Beyond Life and Death.

“Johnny.” And fuck him, he can hear the smile in his voice, see the soft crinkle of brown eyes from the harsh spotlight of the bird hovering above. “All the others up there too scared to take this one?”

This go around, it’s officers waiting on targets throughout the airfield with lower ranks doing the ‘rescuing’ from helos, and dare he say it’s going much smoother than last month when they’d done the reverse. But it’s too early (late?) for feelings of such smugness.

“Please, sir, a free chance to get my legs around ye? Everyone’s been climbin’ over each other to be the first ones done and back to bed. Practically had to beg one of the cunts to trade me.”

“Hm.” That smile’s still there.

Christ, Soap has missed him. He can’t help the easy grin, the flirting, the falling back into the natural rhythm of them.

Once the harness straps are situated over Ghost and the hoist line clipped back on, he gives the lift signal and moves their slowly ascending bodies into the safety position: his thighs snugly around Ghost's waist, just like he’d been excited for. The heels of his boots press into the back of strong calves. Secure. Hot. Perfect. Highly fucking unprofessional, but hey.

“Slept any since gettin’ back?”

Ghost shakes his head.

“Well, don’t worry your pretty head about it. We’ll have ye rescued and tucked in bed soon.”

“My hero,” Ghost deadpans.

The furthest thing from his mind is the possibility of jerking to a halt mid-air, but suddenly here they are. Jerking to a halt. The rope goes more and more taut—he can feel the tension winding up. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He flips his mic on, ready to shout up that something’s wrong, when they begin free fall. All he can think is, ‘This is it.’ There’s no way they don’t snap their necks or spines, even in full kit.

He thinks he yelps out a bloodcurdling ‘fuck,’ or maybe that’s Ghost, or maybe it’s both of them in harmony.

And then they stop with an excruciating jolt, cable twirling them in the air as the slack straightens out. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but is a simple training exercise really too much to ask for? It’s always fucking something, isn’t it?

They both groan, and Soap has definitely broken his collarbone against the harness if the agony is any indicator. They’re both going to have bruises from the straps—will probably look like they proper tied each other up and had a good time. And he hears it.

The ripping of the cord above them.

He tightens his legs around Ghost because he knows the rest is coming. Ghost knows too; slides his arms around Soap’s back and pulls his helmet clad head forward into his chest.

And all Soap can think is, ‘He’s trying to save you.’

“MacTavish, thought I told you to stop terrorising my patient,” the medic says, entering the room to check something on the computer and seeing him perched on the foot of Ghost’s bed. Again.

“Ruby, love, am I not your patient too? Besides, Ghost, am I terrorising ye?”

“Always.”

Soap rolls his eyes.

“Don’t Ruby, love, me,” she says. “Get to your own bed so my aide doesn’t have a heart attack every time he comes in to monitor you and sees an empty spot where a bastard should be.”

“Dinnae think I need to be monitored. How could I have a concussion if this knight in spooky armour broke my fall? And we were in full kit.”

Ruby groans, rubbing her temples in what appears to be a growing headache. “You know protocol as well as I do. Unless you’d like me to transfer you to Hereford County. I’m sure the wait alone would be a hundred times better than here. Not to mention them having to go through every single thing in your chart with you, including that time—”

“Alright.” He does the walk of shame across the room to his own bed, Ghost watching silently amused through the whole exchange. Ruby seems satisfied enough to step back out.

Soap settles the best he can with his arm in a sling and a bruised body. It’s fine. This is fine. It’s just that he’s been waiting weeks to pester Ghost, and here he is, here they both are, stuck in the same room after a bloody insane cock-up of a training exercise. Perfect opportunity for pestering. And like a magnet, like a planet escaped from his orbit and now suddenly returned, he wants to be as close to him as possible.

Especially after Ghost purposely took the brunt of the fall for him like that.

Some equipment inspector better be getting the chewing out of a lifetime for not thoroughly checking those lines.

“How many times was that again?” Ghost asks, referring to Soap being admonished like a child.

