his tense expression. 

“Nothing’. Just…. I changed my mind, there’s a really good diner near my apartment we can go to instead.”

Bec’s frowned. “Why? Yer the one who suggested Italian in the first place.”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s getting late and we should go somewhere closer to home since we have to feed Whisp soon,” Soap said, trying to keep his voice light. 

Becs studied him for a moment before nodding. “Fine, whatever. But yer buyin’ me dessert tae make up for this.”

Farah simply huffed at that before continuing, “Not a date. Buying a person a cup of coffee after they help you does not count. He just happened to be in the parking garage when my car wouldn’t start. If I didn’t know any better, he probably sabotaged the bloody thing to play the knight in shining armor.”

Soap laughed at that, “Please, I think ye give the man too much credit. He’s basically a golden retriever, not some obsessed stalker.”

Farah couldn’t help the smile pulling at her lips from the thought. “If you must know, yes, the non-date did go well. He’s a complete idiot, but somehow it makes him even more charming. A little too American for my liking, but they can’t all be perfect,” she admitted. 

Soap leaned down under the guise of grabbing a certain file. “Well, now’s yer chance. George Washington at 10 o’clock,” he whispered into her ear. 

Farah turned her head just in time to see one Alex Keller walking towards the nurses’ station. “Howdy, Ms. Karim,” he said with that ridiculous accent. Farah couldn’t help but roll her eyes at him, “Hello, Mr. Keller,” she replied. 

Soap’s nearly pissing himself watching the two blushing idiots interact. He did have rounds to do, so it was time to hurry this up. He kicked Farah’s calf, gently pushing her forward. Alex couldn’t see the hand behind her back, oh so kindly gesturing at Soap. 

“Alex, this Saturday I have a Halloween party I’m attending… and I was wondering—“ 

“YES! I mean yes, I would love to go with you,” he blurted out before she could even finish her sentence, oblivious to the unimpressed stares directed his way. Soap couldn’t help but laugh at his overeagerness, he truly was adorable. With that decided and numbers exchanged, Alex drummed on the desk before walking down the hallway with the biggest smile plastered on his face. Farah turned around with a wide-eyed look on her face. “What the hell have I done?” 

Soap stood up with a shit-eating grin on his face, “Oh, this is gonnae be good.”

— — —

Rounds were easygoing this shift, which left Soap with plenty of time to think about the weekend. Halloween wasn’t really a thing in the U.K. like it was in America, but any excuse to relax and get wasted with friends was graciously accepted. König and Horangi had taken the burden of hosting the annual party for the past couple of years which had quickly become infamous. Usually, he’d be stressing out trying to find a date at this point, but his sister just happened to be visiting this weekend. The perfect plus one. 

Soap was deep in thought about a potential costume when he heard Price’s voice call out his name. He quickly ran through his mental checklist, praying that he didn’t forget to do something and was about to be scolded. “Aye, doctor,” he offered while standing to attention. Price finished speaking with an orderly, handing him a chart before making his way over to Soap. “Walk with me, Soap,” he said while heading in the direction of his office.Not a hint of emotion on his face to help Soap out at all. Oh, fuck me.

As Soap settled into that familiar leather chair, the silence stretched on, punctuated by the soft rustle of papers. He knew this tactic well. Price would either stare him down or ignore him until he cracked. Strong-willed as Soap believed himself to be, Price was a goddamn master when it came to psychological warfare, and Soap always caved. This time, however, Soap couldn’t fathom what he’d done wrong to warrant the interrogation.

There was no way in hell Price knew about that night unless the man had hidden cameras in his flat. Soap knew he could be over-protective, but even that seemed a stretch too far for the man. There was Gaz, but Soap knew he wouldn’t want to get on Price’s bad side by admitting something like that. Ghost could have told him out of some petty revenge for him turning down his offer, but implicating himself in the process? Unlikely. Soap was at a loss. 

Finally, Price broke the silence, taking pity on the younger man squirming in front of him. “So… I talked with your mum on the phone.” That made it click for Soap. 

Fuck. “Listen, Price, I was goi —” 

“Save it. My goddaughter is coming to town in three days, and I have to find out from your mother in passing,” he scolded. 

Soap couldn’t help the smirk threatening to surface at the older man’s childish behavior. Price cared for Soap like he was his own son, that much was clear. But when it came to his sister, that man would move heaven and earth. Price had been wrapped around her finger since she could talk, getting away with everything short of murder when it came to that man. The worst part was that she was completely aware of it too. Using those stupid puppy dog eyes to wriggle out of all responsibilities. Even so, he never could get Price to admit the special treatment. 

“Aye, well, the princess will be here early Friday morning. Feel free to take her off my hands. She’ll be staying at my place, but I’m sure we’ll stop by yers at some point. She’s already weaseled her way into being my plus one at the party Saturday.”

“Do you need me to pick her up from the train station on Friday?” Price asked.

“Nah, I got it. Wouldn’t mind borrowing yer car though. The motorcycle might be a wee bit cramped. The Aston Martin, by chance?” he tried with a wag of his brows. 

Price huffed a laugh at Soap’s valiant attempt. “Nice try. You can take the Land Rover,” he decided. Price was a modest man, the only real hint of his six-figure salary was his taste in cars. 

“I’ll drive that car one day,” Soap tossed out as he stood up from the chair. 

Price turned to his computer and started checking his emails. “It’s nice to have dreams, kid.”

Soap smiled as he closed the door behind him. Making it halfway down the hallway before his phone started buzzing. As he pulled it out of his pocket, a giant grin was plastered over his face when he saw the mortifyingly embarrassing photo taking up his entire screen. Well, speak of the wee devil. 

“And how is my favorite dickhead on this fine day?” Soap answered immediately.

“Johnny…” the smile on his face instantly fell at the tone of his sister’s voice. He knows exactly how she sounds when she’s been crying. He made his way to one of the on-call rooms for some privacy before answering back, “What’s wrong, Becs?”

“I’m okay, I promise.” Soap had a hard time believing her when the words were muffled by her sniffles. “Becs, talk to me. I’m here,” Soap could feel his chest tightening, desperately wanting to be able to hold her. 

Her shaky voice finally cut through the silence, “They… they took ‘em away.”

“Took what away?” He tried to keep his tone calm and reassuring despite the immense confusion he was experiencing. 

“Ma scholarships, Johnny. The two biggest ones. All because o’ some new fuckin’ policy that states only fourth years can earn them. I’m bloody well fucked.”

Soap closed his eyes and took in a deep breath at his sister’s words. “It’s gonnae be fine, yeah? We’ll figure it out, Becs.” He wasn’t entirely sure who he was trying to convince with the empty statement.

“What is there tae figure out, Johnny? I cannae afford ma tuition with ma part-time job, and I’m no lettin’ you pay for any more than ye already do.”

“Aye well, that’s my decision to make, innit? Besides, we’ve talked about this already. Ye can pay me back when you’re rollin’ in it, being some prick footballer’s agent,” he joked, desperately trying to lighten the mood while hiding his internal panic. 

How the fuck was he gonna pay for her tuition now? He knew the answer, he just couldn’t stomach the thought. Soap did however feel a little better after hearing his sister laugh. She sniffed before speaking again, “I’m sorry, Johnny. Ah just didnae ken  who else tae call. Ah know it’s a shite thing for me tae do, dumpin’ this on ye.”

Soap smirked slightly before pulling out the most over-the-top accent he could muster, “Aye, us MacTavish’s gottae stick thegither, lassie. For the good o’ the clan.” 

She snorted at that, “Yer a real arsehole, ye ken that?”

“I’ve been told once or twice. But seriously Bec’s, I’ll take care of it. Just forget about it for now. I gotta get back to work but I’ll see ye Friday, alright?” 

“Aye, see ye Friday. Thanks, Johnny.”

“Love ya, mouse.” 

“Love ye, too.”

As Soap sat in the now quiet on-call room, his mind raced endlessly. That cold feeling he felt deep in his bones at the sound of Bec’s distress was now replaced by his very own. Fuckin’ bloody fantastic this was. Just what he needed. Soap wasn’t mad at his sister; it wasn’t her fault. No, he was mad at himself. All because he knew where his night was gonna end after this shift and he was pissed about it.

He could take the coward’s way out, shooting Gaz a text to send the message along. But it was that reliable stubbornness that kept him from clicking on his best mate’s contact. He wasn’t just going to roll over belly-up for the bastard. If he was selling his soul to the devil, he’d find a way to make this work on his terms. Ghost might think he had the upper hand, but Soap wasn’t one to back down without a fight. He’d lay out his conditions, protect his family, and ensure that he could still live with himself, even in this dark corner the bastard was backing him into. 

Soap forced himself to stand up, squaring his shoulders as he prepared to return to reality. He’d made it this far without succumbing to despair, and he wasn’t about to start now. He’d get through the rest of his shift and then sign his life away, for Bec’s sake. Simple. The door to the on-call room creaked slightly as he opened it, the sounds of the bustling hospital drowning his senses as he crossed the threshold. 

— — — 

The cool, damp evening air did little to calm Soap’s nerves. It was easy enough getting into the club this time, the bouncer letting him in as soon as he gave his name. He tried to push past the irritation building within him at Ghost’s confidence that he’d return — enough so that he added Soap’s name to the list. 

He pushed through the sweaty bodies, making his way toward the bar on the far right wall of the large, open room. There was no way in hell Soap was going to agree to Ghost’s proposal sober. Leaning back against the sticky counter, he barely fit between the other drunk patrons fighting for the bartender’s attention. 

