#raven!ghost

Ghost’s wings are magnificent, broad, shadow-black with that slick sheen that catches green and purple in the right light. He's every bit of crow hybrid, dangerous, watchful, and beautiful if you get close enough to notice.

He makes for a deadly operator, of course. One snap of his wing and a man's sternum is cracked. Can fly into any scenario. Doesn't hesitate to sacrifice the health of his wings if it means meeting the objective.

He doesn’t like people touching them. He doesn’t like people looking too long, either. He thinks the wings are too soft for someone like him. They’re always tucked in tight, always ruffled with old dust and ragged bits of down clinging where they shouldn’t.

Price notices, of course, and one day, after a debrief, after watching Ghost try to rake his fingers through a tough patch of tangled covert feathers with all the gentleness of a bear trap, Price finally just huffs.

It’s rare that Simon finds time to himself between being at base and being on an op. True alone time, with nothing to do, and nobody to do anything with. 

His ride won’t arrive for two days, and Price (quite firmly) advised him to ‘enjoy the scenery, Norway is stunning this time of year, son.’ Really, Simon doesn’t give two fucks about the scenery or the apparent good weather, no, that’s not the reason he’s grateful to be isolated at a safehouse for the next day and a half.

It’s because of you.

Rather, more specifically, the freedom it allows you, short as the time may be. You’ve been cooped up (pun only slightly intended) in your raven form for several weeks now, as your mate has been sent from one mission to the next back to back, hardly any time to catch your breath, let alone free yourself from your feathered body. Now, you can stretch your arms (done enough of stretching your wings, frankly) and relax.

After shifting, of course.

Simon lifts you to his masked face and presses a featherlight kiss to your beak through the material before he sets you on the ground, your talons clicking against the concrete floor. You tilt your head, caw at him quietly, and see the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

“Not goin’ anywhere, lovie, take your time,” he assures you.

He watches you lift your wings and ruffle out your feathers, head shaking, plumage fluffing up. He knows you’re gathering your nerve. You can crow and bay about being stuck in this form all you want (which you do), but actually changing out of it is a different beast to tackle. It makes you anxious, he knows, he understands. If he could take away the pain, he would. Anything that dares to hurt you, he crushes without remorse, but being unable to do so for this one thing is torturous. All he can do is watch, and he hates it.

With as deep of a breath as your little avian lungs can take in, you close your eyes and concentrate. For a second, nothing happens, but then–

It starts with your ribs fracturing, heart growing too large to be contained inside their bony embrace. Your wings lose their feathers, bones stretching and distorting, muscles tearing to reconstruct themselves into the correct shape. Your beak shrinks back, the pure coal shade altering to match your natural skintone, shine reducing, keratin flaking off in large chunks. Your talons scratch at the concrete, legs mangling to develop an anatomy not built to resemble anything birdlike at all. 

It’s a nightmare to witness from start to end. It’s one thing to experience it himself, to feel as his body breaks itself apart to become something else – he’s far too used to experiencing pain – but to see you go through it makes him sick. If only, if only–

Your choked cry distracts him from his swirling thoughts of regret and revenge, and he’s reaching out in an instant to grasp your arms, fingers looping around skin, rather than feathers. He pulls you into his chest, and you go willingly, coughing and groaning as the last of your transformation ebbs away, leaving you bare and shivering. 

The blanket he prepared earlier, thin and shitty but better than nothing, gets thrown over your body, covering most of you, as he murmurs reassurances and praise in that gravely voice of his. It rumbles through him, vibrates past your ribs, into your soul, a kind of soothing comfort that only he can give to you.

“There she is,” he says, rubbing up and down the length of your spine. “There’s my pretty girl.”

You exhale heavily, eyes squeezed shut, chin propped up on his shoulder. “That sucked.”

“I know, swee’eart,” he assures, nuzzling into your jaw. “I know. ‘S over now.”

The pain is gone, long gone, vanished as soon as you wriggled your fingers and toes, but the memory persists, the nausea that swirls in your gut. The nuts and berries he fed you earlier suddenly feel like pebbles in a large lake, not nearly enough to make a ripple in your hunger.

You let him coo at you and coax you down from your stressed state, easing you into his lap, legs thrown over one thigh, back supported by the other that he has upright. He brushes stray strands of hair from your forehead, his mask discarded at his side so he can pepper kisses all over your face, calloused thumbs rubbing across your cheeks over and over.

“Been too long since I’ve seen ya face, birdie,” he tells you, his lips moving against the corner of your mouth. “Almos’ forgot how pretty ya were.”

