#ghostsoap fluff

“Christ almighty. Looks like every bleedin’ sod on base is in here,” Gaz groans as he takes the seat opposite Ghost in the mess hall.

Beside him, Price grunts in agreement. “That’ll be the new cross-service training program. Latest brainchild from the higher-ups.”

“They took the last of the Cocoa Puffs,” Gaz mutters.

“Cocoa Puffs?” Price stares at him. “Are you five?”

Gaz chuckles. “If you think I’m bad, just wait until Soap finds out. We’ll be hearing about it for the next week.”

Ignoring them, Ghost looks around the crowded mess. Gaz was right—there are hardly any open seats left. Normally, this amount of people would send him retreating to his room, but lately, Ghost has found himself taking more and more meals with the rest of the 141.

He isn’t quite sure when that had changed.

Something about the familiarity of Price and Gaz and Soap felt comfortable. Ghost doesn’t need to explain himself to them. He doesn’t have to endure the stares or the whispered comments. They understand him. Which…is probably Soap’s handiwork.

Speaking of Soap…

He cranes his head, but he can’t locate the Scot. Definitely can’t hear the loudmouth bastard above all this noise. Ghost shifts uneasily in his seat as the table fills up, widening his stance in his chair and using his bulk to discourage access to the seat next to him.

He isn’t saving Soap a seat.

No. He isn’t.

A body plops into the seat one chair down. Ghost feels a growl building in his chest, and he has to grip his fork tighter so he wouldn’t stab the fucker.

Okay. Maybe he is saving Soap a seat. What of it?

Ghost is starting to get annoyed. Where the hell was Soap?

Finally, he catches a glimpse of that ridiculous mohawk cutting through the sea of bodies. Laden with his tray, Soap is taking his sweet fucking time, stopping to chat here and there with random people, making his way to the 141’s table at a glacial pace.

“There he is.” Gaz waves. “Oi! MacTavish!”

Soap is only a few meters away when a corporal tries to slide into the seat next to Ghost. Before he can complete the thought, Ghost shifts to block him silently, broad shoulders angled, his own chair subtly positioned like a barricade.

The man clears his throat. “Uh…mind if I—”

Ghost doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the corporal from behind his balaclava, leaning in to every rumor that’s ever been circulated about him. The silence stretches, heavy, and the corporal freezes mid-step, shifting his weight nervously.

From across the table, Gaz chuckles softly, leaning back in his chair. “Better bugger off, bruv. Looks like the LT’s got that one saved.”

The corporal pales, mutters something that sounds like an apology, and beats a hasty retreat. Ghost doesn’t relax fully until the threat has completely withdrawn.

That’s when he notices Soap, jaw slack, standing there like a planker.

For a moment, Ghost almost grins at how stunned he looks… Soap has been waiting for this, and Ghost knows it.

Soap blinks, looks at the chair, then back at Ghost. “This, ah…this seat taken, LT?”

“That depends…” Ghost pauses, amused. “You gonna sit or just stand there gawkin’?”

Still clutching his tray, Soap slowly lowers himself into the chair next to Ghost. Picking up his knife and fork, Ghost begins precisely cutting bangers into pieces. Across the table, Gaz and Price are sipping their tea silently, watching as Ghost tugs the balaclava up over his nose and mouth, and digs into his breakfast. Normally, this would annoy Ghost, but he’s enjoying himself too much to care.

In his peripheral vision, Ghost sees Soap look down at his tray, then back up at Ghost. Stares, like he’s just been hit by a flashbang.

Ghost grins at his eggs.

He lets the silence stretch, still grinning, until he scoops up a bite of eggs, pausing just before the fork reaches his mouth. “Finally found a way to shut you up, eh?”

Across the table, Gaz chokes on his tea, sputtering a laugh. Price slaps him on the back, his own moustache twitching suspiciously.

Ghost pauses midchew. “What?”

Soap’s still staring at him, along with the rest of the table. And Price, the bastard he is, says in a perfect deadpan, his eyes crinkling at the edges, “Nothing, Riley. Carry on.”