“Only the third.” The first time, Ruby had been much nicer about it.

Ghost makes a noise that is definitely not a laugh, because laughing hurts his cracked ribs. He watches him try to suppress it with a sick sort of satisfaction. Just got back to base only to get into a training incident, running on fuck knows how long without sleep, and Soap is amusing him. Nobody else gets the privilege of seeing him like this. So unguarded, so Simon. Gaz and Price, to an extent, but not the way Soap has him. He’s seen the differences. Never lets himself think too hard about what that might mean.

When Ghost winces from the pain, he shoots to his feet once more. Christ, he just needs something to do.

“There’s gotta be lidocaine patches in here somewhere.” He opens a random drawer.

“Already got one on, Johnny.”

He rifles through the drawer anyway.

“Why don’t ye have a kip? We’ll be here till noon, at least.” They’ve already been here an hour. Base will be serving breakfast soon.

“Been a bit much goin’ on in here to sleep.” Ghost looks at him pointedly.

"Aye, well." He shuts the drawer. Opens another one. "Sorry."

"You're not."

He’s not. But Ghost doesn’t say it in any way other than fond.

When Ruby steps in again, instead of a fourth reprimand, she simply gives him a blank stare before turning on her heel and leaving. Right then. Seems she’s reached her Soap MacTavish limit for the day. Good.

His feet take him back over to stand beside Ghost’s bed—gravitational pull and all that.

“Havenae said how the op went.”

Ghost sighs, looking like he’s resigning himself to zero rest and having no qualms about it. If Soap didn’t know any better, he’d say he missed him just as much.

“Swimmingly. Probably got flesh-eating bacteria from just how swimmingly.”

Just then, a med-team rushes in, strips the sheets off Soap’s abandoned bed, replaces them with fresh ones, and deposits some unlucky cunt in a back brace on top. Looks like they're not the only accident prone soldiers tonight.

“Uh,” he says, looking to where Ruby stands overseeing in the doorway. She silently points to Ghost’s bed, and goes to her new patient, pulling the privacy curtain as far as it will go.

Ghost scoots his legs over to the side, making room for him to sit.

He’s not a blusher but if he was…

He perches on the edge of Ghost’s cot just like how he’d been earlier, like nothing is different now and he hasn’t just been exiled from his own bed and consolidated to Lieutenant Simon Ghost Riley’s without a word of protest from anyone, including himself. Jesus Christ.

“Anyway. Ye were saying about flesh eating bacteria.”

He looks over to Ghost’s face in expectation of a quip, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his head is resting back against the pillow, eyes closed, breathing even with the rise and fall of his chest clad down to his base t-shirt layer. His balaclava is on but no trace of grease paint or dirt. Looks like he had right enough time to shower and head to the airfield after getting back from his op.

Harsh lines all smoothed out, just for Soap.

The room is comfortably cool for him, which means Ghost is probably getting cold, but they’re both sitting on top of the blanket. He opens his mouth to ask whether he wants to cover up, but thinks against it last second. Still, his lips parting and smacking shut make a wet noise that has Ghost peeking an eye open.

“Not asleep. Don’t have to be quiet, Johnny.”

Something in his chest melts at that.

“Ye almost were,” he tries to say just as softly.

“Maybe.” Blond lashes flutter shut again.

It looks—enticing. The way the tension has bled from him, the lure of sleep after a night of far too much excitement, even for him.

He decides he doesn’t need to ask. Simply stands up to tug the scratchy blanket out from under Ghost’s arse and legs, and then feels guilty when he grimaces from the friction against his bruised backside. Ghost had landed mostly on his back with Soap pulled safely in on top of him. Fucking lucky he didn’t break his spine, the absolute numpty.

Soap pulls the blanket over him and hesitates. Well. He’s already here.

Ghost, without even opening his eyes, budges over the rest of the bit he can without tumbling out. Soap has to bite his tongue so he doesn't say something stupid and lovesick, takes the offered spot, and pulls the blanket up over both their legs. Or—over Ghost’s legs and the one of his own stretched out on the bed. The other is dangling off, foot braced against the floor.