The club was relatively dark, with strobe and LED lights in various colors illuminating the room just enough for people to avoid tripping over themselves. Soap scanned the sea of dancing bodies, his eyes slowly settling on the giant mirror spread across the wall directly across from the bar.  

A thickly accented shout directed his way had him turning back around, “Oi, what’ll it be, mate?” Soap met eyes with the bartender; tall and a little more on the slender side, but he’d be lying if he didn’t think the man was attractive. 

“Scotch, neat,” he shouted back over the crowd and music. 

Soap couldn’t help but scan the room some more, this time sticking to the periphery where the bodyguards were stationed to protect the dancers. He just needed to find Roach, and then he’d be able to get upstairs. “Here ya go, handsome,” the bartender said with a wink as he set Soap’s drink in front of him. Not to disappoint Ms. Wetherby, but it had been a while since he ‘shagged’ anyone, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit he liked the attention coming his way right now. 

He spent his next three drinks at the end of the bar, talking with the bartender- Cam, he had come to learn- about anything and everything. His tongue always seemed to loosen the more alcohol entered his system, very rarely working in his favor. His accent also tended to grow aggressively thicker, resulting in Gaz having to translate for him on more than one occasion. At some point, he honestly forgot the reason he came to the club that night. It felt good to relax for once and have a conversation with someone that didn’t end with a prognosis. 

He was in the middle of telling an embarrassing story of Gaz in college when he first felt it. Those eyes. That feeling of a predator locking in on their prey, burning a hole into the back of his head. He refused to turn around, ignoring the goosebumps creeping over his body and enjoying the peace just a little longer. It was working until Cam locked up mid-conversation after looking over Soap’s shoulder. Fuck. 

Soap sighed before placing his hands on the edge of the counter and using the momentum to turn his stool around. His head slightly spinning at the motion. Yeah, he might have been more than a little buzzed. 

Right before him stood Ghost, hovering like a bloody phantom in all black. His shadow cast over Soap, making the already dark room impossibly darker. Their eyes met, and Soap felt that familiar surge of apprehension at the man’s presence.

“Doctor,” was all Ghost said with a slight nod as he stepped closer to Soap’s stool. His low voice somehow sounded like a shout in the loud room. The man leaned past Soap, grabbing his nearly empty glass and handing it back to Cam. “These are on the house,” he curtly stated before turning his gaze back to Soap. His face was so close that Soap could feel the hot air expelling from Ghost’s nose behind the mask he was wearing under a black hoodie. Soap was a little surprised to see the man in such a casual outfit. Didn’t expect him capable with such a big stick up his arse and whatnot. 

Soap wasn’t quite sure if the burning heat flushing his face pink was from the scotch or the other’s proximity. After his wasted brain cells finally registered the other’s words, he squared his shoulders in irritation. “Oi, I can afford ma own drinks, thank ye very much.” He stood up suddenly after his declaration, slightly swaying in Ghost’s direction as he gathered his bearings. He may have been slightly drunk, but not enough to miss the other’s slight flinch at the almost-touch. Interesting. 

Ghost considered him before outstretching his hand in the direction of the stairs. “Of course, doctor. How about we take our conversation somewhere more private then?”  

Soap didn’t miss the man’s unimpressed glance around the room, clearly indicating his suggestion wasn’t a choice. He sighed like a petulant child before heading towards the hallway leading to the tucked-away staircase. The walk to Ghost’s office was silent, Soap trying to stay upright while also laying out what exactly he planned on saying. Somehow, he had to choose a way that didn’t make him sound desperate because honestly, fuck Ghost and this entire situation.

Ghost closed the door to his office behind them, the audible click setting Soap’s nerves on edge. He strode forward, not waiting for an invitation, and sat down opposite Ghost’s desk. He couldn’t help but anxiously tap his fingers against the armchair, waiting for Ghost to end the dick-measuring contest and speak first. He was also preparing for the smug ‘I told you so’ he knew was coming his way. 

“You’re drunk,” Ghost said flatly. Soap blinked up at the man, a little thrown off by the unexpected comment. He almost let out a small laugh at the man’s bluntness. 

“I may have had a wee bit tae drink while I waited,” Soap offered willingly. 

“And why was that, doctor?” Ghost questioned. 

“Oi, ye try havin’ a bloody conversation wi’ ye sober, ya bampot,” he mumbled. The alcohol preventing him from catching his tongue. 

“Is that right?” Ghost asked with a slight tilt of his head and that gravelly voice. Despite Soap calling him an unhinged idiot, more or less, the man seemed almost amused. At least that’s what Soap was counting on. “And what was the drink of choice this evening?”

Soap laughed at that. “No tae be a walkin’ stereotype, but whit else if not scotch?” he replied with a sideways grin. 

“More of a bourbon man myself,” Ghost admitted. 

“Like a good ol’ boy, I bet.” Yeah, Soap was starting to think maybe the liquid courage was a little too much. 

Ghost stared at the man with an indifference that made it hard to determine if Soap was about to get his ass beaten or not. To Soap’s relief, the other man sat up in his chair and casually shrugged his shoulders before replying, “What can I say, I love Kentucky.”

That got another laugh out of the drunk Scott. “O’ course ye do,” he said more to himself than Ghost. He rested his head on the back of the chair, transfixed by the chandelier hanging above him. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he eventually broke the silence. His voice was barely audible yet still unwavering in the quiet of the room, “I accept.” 

Two words. Three syllables. An infinite amount of possibilities. 

Soap could hear Ghost readjusting in his seat. “I figured, you wouldn’t be here again if you didn’t,” he stated.

Soap’s brows furrowed slightly before lowering his head, his gaze meeting Ghost’s again. “I accept, but if we’re gonnae do this, we’re gonna do it my way. There are gonnae be rules,” he declared, ignoring the way his words were starting to slightly slur. His body felt like a furnace in the small office. Stifling. 

Ghost leaned back, a slow, amused look spreading across the parts of his face that showed. “I’m listening, doctor. Let’s hear your terms.” 

Soap cleared his throat before replying. “Firstly, ye cannae just bloody call on me and expect me tae drop everything like a dog. Ye will respect ma schedule and not bother me at work.” He took Ghost’s silence as an okay to continue, counting off each demand with his fingers for emphasis. 

“Secondly, ye and yer ‘people’ will stay the hell away from ma family and friends. Thirdly, ah get paid for ma services upfront and in a way that won’t get traced back tae me. Lastly, when ye inevitably get arrested and ah testify against ye tae save ma own arse, ye dinnae get tae retaliate.” 

The silence that followed was suffocating. Soap’s focus honed in on the bead of sweat currently racing down the back of his neck. He half expected Ghost to pull out a gun from his desk drawer and end him right there in the dim-lit office, deeming Soap not worth the hassle anymore. 

His breath stuttered in his lungs as Ghost leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on the hard wooden surface. The feeling reminiscent of when he was scorned by his primary teachers for acting up in school. 

“Alright, I’ll consider your conditions if you consider mine,” Ghost said, his voice cutting through the haze of alcohol and nerves in Soap’s mind causing his stomach to roll. “I won’t call upon you during your work hours, but you will come when I call on you outside of that time. I’ll be paying you an untraceable retainer fee with the expectation that you follow my rules; otherwise, the contract will be void. As such, I won’t need to deal with your family and friends as long as we understand each other. And finally, you won’t ever get the chance to testify against me. Anything else I missed, doctor?”

Soap wasn’t too far gone to the point he couldn’t pick up on the sharp tone of the Ghost’s voice and the rhetorical nature of the question, he just didn’t care at this point. “That a threat or a promise?” he asked, testing his luck. 

“Don’t make me have to choose, doctor,” Ghost replied.

Soap took in the non-answer and felt a mix of relief and tension. Yeah, his rules risked disappearing off the face of the planet at failure, but they weren’t all that crazy. “Then I guess that covers it,” he said, surprising even himself with how steady his voice was despite the rapid beating of his heart. 

“Good,” Ghost said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. Smug bastard. “We have a deal, then.” 

Ghost’s eyes remained cold and unyielding as he watched Soap stagger to a standing position. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he scolded. 

“I’m goin’ the fuck home, whit does it look like?” Soap bit back.

“You’re in no state to drive and it would be hours before a taxi is available at this hour. Sit down, I’ll have Roach drive you home,” Ghost decided as he typed away on his phone, most likely texting his guard dog. 

Soap sat back down with an exaggerated sigh, knowing there was no room for argument on the matter. “Aye, whit a knight in shinin’ armor ye are” Soap quipped, earning an unamused glare.

A few moments passed before Ghost’s phone lit up with a buzz. Soap isn’t sure what the message said, but it couldn’t be good going off the muffled ‘Fuck me’ he barely catches from Ghost. Without a word, the man reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a pair of car keys as he stood. No, no, fuck no. 

“What are ye doin'?” Soap asked hesitantly, already dreading the answer.

“Roach and Gaz are out on a job, I’ll take you home. Let’s go,” Ghost responded as he rounded the desk to stand beside Soap, who remained seated. 

“Aye, I think I’ll just wait for that cab,” Soap replied, trying to sound casual. 

“You’ll be waiting for hours,” Ghost pointedly stated, his patience wearing thin. 

“Then I’ll walk,” Soap shrugged. 

“Stand up, doctor, before I drag you out.” 

Soap acquiesced, if only from the certainty that Ghost would follow through on his threat. He relied heavily on the railing as they descended the stairs, the alcohol still running strong in his system. Ghost, to his credit, doesn’t comment on Soap’s staggered gait. 

They stepped out of the back door that led to the rear parking lot, the harsh wind making Soap feel soaked to the bone despite it only drizzling. He followed Ghost to a small overhang in the corner, where an Audi was tucked in underneath. Black, how shocking. It wasn’t the kind of car Soap would have assumed Ghost to drive. “Can yer overgrown arse even fit in this thing?” he quipped as he walked around to the passenger side. 

Ghost threw him another one of his riveting looks of amusement before responding with an unbothered, “You sure you can buckle yourself, doctor?” as he ducked down into the driver’s seat. 

Soap’s eye twitched before muttering, “Aye, ye right bawbag,” as he lowered himself into the car as well. He shoved his hands into his pockets as they waited for the car to heat up. His fingers brushed against something in his pocket, pulling out a crumpled-up sticky note that sober Soap must have put there earlier. He unraveled it, barely making out his own chicken scratch illuminated by the streetlights. “Ah, shite.”

Ghost glanced over, his eyes narrowing. “What’s that?”

Soap hesitated before putting the note back in his pocket. “Just a reminder from sober me. Ah may need tae make a wee little stop before ye drop me off.”

Ghost leaned his head back against the seat, arms falling from the steering wheel to lay in his lap. “What now?” he asked exasperatedly.

“Ah need kitten food.”

Ghost blinked at Soap, waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, he let out a resigned sigh, shifting the car into drive. Soap heard a muttered “Fucking hell” as they pulled out of the lot and onto the street. 

It took everything in Soap not to hurl all over the spotless floor of Ghost’s car. The combination of passing streetlights and Ghost’s attempts at showing up F1 drivers made it difficult to control his lurching stomach. Fortunately, they pulled into a corner shop before the top-shelf scotch he got for free could be wasted. Soap flung his door open before the car was fully parked, breathing in the fresh air greedily with his head hanging between his knees. Praying to any god that would listen as the back of his throat filled with hot saliva. 

“Doing good, doctor?” Ghost asked as he turned off the car. The man showed no hint of amusement in his voice, but Soap knew the bastard was hiding a smile behind that mask while enjoying the consequences of his actions. He could only manage a weak middle finger tossed over his shoulder as he tried to steady his breathing. 

“What kind of food does your kitten eat?” Ghost grumbled.

“It’s goat a crown and it’s a pink bag, ah dinnae really ‘member the name,” Soap mumbled, hoping Ghost could decipher his slurred and thick accent. “And get me a Lucozade, will ye? The hangover’s gonnae be wicked in the mornin’.”

Ghost hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t say anything as he left the car. Soap really didn’t need his judgment right now. It’s his fault he had to drink in the first place. If he weren’t so miserable, he might have taken pleasure in giving Ghost’s car a special interior detailing. 

He wasn’t sure how long it had been before a pair of black boots came into focus between his knees. He slowly raised his head, squinting from the harsh overhang and street lights illuminating the parking lot. Ghost had one arm outstretched, offering Soap a drink, while the other held a small bag of cat food. Something about seeing the behemoth in black carrying a small pink package with kittens plastered on it tickled drunk Soap’s fancy. 

“Here,” Ghost said, thrusting the drink towards Soap. 

Soap took the Lucozade with a grateful nod, downing half of it in one go. The cool liquid soothed his dry throat and slightly eased his rolling stomach. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling slightly more human. “Thanks,” he managed to say, his voice strained. 

Ghost grunted in response, tossing the bag of kitten food into the back seat before getting back into the car. Soap couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle as Ghost started the engine. “What’s so funny?” Ghost asked, not taking his eyes off the road as they pulled out onto the street once more. 

“Just picturin’ ye in the pet aisle,” Soap replied with a smirk. “Bet it was a sight.”

The rest of the drive was silent, punctuated only by the hum of the engine and the occasional hiss of rain against the windshield. Soap nursed on what was left of his drink as they drove through the nearly empty streets. He wasn’t sure if it was on purpose, but he appreciated Ghost’s calmer driving nonetheless. 

He rested his head against the window, the cool glass helping relieve the remnants of his waning fever. Soap stared at the tapestry of lights as they drove by, appreciative now that it didn’t make him instantly want to hurl. He loved driving on the road at night when there were barely any souls around. It reminded him of the late nights of his childhood driving back from his gran’s house out in the countryside. He briefly wondered if Ghost liked it too, the calm and quietness of it. He figured the man probably loved any chance to not be around other people. 

The car came to a slow roll as they pulled up next to the curb outside Soap’s building. He tilted his head back to look at Ghost after a moment of thought. “Ya ken, I’m honestly not even surprised ye ken where I live. But ah will say, the whole creepy stalker thing won’t help ye much in the ladies’ department,” he teased. 

Ghost had that same aloof look on his face, only the slight twitch of his hand on the steering wheel giving him away. “Good night, doctor,” was all he offered in return, not taking the bait. Soap shrugged and innocently leaned across the top of the console before reaching behind to grab the bag of cat food in the back seat. The new proximity allowed him right next to Ghost’s ear as he finally found a strong enough grip on the bag. A slightly slurred and hushed, “Good night, Ghostie,” fell from his lips as he pulled it over the console and stepped out of the car.

Soap shut the car door closed, the sound echoing through the dead street. He was too focused on putting one foot in front of the other to notice the white knuckles from the near-death grip Ghost had on the steering wheel as he headed into his flat’s lobby. He greeted the deskman before swiftly heading towards the elevators, not wanting to embarrass himself any more than he already had for the night. 

Entering his small flat, he was greeted by a tiny meow and a blur of white skittering across the floor. “Hey there, wee one,” he murmured, setting the bag of food down and reaching out to pet the small creature. Whisp purred, rubbing against his leg as he ripped the bag and scooped some out into her empty bowl. As she ate her dinner Soap prepared for a rough night, grabbing an empty mixing bowl and a grocery bag before heading towards his room. He stripped and changed into more comfortable clothes before filling up his glass of water and taking some Tylenol. 

He let out a sigh as he climbed into bed, enjoying the peace of his apartment. The only sound breaking through was the small clank of Whisp’s bowl being pushed around the floor as the maniac ate her dinner. He closed his eyes, letting himself drift while dreading the guaranteed hangover morning would bring. He may feel like death, but he was thankful he had made it to the end of the day. 

It had been nearly five days since the incident, and not a peep from Gaz. ‘I’ll call and explain everything,’ my ass. Soap knew bombarding Gaz with fifty texts or phone calls wouldn’t do anything; if he wanted to contact him, he would. He just wanted to know if his best friend was safe. Bullet wounds don’t usually transpire from safe activities. 

Soap just couldn’t understand the younger man sometimes. He was smart and charming, always in the top 5 of his computer science classes. He came from a good family- his parents were environmental engineers who traveled around Africa helping build new water filter systems, practically saints. Gaz would spend holidays and breaks back in Glasgow with the MacTavish’s since his parents were usually abroad. He was basically family, as much as Price was, at least. 

His only faults were his affinity for unsavory company and weird craft beers. Soap tried to set clear boundaries during Uni, not hanging out with Gaz if his other friends were going to be with him. He eventually just stopped lecturing Gaz, sick of the other man accusing Soap of not trusting him and making him the bad guy for worrying about his friend. Well, look where that blind trust got you now.

— — —

“Oh come on, he’s basically stripping you with his eyes,” Soap snickered.

“Fuck off, Soap,” Farah quipped back before taking another bite of her salad. 

Soap just huffed a laugh as Farah subtly glanced at the American sales rep across the hall, staring back at her, not so subtly. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her during the whole time some nurse rattled his ears off, thinking she still had his full attention.

 Alex Keller. He worked for the company where the hospital got all of its prosthetics, which meant they saw him often. During his many visits, Soap found pure joy in the American’s attempts at flirting with Farah. He couldn’t blame the man. If Soap was straight, he would also beg and plead with Farah for one chance. He didn’t know whether to feel pity or admire the man for his efforts. He was like a damn kicked puppy that wouldn’t give up. Anyone who kept at it even after the Farah Karim chewed you out in front of the whole hospital was a worthy contender in his eyes. 

“I don’t know why you have to torture him like that, you clearly like him,” Soap teased. It was like dealing with teenagers watching the two of them dance around each other. 

“I do not. You expect me to take him seriously with that mustache?” Farah responded. 

Soap took another bite from his lunch before mumbling back, “Don’t let Price hear you say that.” 

Just as he was about to deliver another snarky comment, his gaze darted past Farah’s shoulder, attention snagged by the unmistakable sight of a navy blue Nike wind jacket he was all too familiar with. The owner’s identity was obscured by the hood and a white ball cap, yet he knew exactly who it was. Soap put his food on the desk counter before abruptly standing up.

“Give me a moment,” he declared, his tone brisk. “I’ll be right back. Also, throw the poor man a bone before I show the cowboy a good time instead.” Soap received a perfectly manicured middle finger in response as he walked away. 

It took all of his willpower to remain calm as he rounded the corner of his desk, grabbing the man by his arm before he could even get a word out. Soap pulled him into the nearest empty on-call room before locking the door and rounding on Gaz.

“What the hell, Kyle! You said you would explain everything and then you just go radio silent on me for days?” His voice rang out as much as he dared, straining against the confines of the small space. The room was far from soundproof, despite what all the horny interns might assume. 

Gaz wore that same pained expression from that very night, like a scolded child. “I know, Soap, I know,” he breathed out. He took Soap’s silence as his invitation to continue explaining himself. 

“Look I tried to get away long enough to call or even meet you in person, but we were practically in lockdown after that night,” Gaz explained, his words weighted with what Soap could tell was true remorse. 

“And what the hell happened that night, Gaz? Who were those men, and what were you doing with them that led to a gunshot wound?”  Soap’s voice cracked with anger, demanding answers. All pretense of staying calm now out the window.

“Listen, Soap, for your own safety, you don’t want to know too much. I’m try-”

“My safety? Are you fuckin’ kidding me?!” Soap erupted, his patience finally snapping. “You bring those bastards into my home and then try and say you’re worried about my own safety?” he scoffed. 

Gaz grimaced before reluctantly continuing, “I work for them, okay…”

“And what exactly does that entail, Gaz?” Soap’s tone was sharp, his frustration palpable.

“Let’s just say it’s a…business that operates in a bit of a legal gray area,” Gaz admitted.

“Fuuuuck Gaz,” he huffed out while running his hands down his face in exasperation. 

“Hey, don’t act like you’re above it all, mate,” Gaz retorted defensively. “Not everyone can be a high-and-mighty doctor.”

“You have a degree, for God’s sake! Don’t pull that shit with me,” Soap shot back.

Gaz slumped back against the wall, sinking to the floor defeatedly. Soap sighed and moved to sit beside him, the tension still thick in the air. They both knew that yelling wasn’t going to get them anywhere. Soap just laid his elbows onto his knees, resting his head on the wall behind them. 

“What exactly is it that you do for them?” Soap’s voice was calmer now, though still laced with concern. 

Gaz hesitated before answering, “I guess you could say I’m the computer guy. I handle security, accounts, pretty much anything that needs to be done electronically.”

Soap absorbed his best friend’s words, maintaining his composure. “And just how illegal are these activities?”

“Very,” his voice tinged with resignation. 

“Is it worth it?” Soap asked. 

“To me, yes,” he replied. 

“And that’s what concerns me, Gaz. How do you honestly expect me to react when all your actions are going to get you thrown in a cell someday?”

Soap turned his head slowly to find Gaz already staring back at him. “You know I can take care of myself, Soap. I was doing it long before we met. I’ll always appreciate everything you and your family have done for me. But you just need to let me take some responsibility for my actions instead of protecting me all the time. I know what I’m doing is illegal, but it’s my choice. I know my limits and I have contingency plans in place. I may be a delinquent, but I’m not a stupid one.”

Soap lets a small laugh escape as he grapples with Gaz’s words. “You promise you’ll let me know if you ever need help, right?”

“Of course, Soap.”

“I don’t really want to know all the details for plausible deniability but.. are you frequently in situations where you’re getting shot at?” 

Gaz laughed lightly at Soap’s words. “No, not typically. I’m the lame computer nerd in the movies that stays back on the intercoms while the spy gets shot at.”

“Well, I guess that makes me feel a little better,” Soap replied, a hint of relief in his voice. “You ever get shot, I’ll raise you from the dead and strangle you myself, Garrick.”

“I know.” Soap could sense the grin on his friend’s face without even having to look. 

“Wanker,” Soap teased. 

“Shit bag,” Gaz shot back. 

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, but Soap just couldn't shake the burning question at the back of his mind.

“Is the guy still alive?” he asks plainly. 

“Yes. And thank you for that,” Gaz replied sincerely. 

“Why exactly did he get shot?” Soap pressed. 

“So…about that,” Gaz began tentatively, rising to his feet.

Soap looked up at him, confusion etched on his face. That feeling of impending doom once again brewing in his stomach. “What?”

Gaz scratched the back of his head before forcing out the words. “So, I did come here to make sure you were okay after everything and give you an explanation. Buuut… I also came here to tell you that my boss would like to have a word with you, about that night.”

Soap looked up at the man with a deadpan stare. “You’re fuckin’ joking with me, right?”

Gaz simply smiled in response.  

“I am not voluntarily meeting up with a criminal who would more than likely kill me!” Soap argued back. 

“He won’t kill you, Soap. He knows you’re my friend. He just wants to make sure you won’t go to the police himself,” Gaz reasoned, attempting to calm Soap’s fears albeit futile. 

“If… I agreed to meet him, that’s it. I’m done. I don’t want anything to do with any of your so-called friends,” Soap declared, extending his hand toward Gaz. 

Gaz nodded in agreement as he helped Soap up from the ground. “Deal.”

Their agreement was suddenly interrupted by the buzzing of Gaz’s phone, echoing through the room. “I gotta go, Soap. Sorry,” Gaz said hurriedly, heading towards the door. 

“Wait! When and where do I meet your boss?” Soap called after him, Gaz already halfway out the door.

“Uh, just swing by the Oak Tree Lounge when you get off your shift. Ask for Roach at the door,” he tosses over his shoulder before leaving the room entirely. 

“Wai—” Soap sighs as the click of the door closing leaves him alone and with even more questions. 

Why the fuck am I meeting Gaz’s boss at a nightclub?

— — — 

Soap decides to park his motorcycle a block over from the club. The heavy rain throughout the day caused him to drive more cautiously than usual. Definitely the weather and not the sinking dread in his stomach causing him to prolong the drive. Gaz wouldn’t send you to your death can only be repeated so many times in an attempt to calm down. 

Soap despised this feeling. He wasn’t an anxious person. He was an adrenaline junky through and through. His idea of a good time included extreme snowboarding, cave diving, and mountain biking. He’s even jumped off a plane, twice! A meeting with one man shouldn’t have his heart racing like this. Maybe it’s different when it wasn’t your choice to be put into dangerous circumstances. Either way, it was truly pissing him off. “Grow some balls, MacTavish,” he mutters to himself as he dismounts his bike. 

Stepping in front of the club’s entrance, he ignores all the protests from people in line accusing him of cutting. If only they knew just how little he wanted to be there. The bouncer, engrossed in his clipboard, doesn’t bother to even glance upwards as Soap approaches. “Back of the line, mate,” he grunts dismissively. 

Soap didn’t have time for this. “I’m here to see…” Fuck. What the hell was that guy’s name? Something weird, like a bug. Moth? No… Gaz only said it like twice. Something with an R, maybe…. 

“Roach! I’m here to see Roach,” he blurts out. The bouncer finally lifts his gaze, eyeing Soap up and down with a scowl. “Wait here,” is all he gets before the ray of sunshine has someone else take over his esteemed clipboard duties before disappearing into the club.

Time seemed to stretch on endlessly as Soap waited, tension coiling in his stomach. Was it a bad time? Do you call ahead for criminal meetings? Maybe the police got to them. They all died at the hands of a rival gang or something. Would Gaz have been with them? Soap’s spiraling was interrupted by a whistle directed his way. He looks up as the bouncer gestures for Soap to follow him inside. Soap squares his shoulders, attempting to regain his composure before trailing behind the man. Alright, easy parts over.

They walk silently through the main hallway before he’s ushered into a small side door marked with an EMPLOYEES ONLY sign. Soap could hear the distant thump of music and people echoing from the main part of the club as they walked. He turned the corner into another hallway, where they found Roach lighting a cigarette. He flicks his lighter shut, acknowledging the bouncer behind Soap with a nod, signaling for him to leave them alone. 

He casually looks Soap over before ascending a pair of worn wooden stairs without a word. Soap isn’t entirely sure what to do but he thinks following the man is a safe bet. He can feel the vibrations of the pounding music through the creaky floorboards underneath his feet. 

At the top of the landing, Roach stood pointing towards the door at the end of the hall. “Just go in?” Soap asks. The taller man takes a drag from his cigarette before grabbing Soap’s shoulders and gently pushing him towards the door. “Good luck,” is all he says before retreating down the stairwell. Thanks Roach, that’s fucking reassuring. 

Soap hesitates at the threshold of the door, uncertain of the appropriate course of action. Should I knock? Roach's ambiguous instructions left him at a loss. After two tentative raps of his knuckles yielded no response, Soap decides to risk it and turns the doorknob.

The door swung open to reveal a fairly large and empty office space. A large desk occupied the center of the room, flanked by full bookshelves lining the back wall. Chairs and couches were arranged for guests, presenting a typical office setup. However, what caught Soap’s attention was the nearly floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the lively club below. It must have been soundproof due to the muffled music barely permeating the thick glass. The occasional strobe light passed over his face as he watched oblivious people dance below him. Mesmerized by the sight, Soap hadn’t noticed the presence of another in the doorway, their gaze fixed upon him. 

“They can’t see you.” 

Soap jumped at the deep voice cutting through the silence. He nearly got whiplash at how fast he turned his head to see the person who spoke. 

Standing in the doorway was a man, tall and imposing as hell. His outfit was entirely black, and doing nothing to hide just how fit he truly was, while letting no skin besides his face show. Even that was partially obscured with a black gaiter pulled up to the bridge of his nose. Short blond hair framed his angular features, amber brown eyes bore into Soap with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine. It was the same gaze that had haunted him since that night in his kitchen. 

“What?” Soap manages to croak, his mouth dry as desert sand. 

The man pushed off the doorframe with a casual grace unnerving for someone his size, strolling leisurely over to his desk.“The glass, it’s one way. The people down there can’t see us,” he simply stated. 

Soap’s subconscious was attempting to twist the simple statement into a thinly disguised threat: “No one can see you if I decide to do something to you.” His stomach churned at the thought that his apprehension might not be as irrational as he had hoped. 

He simply hummed in response, taking one last look at his once would-be potential witnesses below, and shuffled towards the velvet chair placed directly across the desk. As he settled into the seat, Soap couldn’t help but cast a quick glance at the man’s stomach where the bullet wound had been. Perhaps it was the eight years of medical training ingrained in him, but the man’s injury somehow made its way to the top of his list of concerns at the moment. 

“How’s the injury?” Soap rushed out before the man could speak first. The question seemed to catch the man off guard, freezing him momentarily as he slightly lifted a brow at the question. “Fine,” he replied in that gruff voice. 

Soap couldn’t help but bristle at the man’s tone. “You know, when someone saves your life, it’s pretty standard practice to say a bloody thank you.” Yep. That one earned both brows to raise. Price did always say his mouth was gonna get him in trouble someday. 

Soap tenses for a moment, his eyes analyzing the man’s seemingly relaxed posture and expression- or the amount of expression that was visible behind the mask. Maybe he was pushing his luck a little too far this time. 

 “Thank you, doctor,” is all he gets in that indifferent, monotone voice. Whatever, he’d take what he could get from this oversized prick. 

Soap leaned back in his seat, feeling a bit more at ease now that he wasn’t immediately met with a bullet to the head for a bit of sass. Give the man an inch…

“Listen mate, what I did was a favor for Gaz. I already told the Roach guy I wasn’t going to the police, so I feel like this ‘meeting’ is a little redundant. I’m not stupid enough to blackmail anyone, so can we just cut all ties here? We never met each other, simple as that. Hell, I don’t even know what you really look like.”

The other man didn’t say anything as he took in the Scot’s words. It seemed like a fair enough agreement, so Soap was more than confused when the other reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a thick unassuming manila folder. Plopping it down on the desk in front of Soap as some sort of response. 

The man nodded at Soap, gesturing for him to take a look at the contents of the folder before speaking. It felt as though pure ice filled Soap’s veins as he flipped through the thick folder. Page after page displaying his entire life, laid out in excruciating detail. Transcripts, lease agreements, rugby stats, school photos, parking tickets, bank statements, his fucking Tesco Clubcard. His whole life was packed away into a single folder. He wouldn’t be surprised if his favorite color was listed somewhere in there as well. 

The utter violation of his privacy was overwhelming until he flipped a page and was met with those dark blue eyes gifted by their father. Splayed over his lap were his sister’s photos, news articles about her equestrian team, essays for her classes, and even her dentist’s business card. The anxiety and nerves from before were instantly snuffed out by raw anger, his body was tense and his voice barely holding onto the guise of control.

 “Is this a threat?” was all he could grit out, his knuckles now white from nearly crushing the folder in his lap. 

The same calm, dead eyes stared back at him, and this time, Soap could have sworn the bastard was smiling under his mask. The man sat up in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk before him. “Not a threat doctor. An offer.”

“What?” Soap’s anger was quickly replaced by confusion at the man’s words. What the fuck was this wanker on about?

“Med school isn’t cheap, doctor. Neither is paying for your younger sister’s schooling as well. Even after all these years, you still owe nearly £140,000 ($175,000) as you can see in the documents provided,” the man continued, his tone matter-of-factly.

Soap’s stomach dropped at the staggering amount. He knew his debt was substantial, but hearing the figure laid out so plainly was a gut punch. He had gotten as many scholarships as he could, but the interest on the loans just kept moving the goalpost. The man was right, Med school was not fucking cheap. He made good money now but after rent, loan payments, and his sister’s bills he was barely making it by. He was too stubborn, and maybe a little ashamed, to take money when Price offered and he owed his mother too much to burden her with paying for school. He was the man of the family, it was his turn to take care of her and his sister. 

Soap blinked at the man, feeling a twinge of embarrassment at being called out for his financial struggles. “I’m not selling no bloody drugs,” he blurted out, unsure if he even had a choice to begin with.

That actually managed a small huff from the other man. “I don’t want you selling drugs. I want you as my on-call doctor,” he clarified, and Soap felt another pang of embarrassment at his assumption.

“What would you need an on-call doctor for?” Soap asked, his curiosity winning over his apprehension. 

“Well, let’s just say I’m not the only one who gets occasionally shot around here. I also can’t send my people to the hospital without people asking questions they have no business asking, now can I?” the man posed.

“Listen, I’m not even technically a doctor yet. I’m just a resident, and besides, I specialize in orthopedics. You’re lucky your wound wasn’t worse because I probably wouldn’t have been able to save you. You got bad knees or a broken foot, I’m your guy. I’m not trained to handle gunshot wounds,” he explained, his frustration mounting. 

“Still better than a vet,” the man quipped, pushing Soap’s patience to its limits. He was very close to jumping over the desk and throttling this man. Self-preservation be damned. 

“Look, the deal is you come when called, provide medical attention, and I’ll pay off part of your debt each time. You get paid to save lives during the day, what does it matter if it’s off the clock?” The man continued, unbothered despite the seething man across from him. 

Soap couldn’t hold it in anymore, standing up and slamming his hands down on the desk. “It matters because the people I help save aren’t being injured from breaking the law. And that’s exactly what I would be doing if I agreed. I could lose my license for that,” he pointedly stated. 

“I wouldn’t let you get caught, doctor,” the man assured, his tone infuriatingly confident to the point Soap actually believed him. 

“Stop calling me doctor!” Soap snapped, he was letting this man get under his skin and it was pissing him off. He sighed and sank back down in his seat. This conversation wouldn’t go anywhere if he kept getting angrier. 

Running his hands through his hair and over his face, Soap looked at the man with resignation. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” he muttered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. He felt utterly defeated, his pride wounded by the circumstances. 

“I always give people a choice, they just usually know which one’s the right option,” the man offered. 

“I’m not some medical prostitute,” Soap stated firmly through clenched teeth.  

“Of course not, doctor,” the man flippantly replied, the use of the title irking Soap to no end. 

“If I say no, are you going to let me walk through that door?” Soap asked, his gaze fixed on the man, searching for any hint of sincerity. The bastard slowly looked up at the ceiling, his hands folded as if he was genuinely considering his options. 

“I don’t know where you came up with the assumption I am a monster, doctor. No one is keeping you here. We both know you won’t go to the police, either out of fear of incriminating yourself or Gaz. It was a generous offer on my behalf, only trying to help,” the man punctuated with what Soap was sure was an overly dramatic smile, judging by the crinkle of his eyes. The man using his friendship with Gaz against him had that anger from a few minutes ago bubbling back up. 

“Then my answer is no. May I leave now?” Soap’s exhaustion was palpable. He longed to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the office and go back to his flat and sleep for five days straight. 

The other man didn’t say anything for a moment before standing up and reaching out a gloved hand towards the Scot. Hesitant, Soap pushed himself up on slightly shaky knees and grabbed the giant’s hand. His grip was ice cold and nearly crushing. He hoped the other couldn’t feel just how clammy his own hands were in comparison. While maintaining steady eye contact, the man finally spoke, “Thank you for saving my life, doctor.” Soap’s mouth went dry at the intense stare. “Yeah sure, no problem,” he managed to squeak out.

The taller man rounded the corner, his arm stretching towards the door for Soap to exit. As he got to the door, the man reached around to grab the handle, leaning in. His breath was hot against Soap’s neck even through the mask, sending shivers down his spine. 

“Name’s Ghost, by the way. I do hope I’ll get to see you again, doctor,” he murmured softly. Much too softly for a man of his stature. Soap’s brain felt like it had melted at the proximity of the other man, or rather, Ghost. And people tell him ‘Soap’ is a stupid nickname?

 In a poor attempt to save face, Soap awkwardly rushed through the door’s threshold, “Well, let’s fucking hope not,” he tossed over his shoulder, too afraid to look back at the man. 

Soap didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he turned the corner of the staircase and was out of Ghost’s sight. He rested against the wall, trying to calm his racing heart. Focusing on the pulsating vibrations emanating from the club below rather than his own beating heart. 

— — —

He didn’t even remember walking out of the club or the ride back to his apartment. His body operating on autopilot after the unsettling meeting or whatever the fuck that was. Soap didn’t even bother showering when he got home, opting instead to instantly collapse onto his couch as soon as his shoes were off. He could feel tears of relief and pent-up frustration welling up as soon as his head hit the cushion. 

Me

On-call doctor?! 

Yea, the ‘Ghost’ needed to stop smoking his own product. Like he was just gonna abandon years of schooling and hard work, and not to mention his eventual license, to cater to him and his ‘business’. And on the off chance he didn’t get caught, how could he live with himself saving criminals? Sure, he knows everyone deserves saving. Price engraved that into him a long time ago. He wouldn’t have become a doctor if he didn’t believe that. But he wouldn’t leave his legitimate patients to go save a random dealer who was more than likely shot by a cop at the drop of a hat. At worst, he’d go to prison; at best, he’d lose his job. Both options sucked. 

The only thing keeping the thought in his head was the money. Desperately needed money. Soap had considered getting a part-time job, but his busy schedule made that option nearly impossible. He was barely getting enough sleep as it was, and Price would skin him alive if he found out he got a second job instead of taking money from him. 

The man had been there for every rugby game, every time he was drunk off his ass and needed a ride, every existential crisis- including the time he popped a boner in the boy’s locker room and panicked. Price could have just offered his condolences at his father’s funeral and went on his way. Instead, the man was always there for them, no matter what. Soap refused to repay that loyalty with a mountain of debt. 

That fucker knew exactly what he was doing by putting his sister in that damned file. She was his weak spot, and Ghost wielded her like a perfect weapon. Even so, he’s managed this far, and he can manage for a bit more. He hadn’t hit rock bottom just yet. 

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the resident ball of fur hopping up in front of his face. A muffled, “ello beasty,” was all he got out before closing his eyelids one last time. That cold, amber gaze from earlier burned into his brain. Forever watching him, even in sleep. 

After one agonizing minute later, Soap stepped into the spacious shower, relishing in the hot water that cascaded over him. The soothing warmth of the water slowly coaxed him into full consciousness. He quickly rinsed his body and shampooed his hair, noting it was about time he scheduled a hair appointment as his mohawk was getting slightly too long for his liking. Gaz would always joke that it just meant it was “easier to pull” when he complained about it. Relishing in his embarrassment at the comment every damn time, the bastard. 

He turned off the water and instantly missed the warmth that had encompassed him mere seconds ago. He roughly toweled off his body, causing his hair to stand in every direction like he was electrocuted. He brushed his teeth and managed to halfheartedly tame his hair with some fancy mousse his sister had gotten him for his birthday last month. 

He stepped back into his bedroom, towel wrapped around his hips, after he was done grooming - as Gaz liked to call it - himself and headed to the tall dresser situated between two windows. The sun hadn’t started to rise just yet, casting his room in the same darkness he awoke in. He pulled out a pair of his signature dark blue scrubs. The uniform that had become like a second skin over the years. He pulled them on over a black long-sleeve thermal shirt his mum had gifted him for the colder months.

Fully dressed and somewhat presentable, Soap closed the bedroom door and headed down the hall towards his kitchen. As his socked feet turned the corner around the kitchen island, he was suddenly ambushed by a small white fur ball that took to climbing his leg like a tree. 

He hissed at the little trail of pinpricks its claws had left behind, gently scruffing it and setting it down on the counter. Just great. Another pair of scrubs filled with tiny holes for the collection. 

When asked, Soap was definitely more of a dog person. But with his sister in Uni at the moment, he reluctantly agreed to house her little demon spawn at his flat since it was closer to her school than back home in Scotland. Something about the freshman dorm no pet policies, yada yada. He really didn’t have an ideal schedule to have a pet, but his sister had truly perfected the puppy dog eye look over the years. He hadn’t stood a chance. 

“Wee little bastard,” he mumbled as he filled up her food bowl and set it down beside her. The tiny piercing cries instantly ceasing like the Oscar-worthy actor she was. The creature acts as if he starves her with the way she scarfs it down, barely coming up for air. 

He started flitting around his apartment, packing up his book bag with all the supplies he would need for the day. Sidestepping the demon spawn as she made it her mission to chase his feet and seemingly get him to break his neck. He made sure to pack extra snacks since he was working till midnight and knew he would get hungry. Konïg liked to claim that Soap got “hangry” when he went too long without food. Whatever. Not everyone had a loving husband who brought to die for homemade food to them during their shift. 

He looked around the apartment one last time before checking the clock on the stove, 6:11. He needed to be at work at seven which left plenty of time to swing by his favorite cafe across the street from the hospital. He slipped on his tennis shoes and bent down to pat the fur ball on the head one last time before slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t burn the place down beasty,” he only half joked. Grabbing his keys hanging up he locked the door and headed down to the parking deck where his motorcycle resided.

— — —

Soap stepped into the cafe and instantly got hit with the strong, but heavenly, smell of coffee and baked goods. He stood in line patiently waiting for his turn, watching the other patrons go on with their own lives for entertainment. As he stepped up to the counter he was met with a familiar beaming smile. “The usual, Soap?” the barista - Katie, as Soap had come to learn in his frequent visits - asked him while already writing down his order on the cup. “Yep, thanks Kat,” he replied, returning the smile. 

He stepped to the side to wait for his order after tapping his card and leaving his usual tip. It wouldn’t take long, it was a simple large dark roast with a touch of cream. Nothing like those legal cocaine sugary contraptions his sister was always ordering. Don’t get him wrong, he loved his junk food, but those were just a disgrace to the holy beverage that is coffee. He looked up as he heard his name called, giving a wink and a wave goodbye to Kat as she discretely slid him a muffin as well.

With his free breakfast  stuffed in his mouth, Soap looked both ways before half-jogging across the busy street. He pushed his way through the sliding doors of Manchester Royal Infirmary, zig-zagging around patients, nurses, and anyone else who found themselves in a hospital at almost seven in the morning. He navigated his way to the elevators before a nurse pushing a patient in a wheelchair cut in front of him. Great. He looked down at his watch, 6:58. 

He cursed under his breath before rushing towards the stairwell on the other side of the hallway. Soap ran up the stairs two at a time before crashing open the door of the second floor Orthopedics Department. He was nearly sprinting as he made a beeline to the nurse’s stations, all but collapsing on the desk as he reached his destination, trying to catch his breath. He heard the disappointed grunt of the man standing to his left, engrossed in a case file. 

He didn’t even look at Soap as he spoke, “You’re late.”

 Soap looked up at the clock that rested on the beige wall above the large desk area, 7:01. Shite.

“Oh come on Price! It's just one minute,” he managed to whine out between his pants. He made note to step up his cardio routine at the gym next time. 

“A minute mak-”

“Makes all the difference when it comes to savin’ lives. Yeah, yeah, I know,” Soap huffed out. It wasn’t even eight a.m. and he was already having to listen to Price’s stupid ‘notes of wisdom’ as the residents liked to call them. 

He dared a glance up at the man, who had now turned his undivided attention from his file to Soap. The man did not look impressed. John Price had been an Attending Physician at Manchester Royal Hospital and now the head of the Orthopedics Department. He also happened to be Soap’s mentor and an old family friend who had stepped in when Soap’s father passed away during his early teen years. The man was a character alright, one of the greatest surgeons in his fields and the reason Soap had even wanted to become a doctor. He sported a beard and mustache combo that was reminiscent of an old war general and an equally commanding demeanor. Everyone respected the man and for good reason. Price was known for his no-nonsense approach when it came to work, which Soap had the uncanny ability to poke and prod at until he had reached his limit. 

Despite knowing Soap for practically his whole life, Price gave him no special treatment. In fact, it often seemed like he was even harder on the young resident for it. Price had very high expectations for Soap and believed in him strongly, even if he wasn’t one to outright say it. Soap knew this and honestly, it was probably what had motivated him all this time to challenge himself and strive for excellence. Just one subtle nod of approval from the older man made years of sleep deprivation worth it. 

Price sighed as he shut the file before turning his body to face his young protege. “Do your rounds, catch up on your files and charts, and check on Ms. Wetherby’s leg will ya? I’ll see you at 1 for the Johnson surgery,” he stated then started to walk off. 

Soap just turned to the retreating man’s back with a shit-eating grin as he assumed position and held his hand up in a mock salute. 

“Aye Aye, Captain!” he yelled out. 

Price just ignored him while also being grateful his back was turned so the bastard couldn’t see him trying to hide the amusement on his face. 

Soap turned back around to meet the unapproving gaze of Nurse Farah. He feigned innocence at the look, “What?” 

“You’re lucky you haven’t been kicked out of the program Soap, I don’t know how that man puts up with ya,” she stated with a shake of her head, but still a teasing look to her expression. 

“Oh come on Farah, It’s not my fault I’m a genius with an ass that won’t quit. I got the whole package, Price can’t afford to lose me.” She scoffed at his statement, whacking him on the shoulder with a file as she strode by him. 

“Your an idiot, MacTavish.”

“Love ye too, Far Far.”

“Call me that again and I'll castrate you,” she tossed over her shoulder before disappearing around a corner. Soap nervously chuckled at what he knew wasn’t an empty threat. 

— — —

Rounds were probably Soaps least favorite part about being a resident. Necessary, but boring most of the time. He had to check the patients records, assess their vital signs and labs, make any notes he thought were pertinent. And this was just the pre-round tasks. During the actual rounds he had to go around and meet with each patient and their attending physician. Price was busy prepping for surgery today so he was stuck with a Dr. Maguire who looked like he could be Dracula’s grandfather. One stiff gust of wind and the man was done for. 

The rest of his shift after rounds consisted of ordering new tests, treatments, and imaging, talking to specialists about things he needed clarified, monitoring patients after any new treatments, and then finishing up on his notes and records. Gaz liked to call him a glorified receptionist with the amount of paperwork and filing he dealt with. It was somewhat true but he wouldn’t let Gaz have the satisfaction of him agreeing with the idiot. The only thing that made it bearable were the patients themselves. 

Soap was a people person through and through. He loved getting to know his patients, joke around with them, and just make their stay as comfortable as possible. Being in a hospital was usually a shitty situation 90% of the time, anything he could do to not make someone feel miserable was the whole reason he wanted to be a doctor. Cliché as it was. 

One particular patient who left a significant impression on Soap, Price as well, was an 80 year old firecracker named Ms. Wetherby. She had a knack for teasing and flirting with Price and Soap in ways that could make a stripper blush. She had come in when her knee started hurting a few weeks after she had a hip replacement, and she never failed to keep the staff entertained during her stay.

“And how is my favorite patient doin’?” Soap greeted with a smile as he looked up at the older woman after reviewing her charts.

“Just peachy. Now, what’s this crock of nonsense about no smoking in my room? That’s elder abuse, and I won’t stand for it,” she ranted, as was her custom. Soap huffed out a sigh as he started prodding at her knee and leg. 

“Ye know that’s the policy now, Ms. Wetherby. A lot has changed since the 1800’s,” he cheekily replied. His remark was met with a deserved smack to the back of the head. It wasn’t the first time the old bird had assaulted an attending and wouldn’t be the last. 

“Oi ya wanker, you're lucky I like ya hot stuff,” she grunted, but with a small smile playing on her lips. He grinned back at her as he rounded back to the end of the bed, taking up her chart and jotting down some more notes. 

“Speaking of hot stuff, you been getting shagged any, dearie?” Ms. Wetherby stated as if simply discussing the weather. Soap nearly choked on air at her bluntness. It was his own fault for even being surprised at this point anymore. 

“Now Marjorie, what did we discuss about prying into others lives, especially their sex lives?” he pointedly stated with a click of his pen. 

She scoffed at his reprimand. “Oi, bugger off. You try being bedridden at this age. Come on, give an old girl something to work with here,” she practically waggled her thinning eyebrows up at him. Soap shook his head with a laugh before turning to head out of the room. 

“Yer just gonnae have to get yer gossip from the other nurses. See ye later, Marj.” He could hear the old woman cursing at him as he walked down the hall. God rest the soul of the next orderly to enter her room and face her interrogation. 

— — — 

It was almost twelve the next time he looked up at the clock. The scrub nurses would start prepping for the surgery he was scrubbing in on at that point. He closed the file he was currently working on and started heading up to the floor that housed the operating rooms. God forbid he be a minute late again.

He always loved the days he got too scrub into a surgery. He wished Price would let him in on all of his but he had to accept he wasn’t the only orthopedic resident that needed experience. This time it was a shoulder arthroplasty. His first ever in fact, which had that excited energy buzzing through him. He had been staying up later than normal this past week to do some extra studying. Price loved to use surgeries to teach and actually engage residents unlike some of the other glory hog attendants. He had to be ready for whatever the older man threw at him. 

He scrubbed in and waited patiently for Price to do the same. He couldn’t help the small smirk hidden under his mask due to him beating Price there. “We’ll see if you're still smiling after this surgery resident MacTavish,” the old man stated for everyone in the operating room to hear. Soap really hoped the mask covered up the embarrassed flush creeping onto his face. Fuck. You couldn’t hide bloody nothin from that man. 

Soap and Price fell into a comfortable silence as they found their rhythm. Soap watching Price’s every move, listening intently as the man explained his actions occasionally. It was about an hour in when the low voice of his mentor cut through the current silence.

“All right Soap, how many joints are in the shoulder?” Price asked. Soap blinked up at the man, slight scrunch to his brows. That’s it? All those late nights studying and that’s it? 

“Four, sir. The Sternoclavicular, Acromioclavicular, Scapulothoracic, and Glenohumeral joints.” He hoped naming them would get him some extra brownie points.

Price didn’t acknowledge his answer, continuing to remove a piece of bone. “What is the scapulohumeral rhythm?” he asked next, still focused on his own task. 

“It’s a regular pattern of scapular rotation that accompanies and facilitates humeral abduction… uh, sir.” Alright, these aren’t too bad. He might make it out of here without Price making him feel like a complete idiot for once.

“Good. We are doing a glenoid implant today Soap,” the man stated while finally making eye contact. Soap just blinked back at him. “Walk me through it,” the bastard punctuated with a smile. The scrunch of his eyes was all he needed to know just how pleased with himself he was. 

— — —

All in all, the surgery went pretty well. He made one or two minor mistakes but he was only human. Price had given him a brief pat on the back when they exited the OR so he was pretty satisfied. He was currently on break, munching on a protein bar and playing some word game his sister got him into on his phone at the nurses station. It was only about eight o’clock when he sat down, still having four more hours left in his shift. 

His body was suddenly encompassed in the shadow of a looming figure hovering above him. Soap slowly raised his head, protein bar still in his mouth, locking eyes with a giant. Konïg reached down, still not having said a word, and plucked the protein bar right from his mouth, throwing it in the bin next to the desk.

“What the fuck?” Soap grumbled, clearly offended on behalf of the processed brick he was calling dinner that night. The Austrian just grunted back at him before placing a glass container of some steaming pasta dish that smelled like what Soap could only imagine Italian heaven smelling like. 

“You need to eat real food, Soap. No wonder you are so tiny,” the giant man so kindly pointed out. Soap just flipped him off while he stuffed the pasta into his mouth, burnt tongue be damned. 

After swallowing, Soap looked back up at the man who was now leaning on his elbows over the desk. “Yeah, well, we can’t all be built like a brick shithouse. What the hell did yer poor mother feed ye?” he asked before shoveling more into his mouth. Damn, it was fucking delicious.

“Real protein, not from a bar… and slow down. I’m not saving you if you choke.” 

“Bugger off,” Soap quipped with no real heat through a mouthful of pasta. 

Soap had known Konïg and his partner, Horangi, for about five years now. The giant Austrian was the head of the pediatric surgery department at the children’s hospital next door. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he was very intimidated when first meeting him. The man looked like he could be a human battering ram, for Christ’s sake, but Soap had come to learn quickly that he embodied every part of the phrase “gentle giant.” It took a special kind of person to be a pediatric doctor, and the man did it with ease. He even walked around in a white lab coat that he let his pint-sized patients draw on with colorful markers when he would talk to their parents. No wonder he and Horangi were expecting twins soon via surrogate. Even Soap’s nonexistent ovaries exploded every time he saw Konïg interact with children. 

“Alright, little one, my shift ended ten minutes ago, and I need to get home to Kim. I’ll let him know you enjoyed his pasta,” Konïg said as he pushed off the desk and grabbed his bag that was resting on the floor. 

It took a lot of effort for Soap to tear himself away from his food in order to get a word out. “Tell Horangi that my offer still stands for a throuple,” he shouted at the retreating man. A faded out “In your dreams” was all he got in return as König entered the elevator.  

— — —

As the day drew to a close, Soap conducted his last set of rounds for his shift. He was utterly exhausted. A seventeen hour shift, which included a four hour surgery, would do that to any man. His schedule worked out nicely so he would at least have the upcoming weekend off like a normal person for once. He made sure all his patients were situated and everything was in order for the next resident to take over. 

Soap also made sure to swing by Price’s office to say goodbye like he always did. The man was a workaholic and spent practically all of his time in the hospital if he wasn’t out fishing in the countryside. His mum had always badgered the poor man with comments about how he needed to get out and meet a woman. He knew all too well from personal experience the power of his mothers hounding. God rest Price’s soul if he showed up to Thanksgiving this year without a date, again. 

He knocked on Price’s door with the back of his knuckles, waiting for the muffled voice inside the room to welcome him in. He pushed open the door and was met with the man seated behind his desk, engrossed with whatever was on his computer screen. Soap walked over and plopped down into the over-stuffed leather chair that sat right across from the older man’s desk. 

He glanced around as he waited for Price to finish up whatever report or email he was working on. His eyes wandering to the picture frame tucked in the corner of the shelf behind him, right next to the man’s degrees and various medals. The picture was rough and kind of grainy, had a crease going down the middle where it had been folded one too many times. Even with all the wear and tear Soap could make out his father sitting down next to a younger Price, that famous smile of his taking up his entire face. They were in heavy, tan, tactical gear with some dusty desert stretching far behind them. Price had been in the same unit his father was stationed in, his father a demolitions expert while Price was medical. Brothers. That’s what his father would refer to his unit as. 

Soap tore his eyes away from the photo and looked back at Price. Pushing the swelling emotions back down as best he could. It still hurt to think of his father even after all those years. Thankful for the man before him for not abandoning his family when he easily could have. 

“You heading out?” Price asked, now giving Soap his full attention. 

“Aye, need anything before I go?” Soap asked. 

“If I said yes would you actually stay?” The man asked rhetorically.

“Not a chance, old man,” Soap smirked.

“Get outta here, get some sleep” he punctuated with a wave of his hand. 

“Was gonnae say the same thing to ye” Soap returned. 

“Yes, mum” Price said while going back to typing on his computer.

Soap let out a defeated sigh as he pushed up from the obscenely comfortable chair and headed to the door. The man was impossible. Him and Price may be more similar than he cared to admit, but Soap would never turn down the chance to catch up on some much needed sleep. 

— — —

As soon as he unlocked his door and stepped into his flat’s threshold, he had nails sinking into his neck followed by a tiny shriek.

“Bloody hell, Whisp!” he shouted while trying to unhook the claws from his flesh and not strangle the little demon at the same time. 

He finally got her to unlatch herself from his body and placed her down on the back of the couch. She had the audacity to start purring and rubbing against him like she didn’t just try to commit first degree murder. “Yer mother will be hearin’ about yer behavior,” he scolded before walking to his kitchen. He’ll tack the threatening to snitch on a cat up to sleep deprivation. 

He pulled a beer from his fridge and collapsed onto the oversized couch in the center of the room, trying his best to ignore the white fur ball that pranced over his legs and up his stomach. Soap watched as it yawned while little paws made biscuits for a few seconds before curling up in a little ball on his chest. He couldn’t help scratching its little head while snickering an amused “Long day, I see.” He grabbed the remote and switched on some random police procedural he had seen once or twice. He had been awake for about twenty hours at that point, what was a couple more before hitting the mattress?

It was about two episodes and three beers in when there was an abrupt banging on his front door that nearly gave him a heart attack. Whisp had the same sentiment if the death grip her claws had in his chest was anything to go by. He hissed as he lifted her up and to the side before muting his tv. He glanced up at the stove’s clock as he made his way to the door, it was fucking 3:05 in the morning. Who the hell was knocking on his door at this hour? He walked faster as the urgent banging continued, already planning out the apology email to his landlord after the guaranteed noise complaint he was gonna receive in the morning. He peeked through the peep hole for safety reasons, stepping back in confusion at the sight he saw before him. 

He opened up the door hesitantly, the man’s fist still midair when he turned to make eye contact with Soap. “Gaz? What the bloody hell are ye doin’ here so early?”

Gaz had this wide eyed expression that had anxiety building up in Soap’s stomach instantly. It could have also been the corner store burrito he grabbed on his way home, but something was definitely wrong. “Soap, we need help. Now.” Gaz stated as he took a step to the side. 

Soap finally took in the other two men that had been standing behind him the whole time. One of them was propping up the other, the guy’s arm wrapped around his neck for support. Soap couldn’t discern much, just that both men were dressed entirely in black. He noticed the patch on the slumped man’s stomach that was unusually darker then the other parts of the sweatshirt he was wearing. Call it a doctor’s intuition, but he knew instantly what it was. His thoughts were broken by Gaz’s desperate, pleading voice. “Please Soap.”

Soap and Kyle had been best friends since first meeting back in university. They were randomly roomed together but got on like exploding peas in a pod, as his mum liked to say. Always getting into trouble together. As Soap went into medical school, he tried to leave his troublemaker days behind him. Gaz, on the other hand, didn’t quite get the same memo. Soap loved him all the same though, despite the questionable crowd of people he tended to hang around.

His eyes flicked back at the men once more before returning back to Gaz. Oh Fuck me. He stepped back in the universal expression of “come on in.” Gaz instantly deflated in relief as he helped stranger #1 carry the near unconscious stranger #2 into his apartment. Soap watched as they set him down on his kitchen table after quickly clearing it off. 

He grabbed Gaz’s arm, maybe a little harsher then needed, pulling him back into the corner for some privacy from his unwelcome guests. 

“What the fuck, Garrick?!” he whisper shouted at the other man. He watched Gaz grimace and hunch his shoulders at the usage of his last name. Good, he needed to know how angry Soap was at the moment. 

“He’s been shot Soap. Hospitals are not an option. You’re the first person I thought of. Please, just help him,” he said without looking Soap in the eyes. 

“Take him to a fuckin’ vet then!” Soap yelled. 

That finally had Gaz looking up at him. “For me man, please.”

Soap was certain that his face was as red as the small puddle forming on his kitchen floor. If looks could kill, Gaz would be six feet under by now. He cursed himself as he stormed off to his bathroom without another word. 

He grabbed his first aid kit from under his sink and made his way back into the kitchen, all while muttering Scottish nonsense that had gotten him plenty of good knocks to the back of the head by his mum while growing up. 

“How long has it been since he got shot?” he asked to no-one in particular. 

“Almost two hours,” the non half-dead stranger who was now leaning back against his kitchen island replied. 

Soap didn’t respond, just started setting up what supplies he would need. Paying extra care to sterilize all the metal utensils he would use. He didn’t have much to work with in his home, not really expecting to take care of bullet wounds anytime soon. 

Gaz and the other man had moved over to the living room, whispering about god knows what. The stranger’s voice remained steady and calm but Soap could tell by his tense body language he was anything but. He was glad the men were out of the way though, he didn’t need them hovering when he was trying to work. He was already stressed out enough as it was. His hands had begun to slightly shake at that point, from the anxiety, alcohol, or exhaustion he wasn’t quite sure. 

He finally looked down at the man who was splayed out and bleeding on his kitchen table. Ignoring him up until that point had made it a little easier to not freak out at the situation he was thrown into. 

If this man died, it was on him and him alone. No Price to walk him through it. No team of nurses to help him when something went wrong. No team of lawyers there to protect him after. Doesn’t matter if he didn’t pull the trigger, the other stranger could just as easily blame him for it. They both held the others lives in their hands. 

He couldn’t really tell what the man looked like, his face was covered by a black balaclava allowing only his eyes and blonde brows visible. He's pretty sure he had one just like it somewhere in his closet for when he would go snowboarding. He couldn’t help but wonder why the man was wearing it in early October. If they were worried about their identities, why wasn’t the other guy wearing a mask? 

He left the thought for now, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to steady his racing heart. He grabbed the pair of sterile scissors that were laid upon the table among the other various supplies and tools. He just barely grasped the end of the mans sweatshirt before his wrist was snatched by the other’s hand. The grip was deadly despite how weak he must have been, Soap could feel just how cold and clammy the man’s skin was. It sent shivers of his own down his spine. 

Soap’s gaze flicked up to meet the man’s half lidded eyes, pure terror reflecting back at him. Soap’s heart pained at that terrified look. No shit the man was scared out of his mind. He had been shot and was now in some random guy’s flat, with said man holding a potential weapon above him. He was probably delirious from the blood loss on top of all that as well. 

“Hey, it’s okay mate. I’m just gonnae patch ye up. That’s all. Yer okay,” he tried to say in the most calm and soothing voice he could muster. The man just scowled back at him, clearly untrusting which Soap couldn’t blame him for. 

“Look, I need to get that bullet out before it gets infected. Ye chose no hospitals, so let me do my job.” The more stern tone must have worked cause the man finally let his hand fall off Soap’s wrist after going over his non existent options for a moment. Soap let out a relieved breath of air he didn’t realize he had been holding in. 

Soap continued cutting a line up the thick hoodie, the task harder than necessary with just his blunt kitchen scissors to use. He paused as he pulled the two different sides open to reveal a scarred body that was basically sculpted from marble. Soap was no twig himself, having played rugby his whole life and even getting an offer to play in Uni, which he had to turn down due to his already busy pre-med schedule. So to say he was impressed by the man’s physique was saying something. Hell, the man was almost as big as Konïg. Soap suddenly realized what he was doing, could feel his face heat up from the embarrassment at his blatant gawking of the man when he was bleeding out. 

He shook his head and grabbed some gauze and a saline pouch to start cleaning the wound. It honestly wasn’t as bad as he thought it was going to be. It wasn’t through and  through, but it didn’t look like he was losing anymore blood which was good. The main goal was to get the bullet out first, hopefully it was all in one piece and he wouldn’t need to do much digging around. If it had hit bone and broken into fragments…well, one thing at a time. He didn’t have a pair of forceps sitting around so the best he could do were a pair of tweezers his sister had left at his place. The man flinched at the cold metal sifting through his flesh, but all in all remained pretty calm. Soap was worried he was going to have to get Gaz or the other man to hold him down at first. The injured man hadn’t said a word this whole time, though Soap couldn’t really blame him. He was impressed he had stayed conscious this long with the amount of blood he probably lost.

He was starting to get worried after a while until he finally felt the unwanted projectile lodged between two rib bones. Soap silently thanked a higher being that it hadn’t punctured the mans lung or any other vital organs. He was lucky, or at least as lucky as someone who was shot could be. He slowly pulled his hand back out, trying his best not to jostle the wound any worse. Soap could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, tickling him as it ran down his neck. As soon as the bullet clinked against the metal bowl on the table, Soap nearly collapsed onto the floor. 

He couldn’t fully celebrate yet as he still had to patch up the wound and make sure the man lived and got the fuck out of his kitchen. He grabbed the needle and thread from the table and quickly got to work sowing the man back up. Throughout the whole process, the man's piercing gaze never wavered from Soap’s face. It made him really uncomfortable if he was being honest. He felt like prey being zoned in on by a starving predator. In his efforts to focus on his task and avoid the other, he hadn’t noticed the man finally lost his battle with consciousness at some point. Soap couldn't help but stare at the man, he looked like an entirely different person when his face was at peace. Tense lines flattened out, brows un-furrowed from the intense pain he must have been feeling while conscious.

He tore the medical tape with his teeth and placed a large dressing over the now closed up hole in the man’s side. The other guy Roach, or whatever Soap had heard Gaz call him, had been checking in frequently between the seemingly fifty phone calls he took. He finally had returned to the kitchen at some point, looking over his friend? brother? lover? - who knew. 

Soap hadn’t realized he was holding his breath again while waiting for the man to finally speak. “Good job,” he simply stated while observing the wound. 

Soap liked to think he did a fucking fantastic job considering everything, but knew better than to share his opinions. “There were no fragments left behind, he should be able to get away with just some scarred tissue. Just be on the lookout for infection, and go to the fuckin’ hospital if his fever gets worse” he instructed. 

Gaz and Roach both lifted the other man and carried him to what he was guessing was a waiting car parked outside somewhere. Gaz had told him he would call him as soon as he could and explain everything, not leaving much room for argument. Soap just nodded, having no energy left in him to argue or yell again. It was a miracle he was still standing, being awake for over twenty four hours straight now. 

He dug through his mirrored cabinet above the bathroom sink while the two men were getting situated outside. He finally found the orange bottle he was looking for, satisfied by the amount of rattling pills still left. He gave Roach the basic facts of cleaning the wound and the signs he should look for in case anything went wrong. 

“Here, it's just some basic antibiotics. Only one a day. He can take some ibuprofen if the pain gets too bad,” he said as he placed the bottle in the others outstretched hand. He was pleased at the mans attentiveness to what he was saying, he clearly cared about the injured man. That warm feeling going up in flames instantly at the mans blatant threat if Soap called the police or told anyone about this incident. Like he was an idiot.  

Soap just stood there in the middle of his apartment as the two men shut the door behind them. Gaz giving him one last sympathetic look as he left. He was finally alone again but for some reason that made him feel even more unsettled. He looked down at his blood stained clothes then up at the mess of his kitchen table. Eyes glazed over as his body felt utterly numb. 

What. The. Fuck.