Moustache twitching, Price lifts his coffee cup to cover his pleased smile, but somehow, he doesn’t quite manage it.

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Soap is dead on his feet.

He’s doing a passable job hiding it, but Ghost can tell. Maybe it’s because he knows exactly what Soap’s gone through in the past week, and maybe it’s because he’s been around him long enough to see through his false bravado, but Soap is struggling.

So when Ghost opens the door to the hotel room Laswell booked for them and sees only one bed, he only cringes a little.

He braces himself for a cheeky remark, but Soap only stares at the bed, blinks, and shuffles past it. He’s still limping a little and trying to hide that, too.

Ghost stands in the doorway and watches Soap stiffly pull off his tac vest.

“You can take the first shower,” he says.

Soap doesn’t turn around. “I’m fine. You go first.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion, Sergeant.”

That got him to turn. Ghost has noticed that about him.

“You ordering me to shower, LT?” It’s followed by the faintest of smiles, but it’s still there.

“Yes. You reek.”

“As well I should. Been doin’ all the heavy liftin’ whilst you were sitting comfy up in yer perch….”

Soap’s muttering trails off as he limps into the bathroom. Ghost watches him go. He doesn’t know how to address the elephant in the room. What happened up on the eightieth floor of that tower.

When Soap had nearly died. Again.

Ghost hasn’t paused to examine his own thoughts on the matter. Seeing Hassan dragging Soap’s body to the blown-out window. Hauling him to his feet. Soap struggling weakly, breathlessly whispering his location into his mic with nothing but open air between him and a freefall to his death. Ghost knows the visceral, gut-jerk reaction he experienced at that moment, something akin to having a fishhook lodged in his guts and forcibly pulling them up through his throat. He knows the feel of the sniper rifle kick as he took the shot, and how his hands didn’t shake until after it was all over. He knows how he zipped up those feelings, his singular mission to see Soap alive and whole standing in front of him the only thing that mattered. These are things buried deep down in a locked box Simon keeps, only to be unzipped and considered when he is alone and it is safe.

What Ghost hasn’t been able to determine is the effect all this has had on Soap.

He knows there are more bruises beneath that tac vest, added to the ones from Las Almas. He knows that brace is doing fuck-all for Soap’s knee, just like he knows Soap’s added yet another concussion to his tally.

And despite Soap’s best efforts, Ghost knows his sergeant is not okay.

Somewhere between Las Almas and Chicago, Ghost has become attuned to the finer art of reading Johnny MacTavish. It’s subtle, his tells, but Ghost has begun to learn.

Walking over to the table in the corner, Ghost starts to strip off his body armor, stacking it neatly next to the haphazard pile Soap has left of his own. Off come the knives and the radio, the gloves and the skull mask. The balaclava stays.

It’s only after he makes Soap a coffee and himself a tea—because they may be bloodied, dirty, and tired, but they aren’t barbarians—that he notices the duffle bag Laswell has left on the chair. Inside is a change of clothes for both of them, as well as two pairs of sweats and a disposable toiletry kit. It’s not their own clothing, but for now, it’ll do.

Ghost stacks his own clothing neatly to the side and gathers Soap’s in his hands. He stands outside the closed bathroom door for a long moment, debating, before he opens it, immediately engulfed by a wall of steam.

“LT?”

“Laswell packed a change of clothes.” Ghost sets the clothing pile on the vanity. “Leave some hot water for us, will ya?” he adds as an afterthought. Teasing. Probing.

Behind the shower curtain, Soap chuckles, and the coil of tension in Ghost’s gut loosens slightly.

He backs out of the bathroom. Paces the room a bit. Checks his phone—plans from Price to meet up at the bar downstairs tomorrow night. Double checks the lock and deadbolt on the front door, the latches on the windows. Verifies the magazine in his pistol and tucks it beneath the pillow.

When Soap finally emerges from the bathroom, Ghost is sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped loosely between his knees.

The sweatpants are a little big on Soap, but the tee shirt fits just fine. He hasn’t bothered to shave, and the sooty smudges beneath his eyes are dark enough to look like bruises in the light from the nightstand, but the damp droop off that rebellious mohawk is the perfect metaphor for the way everything about Soap screams exhaustion.

“Shower’s all yours.” Soap spies the two steaming mugs on the table. “Steamin’ bloody Jesus, is that coffee? Yer a saint, LT. Me heid’s pure mince.”

Beneath the balaclava, Ghost suppresses a smile. “English, MacTavish.”

“My head hurts.” Soap grunts as he climbs beneath the covers. “You bloody English bastard.”

“Should’ve let the medics have a look. Your knee, too.”

“I’m fine.”

Ghost doesn’t miss this sharp intake of breath when Soap goes to lay down. “You don’t sound fine.”

“Took a round to the vest right before Hassan knocked me out. Just a wee bit sore, is all.”

“Let me see.”

Soap doesn’t say anything, and Ghost stiffens. He doesn’t know why he said that. He knows he’s pushing too hard—Soap’s as prickly as a hedgehog when he’s injured—but just knowing Soap is in pain and not letting him help is making him feel so goddamn helpless.

“Dinna ken when ye turned into such a mother hen.” Soap stiffly rolls over, his back to Ghost. “Which means you’re a meddlesome bother, LT.”

It’s not lost to Ghost how ‘LT’ seems to be slipping into Soap’s dialogue more and more. When did that happen? Had it somehow slipped between them that night in Alejandro’s safehouse? Had he pushed too far? Was that what Soap wanted?

It’s a funny thing, Ghost thinks, to be the one seeking closeness. For Soap to be the one pulling away.

Ghost doesn’t know what to do or what to say, so he says nothing.

And retreats to the bathroom.

When he gets out, the coffee mug is empty, his tea is cold, and Soap is pretending to sleep on the far side of the bed. Ghost knows Soap is pretending, because the rise and fall of his shoulders is far too even, and he’s far too still. But he doesn’t comment on it—instead, he just slips beneath the covers, rolls to his side, faces the wall, and pretends to sleep as well.

Ghost must actually fall asleep at some point, because when he wakes several hours later, Soap is having a nightmare.

He’s twitching, covers twisted around his legs, making small noises like he can’t breathe.

“Soap?”

At first, Ghost’s first instinct is to let Soap work his way through it. He knows firsthand how jarring it is to get ripped out of a nightmare, and the last thing he wants is to make it worse. Ghost’s hand hovers over Soap’s shoulder, indecisive.

Then Soap stops breathing altogether.

“Soap?” Ghost grips his shoulder and shakes him. “Johnny?”

Soap bolts upright, sucking in air like he’s drowning. His eyes are wild but unfocused, and the way his chest heaves—too fast, too shallow—Ghost knows he’s not really here. Not yet.

“Johnny.” Ghost reaches for his wrist, thumb pressing against the pulse point. Jesus. It’s galloping, fluttery and uneven, like Soap’s heart is about to hammer itself apart. He’s seen this before. He’s lived this before. He knows exactly where it leads.

“Oi. Johnny.” Ghost’s voice cuts sharp, commanding. “Look at me.”

Soap tries, but his gaze skitters away, jaw clenched against the rapid-fire breaths. He’s choking on them, like he can’t catch up.

Ghost doesn’t bother with the grounding exercises therapists love to spout. Worthless shite in the middle of a flashback. Instead, he hauls Soap bodily against him, wrapping one arm around his shoulders, the other flattening broad over his sternum, pressing down firm, steady, immovable.

“Breathe.” Ghost growls it into Soap’s ear, low and rough. “Fucking breathe, Johnny.”

Soap gasps in little sips of air, his whole body trembling. Ghost squeezes tighter, matching the pressure of his hand over Soap’s chest with the strength of his arm around his back, willing him to feel it. To sync to it.

“That’s it. In. Out. I’ve got you.” Ghost keeps his tone harsh, not gentle—that’ll cut through the fog where softness wouldn’t.

He feels it, gradually. The breaths hitching less, lengthening by fractions. The frantic flutter under his palm easing, slowing toward something steadier. Soap sags heavier against him, spent, but breathing.

Ghost lets out a breath of his own he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“’M sorry,” Soap mutters, voice cracked and hoarse. His skin feels flushed where it’s coming into contact with Ghost’s, his body still trembling as the words spill out in broken repetition. “’M sorry. Sorry—”

“You don’t have one goddamn thing to be sorry for.” Ghost cuts him off, tightening his hold until there’s no space left between them. He can still feel Soap’s heartbeat, quick but strong. Alive. “Not one.”

Soap doesn’t argue. Doesn’t move away. He just stays pressed against him, breathing Ghost’s air, letting Ghost bear the weight of him. And Ghost, who’s spent years building walls high enough to blot out the world, doesn’t move away either. He only holds tighter.

“Was fallin’, LT. Off that tower. Hassan—” He breaks off, swallows. “Except this time, ye weren’t there. No shot. Nothin’ to stop it.”

Ghost’s arms tighten on instinct. “It was a dream, Johnny. Just a dream.”

Soap shakes his head against Ghost’s shoulder. “It didnae feel like one. I hit the ground. Felt—” His breath stutters, but he forces the words out. Brave, goddamn stubborn, even here. “Felt meself go. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Just…shutting down. Felt my heart, slowin’. Stopping. Then black. N-Nothing at all.”

Ghost goes still. He knows that place. Knows exactly how it feels to stand on the edge of that abyss, to feel your own body betray you and go silent. He’s spent years burying that memory under layers of steel and masks.

But Soap…Soap just lays it bare. Offers it to him without shame.

For a moment Ghost can’t speak, because he can’t trust his voice not to break, in awe of the younger man’s naked vulnerability. He settles instead for pressing his hand firmer over Soap’s chest, over the steady thrum beneath his palm. Alive. Fragile. Precious.

“You’re here,” Ghost rasps finally. It’s all he can manage. “With me. You’re still here, Johnny.”

Ghost feels it then—the brutal truth of it. How close he’d come to losing this man. How easily he still could. It hits harder than any bullet, sharper than any blade: the thought of Soap’s heart stilled for good, of silence where there should be this stubborn rhythm.

Protective affection swells in his chest, hot and suffocating. Soap is so fucking brave—baring his fear, his pain, even his imagined death—and Ghost can only marvel at it. At him.

So he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t loosen his grip. Not yet.

They sit like that for a long while, just breathing together. Ghost doesn’t know if he’s holding on for Soap’s sake or his own. Maybe both.

But the thought keeps circling back like a blade at his throat: he’s never let anyone this close. Not since—

He shuts it down. Doesn’t matter. This isn’t Simon. This is Ghost. And Ghost doesn’t need.

Except…he’s beginning to wonder if he might. And that terrifies him more than anything in the world.

So, Ghost forces himself to ease his grip. “I’ll get you some water,” he mutters, before his voice cracks into something softer. “Don’t move.”

Soap huffs out a faint laugh, rasping. “Not goin’ anywhere, LT.”

Ghost untangles himself and crosses the room. Every step feels wrong, his body screaming at the loss of contact, but he ignores it, focuses instead on the glass and the faucet, on making sure the water runs nice and cold before he fills it. Ordinary things. Simple things.

When he turns back, Soap is watching him, eyes clearer now, crystal cobalt blue in the darkness. Ghost hands him the glass, watching closely as Soap lifts it. No tremor in his hands this time. Just steady, controlled movement.

Ghost’s chest loosens.

“Thanks, Ghost,” Soap says, voice low, rough.

And God help him, Ghost beams on the inside. Not LT anymore. Ghost. The way it’s always been, the way it’s supposed to be. He lets out a grunt, noncommittal, but his pulse betrays him with a rush of warmth. Soap and Ghost. That’s enough. That has to be enough.

Ghost slides under the covers, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet between them. He turns to his side, back to Soap, body rigid with restraint. Distance. Control. The way it’s supposed to be.

Except it doesn’t feel right. Not after what just happened. Not after holding Soap together with his own hands.

Soap shifts once. Twice. The bedsprings creak.

“Ghost?”

“Yeah, Johnny?”

A long silence. Ghost can almost hear the words fighting their way up Soap’s throat, only to die before they reach his lips.

“I…could you…” Soap trails off, voice cracking on the uncertainty.

Ghost doesn’t need the rest. He knows exactly what Soap’s asking for. And the knowing twists something sharp in his chest, because Soap shouldn’t have to hesitate. Shouldn’t even have to ask. Not with him.

“Yeah,” Ghost says quietly, cutting through the silence like a promise. “I’ve got you.”

He shifts closer, pressing into Soap’s back, arm sliding firm around his middle. Pulling him in, tugging him back into his chest until they fit together like two commas in the same sentence.

Soap exhales, a shaky sigh that melts all the tension from his body at once. His heart beats softly beneath Ghost’s palm where it rests, steady and alive.

Ghost presses closer, palm flat, anchoring himself in that rhythm.

Then Soap’s hand covers his, rough fingers curling between his own and holding him there, keeping him close.

Time stretches. Only the sound of breathing, only the steady pulse beneath his hand. Ghost feels it slow, feels Soap’s body loosen further against him, feels the warmth bleed between them in the dark.

Soap murmurs something, too soft and slurred in Scots to catch.

“English, Johnny,” Ghost whispers.

There’s a smile in the dark, faint and tired. “Means thank you, Ghost.”

Ghost doesn’t answer. Just presses his hand firmer against that steady heart and lets it speak for him.

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A/N: This is a continuation of the previous fic, "My Panic’s at the Ceiling, but I’m Face Down on the Carpet" - this is the verbal letter Simon composes for Johnny after their argument.

“Hey, Johnny…”

There’s a fifteen second pause, followed by a heavy sigh.

“It’s um…it’s Simon. You probably already figured that out. We had a fight today and you asked me for space so I’m…I’m recording this because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know what I’m doing, I just—"

Simon’s voice breaks.

“I’m sorry I hurt you. Please know that I never meant for it to go that far. But it did and you’re hurt and it’s all my fault for pushing you so hard, for letting my anger get the better of me today.”

Another pause, eight seconds. A sharp intake of breath.

“So here I am. Talking into a bloody phone like a twat. But I can’t sleep. I keep seeing the look your face when you walked away from me. And I keep hearing the things you said, and the things I said, and I… I can’t sit with it. Not on my own.”

Fabric shifts.

“I’m not giving you this. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I have to get it out of my head or I’ll go fucking mad.”

Another breath.

“I’m not angry at you. I need you to know that first. I’m angry at your father. I know he’s dead. And I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but fuck that. Fuck him. If that bastard were still alive, I swear to God, Johnny—”

His voice drops into something cold and lethal.

“—I would put him in the fucking ground. I would kill him with my bare hands, and I would make it last.”

Silence again, for eighteen seconds.

“I don’t want you to know that. You don’t need my vengeance. But I do. I need to think of it, or else I need to rip my own skin off, because the idea of you—just a fucking child—crying in a dark cupboard while some animal snapped at your face and your father stood outside thinking he was making you a man…”

A shaky inhale.

“…it makes me sick, Johnny. Sick and furious and helpless in a way I’m not built for. And I know you don’t want pity. That’s not what this is. I don’t pity you. Christ, I admire you. You turned into the bravest man I’ve ever met. Yes. A man. You laugh easy. You love hard. You’re good. Despite everything. In spite of him. You are more of a man than that coward ever was.”

The bedsprings groan as if he’s bracing his elbows on his knees.

“And now I’m sitting here trying to figure out how I made it worse. How I took something you’ve carried alone your whole life and ripped it open and shoved the carnage in your face, all because I couldn’t control my own temper.”

A low curse under his breath.

“I should’ve been gentle. Patient. I should’ve listened. I should’ve held you instead of arguing. I should’ve been someone you could feel safe with…”

Another beat.

“…I want to be someone you feel safe with. You told me something tonight you’ve never told another soul. I could tell by the way you had to drag it out of you. And all I did was shout. Christ. I don’t deserve that kind of trust. But I want it. I want to be someone who earns your trust.”

He drags a hand over his face, the rasp of skin over stubble.

“I keep thinking about the way you look at me sometimes. And I don’t—look, I’ve never been good at this part. Talkin’ about how I feel. For the longest time, it was safer not to feel, if you know what I mean. I know you don’t know everything about my past, and…and maybe I’ll tell you someday. If I was going to tell anyone, it would be you, Johnny. But I can’t. Not yet.”

He huffs a humorless breath.

“I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. Only that I feel things when I’m with you. When I look at you or catch you looking at me. I like when you laugh. I like when you lean on me. I like waking up with you tucked under my arm like you belong there. I like the way you say my name, soft, like it’s something worth saying. Things I thought were dead in me. Things I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anymore. And the way it feels…kind of makes me feel like I’m losing my mind, but in a good way, you know? Like I want to be as close to you as a person could possibly be. I want to be the first person you see in the morning and the last person you think about at night. I want to crawl inside you and curl up around that big, beautiful heart of yours and keep it safe, because it feels like you’re more a home to me than anything has ever been, Johnny, and I think I might be…”

A sharp inhale.

“…Forget I said that.”

A beat.

“Point is—I thought that part of me was dead. Burned out. I thought it’d been carved out of me so deep there was nothing left to spark. And then you…”

His breath catches. He sounds startled by it.

His voice drops, barely audible.

“Johnny, I care about you more than I’ve ever cared for anything. Anyone. And it terrifies me.”

A long, trembling breath.

“Because every time I let someone close, I hurt them. And tonight, I bloody proved it.”

He shifts again, restless.

“I keep replaying it, you know. You saying you panicked. You saying you thought you were over it. This…this thing with your father. And something clicked. It’s why you act the way you do, isn’t it? The bravado. The jokes. The way you say you’ve got something handled even when you don’t. This is why you thought you had to prove yourself to us.”

A swallow.

“This is why you took the stim that day.”

A harsh, shaking exhale.

“Christ, Johnny. You were trying to be what he wanted, weren’t you? Even now. Even after all these years. That’s what he did to you.”

He sounds wrecked.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I yelled at you for defending him, and I didn’t stop to think you weren’t defending him—you were defending yourself. Your whole life, you’ve been told your pain wasn’t real. That you were the problem. That you were weak.”

His voice thickens, dangerously close to breaking.

“But you’re not weak, Johnny. You never were. You were a child. And he hurt you. And I am so fucking angry I don’t know where to put it.”

A long pause. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“…I should tell you this part too.”

Another breath.

“My da used to beat the shite out of me. Bottle, belt, whatever he had in his hand. He was a drunk, and angry. All the time. My brother wasn’t much better. Mum was too far gone most nights to stop it. I know what it feels like to flinch when a man raises his voice. I know what it feels like to think you earned it.”

He swallows.

“So when you told me about that cupboard, I saw myself in you. And it scared me. Because I never wanted you to have anything in common with me.”

A shaky inhale.

“You’re better than I ever was. Better than I ever will be. You’re a good man, Johnny. You’re kind. You’re brave. You’re everything I wish I could be.”

His voice softens, unbearably tender.

“And I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to make you feel safe with me again. But I want to. I want to try. I need you, you see. I need you, and I know my needing is more than yours will ever be, but I see it now. I need you, Johnny.”

One last breath—deep, unsteady, and vulnerable.

“…I miss you. Right now. Even though you’re only two doors down. I miss you, Johnny.”

A click.

The recording ends.

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