You snort at him. “Charmer.”

He huffs and kisses your forehead. An arm coils around your waist and tugs you further into him, eliminating as much space as possible between you. With his free hand, the one that’s not drawing shapes into your skin, he reaches into his pack behind him and pulls out a couple granola bars, dropping them onto your lap. You scrabble to get them, tearing open the first package and gnawing on the chunky, stiff food like a dog given a bone.

“‘Oo shoo’d shiff, doo, fish ‘our fea-fers,” you suggest around your meager meal, uncaring of manners.

Simon feels differently, sighing into your hair. “Finish ya bite first, you wally,” he grumbles.

You scowl at him, but do as you’re told, chewing away until it’s safe for you to swallow and not risk choking. “Said, you should shift, too, fix your feathers and stuff. Who knows when you’ll get the chance to preen again?”

The monolith of a man – how did he manage to stuff all that excess…everything into a tiny (subjectively) bird body? phrasing, of course – grunted in disagreement, absentmindedly massaging your hip. “And miss quali’y time with my girl? Not a chance, swee’eart.”

Despite how you playfully roll your eyes, you snuggle into his warmth, breathing in the scent of him. Leather and gunsmoke, eyeblack and faded menthol, cling to him like a second skin. It’s a familiar scent, a safe one; it lets you know that, no matter what, you’ll always be protected, always looked after. He’s right, it’s been too long since you could hold each other like this, coexist in the same space as the same entity.

As if sensing your thoughts, he tilts your chin up so he can press a chaste, precious kiss to your lips. “Missed ya,” he confesses.

“You always see me,” you point out. “Every day.”

“Not like this.”

You chirrup, a reflexive response. He chuckles at your flustered expression, but answers back with a deep trill of his own.

Your eyes close as you lean into him, nosing at his cheek. “And here I thought you got sick of seeing me in this form.”

“Never,” he promises.

inspired by the incredibly lovely @beloveds-embrace's raven!Simon and raven!reader. they've been on my mind a LOT recently, and I have many many thoughts about them. might write more...

It happens quietly a few days later. Almost like Ghost doesn’t mean for it to happen at all.

The mission’s done clean and fast, for once. They’re back at base, dusk seeping soft into the sky, and Gaz is lounging on one of the outdoor benches, wings half-fanned to soak in the last warmth of the sun. Price is inside. Soap is in the showers. Ghost is… lingering.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stands nearby, half in shadow, something pinched between his gloved fingers.

Gaz looks up and blinks at him, yellow and black feathers shifting in the sun. “You alright?”

Ghost shifts. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Not until he steps forward and, awkwardly like it physically pains him, reaches out and sets a small object on the bench beside Gaz.

It’s… a bead.

Old, black with a sliver of yellow through it. It's curved. Like a boomerang maybe or a feather curling into itself. Something that probably came off a dress or something nice. Worn from age or pocket time. There’s a little crack down one side. Nothing special.

But Gaz stares.

Ghost clears his throat. “Found it in Marseille. During that rooftop job. Thought you might—” He stops himself, gruff and halting. “It reminded me of your wings.”

Gaz looks at him. Then down at the bead. Then back.

Something blooms in his chest.

His goldfinch brain, his heart, his instincts, something sparks and warms with delight. Flockmate brought him something shiny! Something interesting! A token. A gift. An offering. His feathers fluff slightly without him meaning to, and he smiles, soft and bright.

“This is… really nice,” he says, voice gentler than usual. “Thank you.”

Ghost shifts again and looks down at his boots. “S’just a thing. Nothing important.”

But Gaz holds it like it is. And Gaz doesn't know it, but it’s not the only one.

Ghost has a drawer. A little one. Doesn’t tell anyone about it. It's filled with odd bits he’s picked up over the years, twisted bits of wire, flat sea-glass, fragments of old charms, buttons, coins, a gear from a watch that broke in Poland. He doesn’t collect, not really, things just caught his eye, or his hand.

That night, he opens the drawer. Looks at what’s left. Fingers brush a worn key, a bit of ceramic.

He doesn’t know why he gave Gaz the bead, not exactly. It just… felt right.

He dreams of golden wings that night, between the nightmares, a bit of soft, golden down.

ooohhh okay okay, I like the way you think anon. I'm going to use Raven!Ghost for this one, just to sorta play with his own little collectors brain not even knowing what to do. And I like raven Ghost. And yesss Selkie!Soap. So he's a shifter hybrid. sure okay here go:

cw for dead animals. not gore, just is.

It starts with the rabbit.

Ghost finds it just before dawn. The sky’s still navy and smeared with stars, the air sharp with salt and cold. The rabbit is laid out neat and deliberate in front of his bunkhouse door. Still warm. Little ribs intact. Fur slick with dew. Not a speck of blood. Like it curled up and died there waiting for him.

Ghost stares down at it, arms folded, breath fogging in the thin light. There’s no note. No tracks. Just the soft, small body and the faint weight of meaning pressing at the back of his mind like a bruise.

He watches it long enough for the dew to bead on his lashes. Then he scoops it up with a gloved hand and carries it to the kitchen like it means nothing. Like it’s roadkill.

He tells himself not to think about it, but he does.

The next one is a fish.

Ohohoho anon 😭 I think it'd absolutely have the ability to get triggered and he'd start acting on it throughout the day. Gaz and Soap absolutely notice and egg it on.

It starts small. A mug left on the desk. A spare glove on the shelf. A feather tucked in beside the others.

Ghost doesn’t notice he’s doing it, of course, but Gaz does.

Gaz sees him walk past the laundry room, snag a strip of dark cloth from the scrap bin, and disappear into his quarters, sees him palm a smooth pebble from the motor pool gravel and slip it into a pocket.

By midday, it’s undeniable, Ghost is building something. It’s not a nest yet more of a vague mound in the far corner of his bunk. Spare blankets folded and refolded. A perfectly flat section for sitting. Odd little trinkets buried in the folds like treasures.

Gaz finds him there in the evening. He’s sorting and rearranging. His feathers are puffed at the edges, black as oil and catching hints of violet where the lamplight hits them. His hands move with a care Gaz hasn’t seen from him outside of field-stripping a rifle.

“You know what you’re doing, yeah?” Gaz says, leaning against the doorframe.

Ghost stills and his head turns just slightl. “What?"

“This,” Gaz says, gesturing lazily. “You’re nesting.”

“I’m not—” Ghost starts.... Then stops... The looks down at his work. His fingers tighten on the folded blanket. “…It’s not a big deal.”

Gaz grins. “Mm, sure.”

Something in Ghost’s jaw works. His wings twitch.

“It’s seasonal,” Gaz says. “It’s instinct. You’ve never had the space for it before, have you?”

Ghost stays quiet, waiting for the younger man to leave.

Gaz steps inside, crouches beside the pile. “Let me help.”

Ghost bristles immediately. “No.”

“Not gonna change it,” Gaz says quickly. “Just… find stuff. Help fill it out, yeah?”

There’s a long pause. Then, almost reluctantly, Ghost nods.

By the end of the night, they’ve hauled in two more blankets, a clean tarp, three mismatched pillows, and a small coil of paracord.

"Alright, mate?" Gaz asks.

Ghost just hums.

When Gaz leaves, Ghost is sitting in the middle of it all, shoulders looser than Gaz has ever seen.

...

Ghost wakes before the sun and knows in the marrow of his bones that something is different.

His wings feel big, but not heavy. There’s a pulse to them, a restless lift-and-settle he can’t quite stop. His eyes feel sharper, his hearing stretched thin like wire. He can smell the faint metallic tang of last night’s rain still on the dirt

He strips his bunk. Fluffs the blankets. Folds them. Then unfolds them again, deciding he likes the creases better in a different place.

...

By the time Gaz stumbles into the mess, Ghost has already claimed the corner table. He’s got his tea, untouched, and he’s methodically unspooling a length of paracord and re-spooling it tighter, neater, more compact. His eyes flick to every doorway, every glint of metal in the room.

“Morning,” Gaz says, wary but amused.

“Mm,” Ghost answers, gaze locked on the kettle handle across the room. Shiny.

...

Midday, they’re in the motor pool. Ghost “checks” the trucks, but really he’s gathering small things vanish into his pockets: a washer, a bit of broken hinge, a coin from under a seat. He drifts from task to task without explaining himself, wings half-open to the sun.

He cleans them obsessively between jobs. Runs his fingers down each primary until they lie perfect.

Soap finds him perched in the hood of a jeep, knees bent, just watching the yard like a hawk might watch a field.

“You good up there, big man?” Soap calls.

Ghost just tilts his head. Doesn’t answer.

...

By afternoon, the nest in his quarters has doubled in size. The tarp is folded into a perfect underlayer, topped with blankets arranged in a spiral. Every item he’s taken today has been sorted: metals together, soft things together, natural textures lining the edges.

Gaz leans on the doorframe. “You’re really going for it, huh?”

Ghost doesn’t look up from where he’s tucking a bit of rope into the right-hand corner. “Can’t stop it.”

“Don’t want you to,” Gaz says. “You’re safe here. It's alright.”

Ghost pauses for a second at that. Then keeps workin.

...

By evening, the air smells like cooking oil and rain. Ghost is outside, crouched on the edge of the loading dock with his mask pushed up and his wings fully out, catching the last heat from the sky. Every so often, he makes a sound, a soft, short, a click and roll of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Almost idle, but his eyes are scanning.

Soap appears with a small metal flask and holds it out.

“What’s this?” Ghost asks.

“Was in the supply bin. Thought you might like it.”

Ghost takes it and turns it over. It’s dented but still polished in places, edges catching the light.

He stands, tucks it under his arm, and heads back to his quarters.

Soap watches him go, a slow smile pulling at his mouth.

...

That night, Ghost sits in the center of the nest. Everything in its place.

For the first time in years, he feels no tension in his shoulders. No ache in his wings. He just feels... still.

*le gasp* O. M. G. YES give me whimsy. give love dumbasses in love. give me emotional depression and aahdjcidn. If you feel a little second hand embarrassment reading this dw ghost is a wittle embawassed too 🥺👉👈

The sea is quiet after midnight.

It's quiet in the way the deep always is, endless and breathing. It pulls at the shore with long, slow fingers, licks the dock posts and slicks the sand.

Ghost stands at the edge, black feathers tucked close to keep out the cold. His wings are heavy with salt. His mask is off.

He hasn’t slept. Something about tonight has set his bones aching, instincts misaligned. He’s never liked the ocean. Too much of it. Too open, no perches, nowhere to vanish.

He should go back inside.

But then hears a low hum, barely a tremor. Then again. Higher this time. A slow rise and fall, warbling and strange.

Ghost tilts his head, feathers shivering faintly in the wind. And then it starts in full, from somewhere in the black tide, a song.

A layered pulse of sound, vibrato and bass, trills and clicks, eerie as whale-song and ten times more intimate. It echoes through the water, rich with rhythm.

Ghost goes still. Every nerve alert.

Out past the breakers, something sleek and strong rolls in the water, pale where the moon catches him.

A seal. Massive and dappled dark like smoke through snow, eyes bright as cut glass and singing.

Soap.

Shifted and half-wild, muscles rippling. His voice under the waves is raw and yearning. The melody circles, peaks, calls.

And Ghost, who doesn’t understand what’s being said, not exactly, feels it anyway.

There’s no logic to it, just instinct, something deep and old clawing up from inside him. A pattern buried in his memory.

He clicks.

It's barely audible at first. From the back of his throat, the edge of his tongue, tiny percussive notes. Then a warble he forgot he could do.

Soap turns toward shore. When he sounds, Ghost answers.

It's not beautiful like Soap’s underwater hymn. It's rough, mismatched, raw. But he tries. And it threads through the low pulse of Soap’s song like filament in a net.

The two of them make something a little uneven. Unfinished. But made.

And Ghost realizes, slowly, with the soft bloom of realization breaking somewhere in his hindbrain, he’s being courted.

No more bloodied fish on doorsteps, no shy smiles and carved knives and lingering hands.

A selkie’s song in the midnight dark, carried on waves and instinct.

The water breaks with a soft push and a slosh. Just enough to stir the silence.

Ghoste hears the wet slap of hands on the dock, the scrape of skin and wood as Soap hauls himself up. The quiet sound of a shift, seal to man, fluid and unseen just beyond his shoulder.

Then bare feet and slow steps. Then a familiar warmth behind him. He stands just close enough that Ghost can feel his warmth, the faint heat rolling off skin still kissed by the sea. He smells like salt and brine. His breathing is quiet.

Ghost stares straight ahead at the moonlit sea.

There’s a small tremor in the base of his wings. His hands are jammed in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched. His hair clings damp to his forehead. His cheeks are flushed in the moonlight.

Soap doesn’t look at him, not directly. But his voice, when it comes, is soft. “You heard it?"

Ghost swallows. "Hard not to.”

Soap’s lips twitch and he nods, gaze flicking out to the black shimmer of the water. “Didn’t know if you’d stay.”

Ghost huffs through his nose. “Don't know why.”

Soap’s head tilts, hair dripping seawater down his neck. “Still don’t?”

Ghost hesitates. His feathers fluff instinctively, a small tell Soap recognizes, but holds his tongue..

“Doesn’t matter,” he says quickly. “Just, caught me off guard.”

Soap’s quiet a long moment. Then he says, a little sheepishly, “You sang back.”

Ghost flinches. “Didn’t—” He cuts off. “It wasn’t. Not like yours.”

“Doesn’t need to be.” Soap’s voice is gentle. “It was yours.”

The silence stretches.

Ghost’s eyes flick toward him briefl. “You gonna mock me for it later?”

Soap blinks. Then his expression softens sad and sweet.

“No,” he says. “Never.”

The waves lap quietly below. The moon hangs there.

Ghost shifts his weight, suddenly agitated. “It was instinct.”

“Aye,” Soap says. “Me too.”

Ghost exhales, sharp. “You’re half sea-lion, Soap. You lot sing to find a mate.”

“Leopard seal,” Soap corrects mildly. “And yeah. We do. Doesn’t mean I expected you to answer.”

Ghost fingers twitch in his pockets.

“I didn’t do it to corner you,” Soap adds after a beat. “Didn’t think you'd even—Christ, Ghost, you don’t owe me anything. I just—”

“I know,” Ghost snaps. Then follows softer, “I know.” His feathers settle just a bit. “I didn’t expect to want to hear it again,”

Soap just stands still, watching the side of Ghost’s face with something quiet and full in his eyes.

“If you want to," he says, barely a whisper. "You will.x

Ghost’s throat works. His mask isn’t there to hide behind. His wings give a faint, involuntary tremble.

Then he murmurs, like he can’t help himself, “Wasn’t awful.”

Soap smiles, radiant and quiet. “Cheers.”

and i'm takin it bc mhmhmhmhm. okay I was gonna make this longer but decided the angst needed to be split up soooooo that's what happened.

Raven!Ghost 1 2 3? 4 5 (holy crap there are 5 raven ghost posts?)

It’s nothing at first. Nothing Ghost can’t explain away.

He’s just standing a little closer to Soap during briefings. And watching him more on missions. And clocking every exit, every shadow, every person who comes too near.

It’s habit, he tells himself. Watching over his soldiers.

But then a dockhand reaches for Soap’s shoulder without warning. It’s nothing, just a casual pat as they pass, but Ghost’s wing snaps out before he can think, a sharp flick of black that blocks the contact entirely. The man stumbles, startled, mumbling an apology before moving on.

Soap blinks at him. “...The hell was that?”

Ghost’s jaw locks. “He shouldn’t be touching you.”

Soap stares for a moment. “…Alright.”

And it keeps happening.

Soap laughs with someone at the range and Ghost notices his own feathers fluff and he doesn’t like the heat that comes with it. Soap mentions heading into town on his own and Ghost says no before he realizes he’s said it.

By the time they’re hauling crates together in the motor pool, Ghost is on edge for reasons he can’t pin down. Soap’s close, warm, smelling of salt and steel, and every cell in Ghost’s body hums mine.

It’s not a word he’d ever say out loud, not in a million fucking years, but it’s there and the moment it finally clicks in Simon Riley's brain is stupid.

They’re walking back from the mess, talking about nothing, when Soap stumbles on the uneven gravel and bumps into him. Ghost steadies him without thinking, his hand firm on Soap’s back.

And it hits him as surprising and gently as Soap bumped him

His instincts are already three miles ahead. They’ve been running this whole time, weaving around Soap, circling him like a rook defending its king.

His hindbrain's already picked. The realization lands like a weight in his chest, heavy and terrifying and sharp-edged with want.

He’s not ready. Not even close.

But when Soap glances at him, curious and a little amused, Ghost can’t bring himself to step away.

Soap notices of course.

At first, he thinks it’s just Ghost being Ghost, overwatch, caution, the usual shadow-at-your-back stuff.

But the pattern changes. Ghost isn’t just covering angles; he’s covering him. Nearly every room, every encounter. Even crossing the yard, Ghost’s pace shifts so he’s always between Soap and anyone else passing by.

So Soap decides to see just how far that shadow stretches.

It starts in the corridor. Soap slows his steps so their shoulders brush. Ghost doesn’t pull away.

Later, in the briefing room, Soap “accidentally” lets his chair drift closer until his knee bumps Ghost’s under the table. Ghost shifts just enough to press back.

It’s… interesting.

By the time they’re walking across the yard that evening, Soap is grinning to himself. He lets his hand swing just a little wider than usual, grazing Ghost’s. This time, instead of pulling away, Ghost’s wrist turns so the back of his glove brushes Soap’s fingers.

They stop at the edge of the loading dock.

Ghost is quiet beside him, wings tucked tight, gaze on the horizon. Soap leans against the railing, close enough to feel the shift of air when Ghost exhales.

“You’ve been stickin’ close,” Soap says lightly. “Somethin’ I should know?”

Ghost doesn’t look at him. “You talk too much.”

Soap huffs a laugh. “Right. And that makes you my shadow now?”

After a quiet moment, Ghost says, “Someone has to watch you.”

Something in the way he says it lands warm and heavy in Soap’s chest. Soap watches him for a moment, the line of his jaw, the faint breeze brushing dark feathers.

“You’re doin’ a good job of it,” Soap says softly.

Ghost’s head tilts just a fraction, and for the first time today, the tension in his stance eases.

angst for the mated raven mhmhmh because ravens mate for life and can die of a broken heart. (don't worry. no one dies here.) plz don't ask me what the context is. they're on a base with tents and idk what's wrong with Soap.

cw for ity-bity mention of suicidal ideation.

The med tent smells like antiseptic and canvas. It’s too bright and oo loud in the wrong ways, hushed voices, the beep of monitors, the hiss of oxygen, but somehow still empty of the only sound Ghost wants to hear:

Soap’s voice.

He’s been out for three days.

Ghost sits in the hard-backed chair by his cot, gloved hands resting loose between his knees. His mask is up just enough to breathe easier, but not enough for anyone else to read his face. His wings are half-out, shadowing the bed, the edges brushing the floor. It makes the space feel smaller.

No one tells him to leave anymore. They tried at first, said he needed rest, food, a break. But the way he looked at them… no one’s asked twice.

It’s late on the fourth night.

The med tent has gone still, lit only by the soft, green glow of monitors. Outside, the rain taps a thin rhythm on the canvas.

Ghost is in the same chair, the hard shadows under his eyes darker than yesterday. His wings curve around the cot like a barricade, low enough that anyone would have to step over them to reach Soap.

Gaz steps in quietly, carrying a mug of tea he knows won’t be drunk. He sets it on the small table beside Ghost, then just… stays.

For a long time, neither speaks.

“You’ve not moved in hours,” Gaz says finally.

“Don’t need to,” Ghost answers, eyes still fixed on Soap’s face.

Gaz studies him. The stillness isn’t the disciplined kind. It’s the frozen, don’t touch or I’ll break kind. The kind Gaz has only seen a handful of times, and never this deep.

“You’re not eatin’ right. You’re not sleeping.”

Ghost’s hands flex against his knees, feathers whispering against the cot. “Not until he wakes up.”

Gaz swallows, glances at Soap, then back. “Y’know, I’ve been thinkin’… if Johnny goes—” He stops and takes a breath. “…you won’t be far behind, will you, Lieutenant?”

The silence that follows is heavy.

Ghost doesn’t answer, but the way his gaze flicks up, sharp like he might argue, and then drops back to Soap’s still face says more than enough.

Gaz leans back in his chair, folding his arms tight. “Then I’m stayin’ too. Not lettin’ either of you go anywhere without me knowin’.”

Ghost doesn’t look at him again, but his wing shifts just enough to brush Gaz’s boot.

And so they sit.

Price visits that morning. Talks about the op, the fallout, how the rest of the team’s holding up. Ghost barely moves. His only reaction is when Soap’s breathing hitches, his head snaps toward him, every muscle ready to move. When it evens out again, he settles back into the same stillness.

When the tent thins out again that night, he lets himself graze the back of his fingers against Soap’s temple, tracing the edge of his hairline. The heat of his skin is reassuring.

“You’re not leaving me,” he says, barely more than a breath. “You hear me, Johnny? I’ve already—” He stops, jaw locking hard.

The rest of the sentence stays trapped in his throat: I’ve already chosen you.

On the sixth morning, Ghost is there before dawn, same chair, same posture. His tea has gone cold by the time Soap stirs.

It’s small, just a twitch of fingers and a faint shift in his breathing, but Ghost is leaning forward instantly, his hand closing over Soap’s.

Johnny’s eyes crack open, confused, dry. “…Si?”

Ghost swallows hard. “Yeah. I’m here.”

The relief is quiet, but it’s whole body.

Ghost won't tell him how scared he was. Won't tell him about the nights he counted every breath Soap made, or the way his chest ached like something in him was breaking. Won't tell Soap he didn't sleep the first three days, though Gaz will tell him and he'll get a scolding later.