It’s a wee cot. They are not wee men.

“Finally feel like resting now, do you, Johnny?”

“Shh,” he shushes. There’s no heat in it—there’s not much of anything in it, really. He’s already gone soft and shapeless here pressed against Simon Riley.

Ghost huffs, and he can feel the resulting flinch from the action. Wishes he could take some of the pain for himself, aside from his measly broken collarbone.

“I was the one meant to be doin’ the saving, ye ken.” He lets his head fall gently against the steady shoulder beside him, careful not to nudge his ribs, and immediately goes all fuzzy and warm in the brain. The day, the weeks, finally catching up.

“Instinct I reckon, Johnny.” It’s barely a whisper, and he’s not sure his dozing brain doesn't make it up entirely, but in the next moment he swears there’s a press of lips to his hair.

Gaz is laughing at them.

They almost died, and Gaz is laughing at them.

Soap surfaces slowly, dragged up out of the best sleep he's had in weeks by the sound of badly stifled cackles near the foot of the bed. Great.

He pries one eye open. Gaz is standing there with a tray of breakfast in one hand, and his phone in the other, the absolute traitor, grinning like Christmas has come early.

"Garrick," Ghost warns like he’s willing the universe to just let the peace last a while longer.

"I haven't even said anything," Gaz manages.

"You're wheezing it loud enough."

Soap doesn't move, doesn't dare, because he knows his neck is going to ache like the devil from falling asleep at this angle. He’d wanted some of the pain and he guesses he got it. It's absolutely going to be worth it. Would have been worth it for even a few minutes snuggled up next to this man.

“I just wasn't aware this was an option. How do I not get a bedmate next time I’m in medical?” Gaz is really cracking himself up.

“Easy. Just don't piss Ruby off,” Soap mutters, nuzzling his nose against Ghost despite it all.

Like clockwork she appears.

Vladimir moves. Gaz moves. The Bastard Couple, as if magnetised, moves. He’s beginning to think the universe is taking the piss, when Vladimir stops at the edge of the market, makes a call, and reaches into his jumper. Shit. So much for those last two objectives.

“Move!” He hooks an arm around Mohawk and catches the tall one’s sleeve with his other hand, sending both of them careening to the ground behind the nearest stall. Mohawk is wide-eyed, and the tall one has gone completely still in a way Gaz recognises. Assessing the situation. Interesting. But he doesn’t have time to wonder about that right now—there is shouting coming from everywhere, but the most important thing is that there’s not been any gunfire. Yet.

“Stay,” he orders.

Weapon drawn, he steps out, and approximately five minutes later his team is loading a wounded moustache-twirling-villain in cuffs into an ambulance. Easy enough, even if not according to plan. News crews are already descending.

He doesn't expect to find the Bastard Couple exactly where he left them—figured they’d be miles away by now because in his experience, civilians usually do the exact opposite of what he tells them. But not these two. Still sitting on the pavement, even. Curious.

Mohawk is staring at him like he’s just seen God, only it’s not in the scared sort of way he usually finds in these situations. More like he’s staring at Gaz like he’s God. And Tall One is giving him an obvious up-and-down with a slightly tilted head that he’s not sure is a threat assessment or just an assessment. His cheeks warm.

“Did ye kill that fucker?” He’s not sure why the Scottish accent surprises him. It’s fitting.

“No. Shot his knee out, though.”

“Ah.” Scottish Mohawk presumably thinks he’s being discreet when he moves his hand to cover between his legs, clearly turned on by the violent remark or maybe by the competence. Somehow he just knows it’s not an adrenaline stiffy.

The tall one notices and it earns a tiny laugh and smile. Jesus. He’s rescued a couple of freaks. Now that he’s really taking in their faces, he might need to upgrade their name to Hot Bastard Freak Couple. They couldn’t look more different, but both interesting in their own appearance and mannerisms. And suddenly, with the detached professionalism of someone who is absolutely still on duty, he thinks: